You may have heard that there was a military coup in Niger. It’s rare for Niger to make headlines, but apparently this was big news back home. There seem to be a lot of people with a lot of questions, myself included.

Let’s start with a little bit of background: Last year, the president, Mahamadou Tandja, had a referendum passed that would allow him to run for president after his second term was up. The US State Department, many other western countries, and the African Union opposed this change in the constitution, saying that it was a step away from a healthy and functional democracy. The opposition party has accused Tandja of corruption, violating the constitution, and falsifying elections. As things progressed, many countries, including the US, Canada, and the countries of the EU, pulled their aid from Niger, with the exception of humanitarian aid (such as providing food in case of famine). This move cut the Nigerien government’s funding significantly, almost by half. Now, just about a week ago, Tandja’s house was overtaken by some members of the military in a coup. Tandja is being held, and the junta has set up a transitional government until they can hold a new election. The coalition that overthrew Tandja’s government is saying that their goal is to renew Niger’s commitment to democracy. (BBC have some pretty decent articles on the coup and the things leading up to it, if you're interested)

Let me just say that things in my neck of the woods were, and continue to be, remarkably calm. I’ve heard that there were some peaceful demonstrations, but for the most part things are carrying on just as they always have. In Niamey, some 15 hours from where I live, there were more demonstrations and activity, but here if it weren't for TV and radio, you would never know that anything had happened.

The local government, at least until they have another election, is staying as-is. In my mayor’s office, people are continuing to work as usual.

I have heard people talking about the coup, with a myriad of reactions. Some Nigeriens have expressed concern about Tandja’s well being, and others have expressed disappointment in another failed attempt at a democracy (This is not the first time things have played out this way here. In fact, since Niger became in independent state in the 60s, they have never been able to have one elected official give over power to another elected official. They elect one guy, he tries to remain in power, he gets overthrown, then they elect a new guy and the cycle begins again). Many have made comments about the decrease in NGOs and aid work since the referendum.

So… that’s about it. It probably sounds a lot more exciting through the news than it does in my life. Things are calm and virtually unchanged. Even so, watching the political situation (who the transitional government functions and what the next elected officials do) develop over the next few years will, I think, be both interesting and informative. Whether this is for better or worse? I think we'll just have to wait and see.

So, here I am. Back in Niger. I was reassigned to an Urban Commune, which means I’m still working with a mayor’s office, but in a larger city. I’m further east that I had been, and now have a VERY long bus ride if I want to go in to Niamey. This city is also the regional center for PCVs. The Peace Corps office and transit house (hostel) are here, which means other PCVs are in and out all the time. I wouldn’t have liked it at all if I had been placed here to start out with. I loved being in the bush, out on my own, in a village where everyone knew who I was. I even loved that I had to walk 2 hours through the bush to buy onions (and only on Mondays). I loved the tranquility of village life. BUT now that I only have 8 months left, this is perfect. With such a short time here, I wanted to be somewhere where things would get done more quickly (i.e. a city) and where there were more resources to work with (i.e. a city). And coming back from everything that had just happened at home, I felt like it might be prudent to be around friends (i.e. THIS city). So, basically, this was EXACTLY what I wanted.

I’m living in the Mayor’s compound, but they’ve built a wall between my yard and theirs so that mine opens up directly to the street. It’s actually a really nice set up, because it means I have my own space, but I sort of have a host-family, too. The Mayor has two wives (very common) and 9 children (also, common). I hang out with his wives and oldest daughters (22 and 17) pretty frequently. Most days I eat one or two meals with them. And their kids come over all the time, of course…

They also have a young girl of about 10 years old who works for them, taking care of the baby and occasionally doing housework. It took me a little while to realize this. One day she came over to my house in the middle of the afternoon, when all the other kids were at school. They are in private school, including all the girls, which is a REALLY big deal. When I asked this girl, Yasmina, why she wasn’t at school, she said, “I don’t know. I don’t do that. I do this” and she pointed to the baby. That’s when it clicked. She’s not their kid.

My house is two rooms (TWICE the size of my old house – major upgrade!) AND has electricity. My family has a pump in their yard, so I fill up my water jug there whenever I need it. Most of my things (or at least, those that I really wanted) were shipped here from my old village by Peace Corps, which was super helpful. Sadly, I couldn’t get my cat sent out here, but poor Bingley is probably better off where he is: my neighbors loved him and will take good care of him. I did get a new kitten, though. He’s black with white tips and I’ve named him Bennett (catching the theme?).

Work things are looking promising. We’ve started an English Club at the local middle school. At our first meeting I had the 18 students singing along to Frank Sinatra’s “How About You?”. I just wish I had recorded it! I’m also training some of the mayor’s office officials in using Excel (or will be, next week). Finally, I’m going to be working with women’s groups. I met with the Women’s Federation, who represent over 100 women’s groups, just last week. We were talking about the possibility of doing a goat project, like I did in Allela, but after thinking it over a bit the women told me, “No, no. We don’t want you to GIVE us anything. We just want to do trainings with the women’s groups so they can organize projects on their own”. One woman even said “Iyawa dadi ce,” which roughly translated means, “Being capable feels good”. I was FLOORED. That is LITERALLY a PCV’s DREAM. “No, don’t GIVE us things. Just teach us to do it ourselves”! Needless to say, I’m really pumped to be working with these women.

In December, Vic came home from Mozambique. I took the bus up to Buffalo, so that I would be there when he got in. (Side note: Several people at the time commented: “you’re taking the bus all the way to Buffalo?! That’s like, an 11 hour ride!!” to which I would say, “11 hours in a nice bus, on a nice, smooth, paved road, with a bathroom!! TALK ABOUT LUXURY!” If I had brought a laptop, I even could have used the INTERNET while on the bus. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around that. America is a strange and magical place…).

We hadn’t seen each other since May… sometimes this long-distance thing seems surreal. I’ve found that there’s a strange phenomenon within Peace Corps with regards to time. You start viewing months more like days. Literally, I think things like, “Well, its mid-February now, so it’s basically March. And then there’s April, and I have that thing to do in May, so that’ll go by fast. So, really, July is just around the corner!” Non-Peace Corps-people sometimes ask how I’ve found being in such a long-distance relationship, and I’m not sure how to answer. “It’s not so bad… We talk once a week or so and I’ll see him in about 4 months,” seems like a reasonable answer to me, but they tend to look at me like I’m crazy.

That’s not to say that it’s easy. There are periods where our minimal communication is infuriating. There are stretches of time that are lonely and hard. But it was while I was home taking care of Margie was the first time that the distance felt more than geographical. For the first time, I felt like I couldn’t relate to his life, and like he couldn’t relate to mine. After all, how could you ever understand something like that if you’re not there? Still, we talked about it; we talked about why it was painful and frustrating to be apart during all that. We said everything that could be said and got through it.

I expect it wouldn’t have been all that different even without the geographic distance. Even when people are right there with you, physically, there are some things we all experience on our own. A hug would have been nice. For him to see, with his own eyes, everything that was happening would have been nice (well… not “nice,” but you know…). But I would guess that even then I would have felt like he didn’t understand, because he wasn’t ME in a relationship with HER for the last 16 years. He loved her too, but it’s just different. This was MY grief. He could support me through it, but not be IN it, regardless of distance or lack thereof.

Anyways… in December Vic was home. I spent about a week in Buffalo with him and his family, and then he came back to Boston with me for about a week. Buffalo was fun. I had met most of his family before, but in passing at his graduation party. This gave me the chance to get to know people a little more, which was great. It was also good to be away for a bit. I couldn’t worry about getting things done around the condo, because I wasn’t there. I could rest.

Once he was home I had talked everything through with him, and decided that I would go back to Niger. It became clear, once I was sure what my options were, that part of me would regret it if I didn’t finish my service, and that no part of me would regret it if I went back and gave it my best shot, even if it was hard.

Being home with him was both good and stressful. We tried to cram so much in. He came to the one-month memorial mass, which was great. It was really hard for both of us that he couldn’t be there for the funeral, so the memorial mass was really nice. We spent a couple of days with my Mom for her birthday, which was really nice, too. We got together with friends a couple of times, had dinner at my Aunt’s, and went to the Tangney Grab (a family Christmas party/”Yankee Swap”)… and we packed. He helped me sort through pictures, papers, dishes, etc. etc. By “helped” I mostly mean he hung out with me while I did that, because I really had to be making decisions about what I was keeping and where things were going - i.e. I didn't really let him do much, but he took it in stride... I was overwhelmed, but for the most part he kept me sane. Everything got done when it needed to get done, and we had some fun despite the chaos of it all.

In the midst of all the packing, I had the chance to share some really cool stuff with him. Old family pictures, Chris’ eulogy from Dad’s funeral (Chris’ eulogy from Margie’s funeral, for that matter), things I had made as a kid.... The kind of things that mean a lot, but that aren’t on-hand on a day-to-day basis. We also found a portfolio of pictures that Margie had apparently had done when she was about my age and trying to get in to modeling. I do vaguely remember being told that she was a hand model, but these weren’t just hand-pictures. These were pictures of her in all kinds of outfits and costumes, looking sometimes glamorous, sometimes sassy, sometimes silly, always beautiful. I had no idea those existed – talk about a find!!

The last day before Vic went back to Buffalo we had decided to set aside as a “date”: no hanging out with other people, no working/packing/obligations; only the two of us, and only fun things to do. We took the T in to Boston, walked all around Newbury Street and Beacon Hill, went ice skating on the frog pond, wandered around Quincy Market looking at Christmas lights. It was perfect. Then, towards the end of the day, over by Long Wharf under the archway, all lit-up for the holidays, he proposed! I could hardly believe it. To this day I have no idea what he said (although I have been assured that it was very eloquent): I was so in shock! We had, of course, talked about the possibility before, but under the circumstances I was sure he wouldn’t do it then. Things were just too crazy. There would have been no chance to plan anything at all! As it turns out, he carried the ring around with him for those two weeks, waiting for the right moment to present itself. He had told my mom a few days before when we went out to dinner for her birthday, and he had even called Margie the month before to tell her.

I can’t describe how ridiculous giddy I was for the rest of that night. We went out to dinner, basking in the exhilaration of this new step in our relationship. When we got home that night, we started making phone calls, to tell family and friends the news.

The next day, he went back to Buffalo, and a week later (after Christmas and the oh-so-fun opportunity to tell many – although sadly, not all – family and friends about our engagement in person), I went back to Niger. To start over.

At 6 AM one day the phone rang. I rolled over, groggy, irritated and confused, and ignored it. Eventually it stopped. Then it rang again. And again. Finally I dragged myself out of bed to answer it.

Me: “Hello?”

Caller: “Alo? Alo? (garbled attempted English)”

Me: “Hello? Who is this?”

Caller: more unintelligible words

Me: “Who is this?”

Caller: “Niger! Niger! Allela!”

Me: “KAI! Ga Farida. Wa ne ne?” (NO WAY! This is Farida. Who is this?)

Turns out it was the mayor. The day before I had called my friend Rabi, to greet her. I had told her that Margie had died and that there had been a problem up in Tahoua with the Embassy people (“mai rishin hankali” she called the terrorists – literally, those who lack common sense). So the mayor, having heard that she had talked to me, decided to call and check in, and to greet me on my loss (I no longer speak English properly. I know that is NOT how you would say that, but I don’t know how you WOULD say it, so…). I told him I hoped that I would be coming back after Christmas, but that I couldn’t be sure yet. I told him to greet the whole village for me, and he sent lots of blessings, and said that everyone was asking for me. Speaking in Hausa while standing in my room in Quincy was a very odd feeling, but a good one. It was SO sweet of him and made me really happy. It was even worth waking up at 6am for…

The week Margie died was also the week that things got really crazy back in Niger. I got emails from Peace Corps staff and from other Volunteers with updates. I had been given two months off, and had over a month of that left, so I didn’t need to be immediately concerned with what was going on there, but still it was a bit overwhelming. There was an attempted kidnapping of American Embassy employees about three hours from my village (For the record: these attempted-kidnappers were not Nigeriens. Nigeriens in general are very pro-American and extremely welcoming. There are, however, some other groups who are staying in the desert in Mauritania, Mali, and now Niger who are… well… less friendly).

PCVs had been consolidated (that is, all brought in to a central location and told to stay put until further notice), and the Embassy/Peace Corps were considering evacuating certain areas. They ended up evacuating my region, which meant I couldn’t go back to Allela. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to go back to Niger at all, or if I would want to under the circumstances. Readjusting to a whole new community would be a lot to take on… At that particular moment too many things were up in the air and too much was going on for me to be able to process it enough to make a decision. I put all that on hold.

One night things took a final turn for the worse. I woke up to her calling my name: she had fallen on her way to the bathroom. I carried her back to bed, and tried to figure out whether or not she needed more pain medication. After a little while, I called the hospice nurse, Margie’s sister, Marie, and my sister.

Up until then hospice nurses had been occasionally stopping in to check her vital signs, but we didn’t really need them. After that, a nurse was there several times a day, and family members were around 24/7. I guess it was really only about three days… but it felt longer. Moments stretch to infinity at times like that.

All I can say about that time was that even those last moments with her were a blessing. To be the one who cared for her when she needed it most (she, who had so often been the one to care for me when I needed it most) was a privilege for which I am ineffably grateful. To hear her speak of my father in those last days, to know how fully she loved him, and how desperately she wanted to be reunited with him… to think that he has been the hinge that brought and held me and her together all these years… it was sad, but it was beautiful in its own sad way.

The funeral, too, was sad and beautiful. The church was full. I mean FULL. Standing-room-only, Christmas-eve-mass kind of full. She had picked out all of the music and readings, dolled out jobs to close relatives and friends, even picked out the casket. There were tears, of course, and laughter. It couldn’t have been any other way.

The first two weeks with Margie were such a blessing. In some ways, it was hard to hear her speaking so frankly about her death, but it probably made things easier in the long run. After a long and couragious battle, she had accepted it as inevitable and wanted to make sure that she had taken care of everything. It was like she was ticking items off a list: paperwork; funeral plans; things to tell loved ones; etc, etc.

Most days she seemed more or less fine. She had some energy, could be up and about, laughing, joking, talking, visiting with people… we even went out a few times, to dinner, to church… Friends and family were in and out frequently, usually with flowers and food, and the phone hardly ever stopped ringing.

What I will always treasure was our time alone together during that period. Watching movies (“Loving Leah”: a Hallmark movie that she just HAD to buy); talking about all kinds of things; cooking; driving to and from Dana Farber for blood transfusions (and her teaching me all the back roads through Dorchester and Jamaica Plain)… As much as her illness was an ever-present thing, that time in many ways felt “normal”. We laughed and cried and said all the things we needed to say.

Margie was diagnosed with cancer about 6 years ago. She was in remission when I first came to Peace Corps, but that lasted for less than a year. We had talked about the possibility of me coming home on Emergency Leave if things were to get bad, and I had talked to my Country Director about how that would work… Still, you can never really be ready for that sort of thing.

Margie usually called me once a week. In late October, sitting in my little village, I realized that I hadn’t heard from her since my birthday, over ten days prior. I tried not to let myself be worried. After all, it’s not uncommon for people to try to call me and not get through. That night, I was sitting in my house mid-torrential rainstorm, reading, listening to music, enjoying the sound of the rain on my tin roof, when I got a call from my sister, Nicole. “Leah?? Leah?” I heard her say, but she couldn’t hear me answering. After a few seconds we got cut off. Again, I tried to dismiss the feeling that something was wrong. Maybe she was just calling to say hello… I couldn’t do anything about it at that point. I could only call her back if I went to the other side of the village, where I could get decent reception. And I couldn’t get there in the storm. So, I decided to call Margie and/or Nicole the next day, hoping to put my mind to rest.

Vic called the next morning. “I have some bad news,” he started. Nicole had emailed him, and asked him to contact me since she hadn’t been able to. Margie was in the hospital again, and things weren’t looking good. She didn’t have much time left. Maybe months, maybe less.

I got off the phone, contacted Peace Corps to inform the necessary people that I was heading to the city so I could contact my family, get more information, and figure out what I was doing. I explained to the people at the Mayor’s office what was happening. I told them I was going to Konni, possibly going to America, and that I wasn’t sure if I would be coming back. Stubbornly trying to comply with Nigerien cultural norms, I fought my tears as best I could (a loosing battle…). My best friend in the village, Rabi, sat with me while I got things organized. For a few minutes, we sat together in silence, as I waited for a text confirming that a Peace Corps car could come pick me up. Then, she looked at me with the most genuine compassion and with tears in her eyes, and she said, “Farida, I wish I could go with you. I want you to know that if I could, I would get ready right now and go with you so you wouldn’t be alone.” Peace Corps Volunteers are often bombarded with “I want to go to America!” “Take me with you!” but this… this wasn’t about her wanting to see America. This was about one friend, wanting to sit with another during a difficult time. It was in every way impossible for her to do so, but for her sentiment, I am and will remain inexpressibly grateful. Across culture, language, homeland: This is friendship.

Within two hours, I had packed up my most important belongings (pictures, bible, souvenirs, etc.), told those friends and neighbors whom I could find that I was leaving (maybe indefinitely), exchanged phone numbers with a few people, and was in the Peace Corps car, driving away from my home of a year and a half and heading towards my home of two decades.

A few very long days later, I was on a flight back to Boston, my fears that I might be too late partially eased, still unsure if I would ever see Niger again, unsure of everything except that I was doing what I had to do.

In every city, there are young boys, usually around 7-10 years old, with empty bowls on strings around their necks, begging for food or change. They are not homeless, but Koranic school students, who beg for food while away from their families pursuing their education. It is meant to teach humility. I write this not to pass judgement on this system, but to explain the reality of the situation. To give you an image of who these boys are.

Today I was walking down the street, and, like any time you walk down the street in Niamey, had a few of these boys ask me for a "cadeau," a gift. I happened to have a half eaten tin of potato chips in my bag, so I took it out to give them. Two hands snatched at the container with the alarming ferocity and desperate speed that can only be born of true hunger. One was faster than the other, grabbed it and started to quickly move away. Two more boys stood by who had been a few feet to far away to even try and grab the precious offering. The other three crowded around the boy with the chips, reaching, grabbing, preparing to fight for it if necessary.

"Ku duka kuna ci," I told them. "You will all eat it." They looked to me for a second, looked to the boy with the chips to make sure he had heard. Calmly, they began to dividing them up. Simple as that.

I couldn't help but think of so many American children, who will never know that hunger (or anything near it), and yet would kick and scream when asked to share a treat. What differing factors make these two reactions possible? Was it generosity, an "African" sense of community in contrast to American individualism that made the difference? Or simple obedience learned in schools and homes that demand it absolutely? I cannot explain it, and must stop trying. The differences are so vast, so numerous, that I cannot translate one culture to the other. I'm beginning to accept what is, without need to explain it all, and without judgement on either end (or at least, decreasing levels of it on both ends).

So, I mentioned a while ago that I am trying to start a couple of Scouts groups in my village. Scouts have been active in Niger for almost 50 years now, and are active in every region except for mine. They are co-ed, unlike groups in the US, and do community service projects, outdoor activities like hiking and camping, leadership skills, and weekly group meetings with fun activities.

The kids are SO excited to be a part of this, but still need some guidance as to what to do and how to do it. And as it turns out the idea has been popular with some other PCVs in the region; 5 other volunteers want to start groups in their villages, as well. So, we are working with an older Scouts group from near Niamey (these kids are late-teens/early twenties, the oldest group for Scouts) to hold a 5 day training camp for two leaders from each group, to teach them about the Scouts, how to plan and organize meetings and activities, etc. The goal is for these groups to be basically self-sufficient, for the kids to be able to really take initiative and run the groups themselves (with some adult supervision, of course). The camp should take place in late December (Christmas break... yes, my all-muslim village has a Christmas break... don't ask me why), and will train 7 girls and 7 boys, ages 14-18, to be co-leaders for their Scout groups. The camp will be partially funded by the Scouts from Niamey, partially funded by the local government, but that will still leave us a little short. I'm looking into a few funding options right now,

but I was wondering:

Are there any Scouts groups out there who would be interested in partnering with a Scout group in Niger to fund some of their activities? Either this, or something in the future (like paying for their uniforms or for paint/supplies to fix up a classroom... things along those lines). If so, pelase contact me.

Sorry for the blatant plug (twice in a row now). Also, know that I shouldn't take donations straight from an individual, but if one non-profit organization (boy/girlscouts) wants to donate to another non-profit organization (Scouts of Niger), then I can act as a mediator for that transaction.

So... that's it.

Promise my next blog entry will be request-less.

Sanu da hankuri! (Greetings on your patience!)

Yay! My Peace Corps Partnership Project has been posted online! This means that people can go to the Peace Corps website, read about my project, and make donations to help buy goats for women in my village for their income generating project.

If anyone has any questions about it feel free to ask me - either by leaving a message or asking in PERSON b/c I'm IN AMERICA and will hopefully see many of you!

Here's the website:

Goat Project!

Yesterday I was talking to a few other PCVs about various ways we feel we've changed over the past year. The most pronounced thing for me, I think, is an increase in patience.

Now, I liked to think that I was a fairly patient person, by American standards, before living here. But this new development is not the American, take-a-deep-breath-and-dont-freak-out-patience. We're not talking about controlling one's frustration when things go wrong. We're talking an actual lack of frustration.

Bush taxi broke down? Well, Leah, what did you expect? You'll get there when you get there.

They're out of (insert food item here) at the restaurant? Guess I'll make some rice.

Power went out during the last 5 minutes of a very exciting new movie? And?

(Literally this has happened more times than I can count. The mark of a seasoned volunteer is that s/he will hardly react at all. The newest PCVs might express disappointment. The rest of us either sit there to see if it will come back on any time soon, or wordlessly get up to do something else. )

I wouldn't think this at all remarkable except that when things like this happen I honestly don't feel disapointed when things go wrong, or at least not more than a very fleeting twinge.

Nigeriens (well, muslims in general, really) use the expression "inshallah" ALL the time. "If God wills it."

"Will I see you this afternoon?"

"Inshallah"

"Will you have fixed the internet by this evening?"

"Inshallah"

"I'm going to Konni tomorrow, inshallah"

"It will rain today, inshallah"

When things don't go as planned or desired, the typical response is, "Well, God didn't will that." There is this constant unstated "Whatcha gonna do?" And I've gotten the feeling that the concept of "dissapointment" as we know it wouldn't really translate. If, for example, you were to ask one of my villagers how they felt about the bush taxi breaking down, there's a good chance they would say, "Feel? What do you mean? It happened. God willed it." They would just shrug it off and move on.

"Zamun duniya, sai hankuri" is a common proverb that basically translates to, "that's life, be patient."

For someone who, by virtue of living in the States, is frankly, accustomed to a VERY different philosophy (think "God helps those who help themselves") and significantly more reliability when it comes to things like transportation, what products a store/restaurant have in stock, regular access to functional technology, etc. this degree of fatalism can be incredibly frustrating.

("Can you fix that?"

"Inshallah"

"No! It's a YES or NO question. Can. You. Fix. It? )

But, I have to admit, its rubbing off on me a bit...

This is not to say that if there is any possible action that I can take to move towards the desired end I won't take it. I will fight tooth and nail and do everything in my power to get there, because I am very much an American and happen to love the proactive-to-the-extreme aspect of our culture.

However...

It does mean that almost nothing will shock or frustrate me at this point. And once I realize that there's nothing I can do, I will, like my villagers, shrug my shoulders and sit and wait to see what happens.

I had thought this before, and talked about it just yesterday, but had it really put to the test last night. I have been planning my trip home for this summer for months, booked my ticket back in May, have been counting down FOR EVER, had filled out all the required paperwork, printed out my boarding pass, was packed and ready. The Peace Corps shuttle picked me and one other PCV, who was also heading home for the first time in a year, up at 9:30 pm to go to the airport last night.

And yet, here I am, 12 hours later, still in Niamey, at the Peace Corps office updating my blog.

What happened, you ask?

We went through lots and lots of security. We boarded the plane. We settled into our seats. And then we heard the announcement.

"We're very sorry, but this flight has been cancelled."

Surely, I must have misheard that? Delayed... sure. Rescheduled, maybe. But cancelled? Go home, that's all folks? To quote a former host-mother, c'est pas possible!

But, alas, they did mean cancelled. Well... sort of. More like, delayed indefinately, I suppose. There was a problem with the engine (I keep telling myself to be grateful that they realized this whilst on the ground... this is good advice, but I'm having a hard time summoning that particular emotion) and they are fixing it. We were all sent home or to hotels, after they took down all of our phone numbers, and were told that they will contact us as soon as they've fixed the problem and are able to take off. So here I am, waiting patiently.

I'd be lying to say I wasn't at all disapointed by this, despite all I said above, but my emotional response was surely nothing compared to what it would have been a year ago. Yes, it's frustrating that I'm going to have a few less days at home. Yes, I would much rather be having thai food with my family tonight than rice and beans with PCVs. Yes, I would LOVE to have some clear idea of when I will finally fly out (today? tonight? tomorrow? tomorrow night??). But at this point, it is out of my hands. I contacted everyone, at AirFrance, Peace Corps, and home, that I can contact. At a large airport one might make a fuss and have them juggle all kinds of things around and get on a different flight. But this is not a large airport and there are no other fligths. That is the only plane around, at the moment, so until they fix it or send another, I've got to wait. I'll get there when I get there, or, as my villagers would say, I'll get there when God wills it.

One way or another, I'll be home soon (inshallah).

Readjusting to life in Niger after my first vacation wasn’t easy. Having been out of my village for several weeks meant that it took about a week of being there to really feel like I was “back in the swing of things”. Saying goodbye to Vic again wasn’t easy, although it will only be 7 months, not 10, this time around. On top of that, I’m coming up on my one year mark, just about halfway through my service, and my projects are sort of in abeyance at the moment, as I’m waiting for funding to come through for a few things. This meant that I was trying to readjust while not really having anything in particular to do on a day-to-day basis. My prayer life took a bit of a dive, to be honest (which never helps anything, you’d think I would learn that?) And to top it all off I had a few very confused weeks in which I tried to figure out what I’m going to do after Peace Corps (Grad School? Where? For what? Etc, etc.) I’m chalking it all up to a “mid-service crisis”, during which I was plagued by questions like: what am I doing with my Peace Corps service/life? Why am I here? What am I accomplishing? Etc., etc. Oh and, it was the height of “hot season” here in the hottest country in the world. Basically… May was a long month.

But now things are looking much brighter. I’m still waiting on that funding… but I honestly love being in my village. I love hanging out with my villagers, or even just walking through town and greeting people. I’ve been re-evaluating my work plan for the next few months, and while things can be slow they are moving, so that’s encouraging. And I’m going to be going home for a couple of weeks this summer (in just about a month and a half!) to see friends and family and (finally!) meet my niece (!!), which I am beyond excited about. All in all, life is good. Crisis averted.

What we said:

“In the name of God,” the man called out to me, holding up his mango and smiling as I walked by.

“Thanks be to God,” I responded with a friendly wave.

What we meant:

Him: “Here, have some of my mango!”

Me: “No thanks, I don’t need a mango right now.”

Vic and I were relaxing in our bungalow at Kruger National Park in South Africa, watching The Office on his laptop, taking a break after driving around the park all morning looking for lions, elephants, rhinos, etc… when we heard a crash just outside. We both got up and went to the door to see what it was, only to find that a gang of monkeys, each maybe 2 feet tall, had broken into the fridge (why the fridge is outside, I don’t know…), thrown our onions on the ground, stolen half of our loaf of bread, and knocked over our chairs. Now, when we got there we saw some signs warning us to put all food away, because there had been problems with monkeys. But it hadn’t really occurred to me that putting the food in the fridge did not count as “putting it away”.

There was an older South African man, walking down the street, shouting at the monkeys (there were dozens of them), and trying to chase them away. They scattered within seconds and took off. “It’s because people feed them,” he told us. “They think they’re cute and then they become this serious problem for us.”

Once things had died down, we went back inside to continue watching the office. A few minutes later, we heard monkeys outside our bungalow yet again. But this time I knew how to handle it (or so I thought…). I went out stomped my feet and made a lot of noise, and took a few steps towards them, like the man had done before. There were three of them, and they all took off right away, but then apparently one of the three decided that I wasn’t actually all that intimidating. He turned around and charged straight at me. As you can probably imagine, I screamed bloody murder. I think this freaked him out a bit, because he paused long enough for me to get back through the door, close and lock it. Maybe trying to chase away the monkeys wasn’t my all-time best idea…

One night at Kruger Vic and I went on a guided sunset drive with about 25 other people, most of whom were highly inebriated, middle aged, white South African women. We had stopped by the side of a river and were watching a few elephants, when our guide told us that he had just heard that there was a pride of lions in another part of the park. We took off; this is the one thing everyone was really hoping to see. When we got to the spot, there were easily 15 lions; several lionesses, lots of cubs, and a couple of adult male lions. They were all walking right down the road, just feet away from the safari-bus. It was absolutely breathtaking. There is just no way for me to do it justice here.

While that first 20 minutes or so of the ride was easily the highlight of our time in Kruger, the following three hours were slightly less thrilling (though no less entertaining). At one point we were stopped for maybe 10 minutes, watching a pair of guinea fowl while the group of women I mentioned above asked the guide questions about these birds’ eating and mating habits… I should mention that, in Niger, I am woken up almost every morning by the flock of guinea fowl that live in my neighbor’s yard, and that they are more common than chickens. Imagine being on safari in this huge, famous national park and listening to someone explain the eating habits of a chicken… Not exactly what I had in mind when we signed up, but I have to say I thought it was funny.

A little later on, we stopped to watch a rabbit, while they debated loudly amongst themselves about that rabbit. One woman felt very strongly that we shouldn’t pay him any attention at all. “They’re not indigenous!!” She insisted, “the British brought them here! They’re not native to our country!” It took all of my self control not to point out the irony of an Afrikaan woman making that comment…

The rest of our time at Kruger involved wandering through the park, and we were lucky enough to come literally within feet of elephants, rhinos, giraffes, baboons, impala, etc. It was truly amazing; everything I could have hoped it to be.

Lots of people get stitches at some point in their life… and now I am one them. Most people probably don’t wait until the first time they are in a country in which they do not speak the language AT ALL, but that’s how things went. Day two in Mozambique, I, with infinite grace, cracked my head open on the window in our hotel room while getting ready for bed, and ended up getting my very first stitches.

I panicked the moment it happened, and even more so when I took my hand from my head and saw the blood. Again more so when Vic suggested that I might need stitches. I’m not getting stitches, I thought stubbornly. I’m just not.

Thank God Vic kept his head. He remained so amazingly calm through the whole thing, and I’m fairly sure that was the only reason I didn’t totally fall to pieces. He called his PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer), who referred us to a clinic. When we got there, Vic translated everything (good thing he’s a health volunteer and knew all the right vocab!). I put up a bit of a fight when I realized they were planning to shave a part of my head before stitching me up. (It is somewhat humbling to know that I am vain enough so that in under those circumstances the thing I was most upset by was the thought of them shaving my hair…) The experience of needing to make medical decisions with such a language barrier was truly frightening, and I kept thinking what it must be like in the States for immigrants who need to go in to the emergency room… Those kinds of things are scary enough when you do understand what’s going on. Vic was great about making sure the doctor was really careful about everything and that I understood what they were going to do every step of the way. The doctor, for his part, was incredibly patient and really kind. He didn’t really speak English at all, but kept saying, “Pain? Pain? Sorry…” Peace Corps took care of payment and everything, and all we had to do was sign our names before leaving the clinic, so that made things pretty easy…

And within two hours of when I hit my head we were back at the hotel, and I had decided that the whole thing was hilarious. Not until then did Vic show the slightest symptom of being stressed, but once I started laughing, he took a deep breath and finally allowed his face to show some of the anxiety he’d been feeling.

The next day we went to see Vic’s PCMO. She took a look at my stitches, gave me a whole lot of things to keep it clean, some pain killers, and a stitches removal kit (yes, a stitches removal kit). About a week later, in between SCUBA lessons, Vic took my stitches out for me. And that was that. What a way to start a vacation, eh?

“It looks like California!”

“Leah, no, it doesn’t.”

Okay, Mozambique is not California, but after 10 months in Niger, to me, it looked it. There are big streets (with street lights!), skyscrapers, palm trees, coastal views, and even a few mansions (over where the president and ambassadors live… to be fair, that’s a pretty nice neighborhood in Niamey, as well…). There’s a movie theater, ethnic restaurants, trendy bars. None of the buildings appeared to be made out of mud brick. It was warm and mildly humid. I just kept thinking, “California!”

In reality Mozambique is a very poor country, with an alarmingly high AIDS rate, and if someone had come there straight from America, I’m sure no parallel between Maputo and CA would have been drawn. But I’ve been living on the cusp of the Sahara, and Niamey has precisely one skyscraper and very few paved roads. I’ve been told that it is the last remaining capital city that allows livestock to roam the streets, so there are goats, sheep, cattle, everywhere you look. The fact that I could so easily have confused this “third-world” country with one of the wealthiest parts of the United States might give you some idea of how underdeveloped Niger actually is…

I spent a good portion of our time in Moz making exclamations that all went along the same lines. “OH MY GOSH!! YOU HAVE (insert something I hadn’t seen in months…mostly food related)!!!” Hopefully Vic didn’t find this too obnoxious…

And then there were the cultural differences…

“Is this okay?” I asked as we walked down the street, holding hands.

“Yeah, kid, its fine.”

“Are you sure??”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Seriously???”

I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that PDA in any form could be acceptable. Holding hands in public?! Oh, the shame. Oh, the scandal. Girls walking down the street with their shoulders and knees showing?! I blushed every time they walked by… But then, this is not a Muslim country. There are different rules. And the higher level of infrastructure is, I’m sure, directly related to how much more tourism Mozambique gets than Niger, which has its pros and its cons. Still, despite these glaring scenic and cultural differences, there is a certain level of commonality of experience amongst PCVs, and maybe especially PCVs in Africa. The joys and frustrations of living and trying to work in another culture, learning another language, sticking out everywhere you go…While our experiences are obviously very different, where it counts we still are able to understand each other.

After a 6 hour flight from Niamey to Paris, a 3 hour layover in Paris, a 9 hour flight from Paris to Johannesburg, a 13 hour layover in Jo-burg, and a 1 1/2 hour flight from Jo-burg to Maputo, Mozambique, I had finally arrived. I waited in a very long line at Customs, feeling excited and, well, a little nervous. It had been 10 months since Vic and I had last seen each other: I didn’t really know what to expect, but I was ready to be out of that line.

When I got to the Customs agent I found out that I couldn’t pay for my visa with a card, and I didn’t have any cash on me (except some CFA, the currency for French-west Africa, which was useless). The agent kept my passport, and told me to go outside where I would find an ATM, then come back and pay for the Visa.

I was totally flustered. I wanted to get this figured out as quickly as possible and be done with it, and was also acutely aware of the fact that I was about to see Vic for the first time since July. However I had envisioned our initial reunion, this wasn’t it.

I walked out through security, feeling completely overwhelmed. I turned the corner and saw him, standing there, looking about as nervous as I felt, and holding a dozen roses. I’m sure he could tell I was stressed, and I think I told him what was going on in breath. He took out his wallet, handed me some cash, and said, “That should be enough”. I was trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I was there, seeing and talking to him after so long, that he had brought me roses, and still feeling stressed about this whole visa-thing. So I went back inside to take care of it (which took much too long), and finally went back outside to greet him again, properly this time.

Within a few minutes we were walking away from the airport towards the main street, where we could get a shared taxi towards our hotel. Before we ever reached the taxi I had realized how strangely natural it felt to be together again. I’m sure we’d both changed in the 10 months that had passed, and in ways that could not sufficiently be expressed through weekly phone calls or text messages. I expected us to have a lot to catch up on, and we did, but basically it felt like picking up where we left off. It seemed like however we had each grown, it had been in the same general direction.

“When’s the next council meeting?”

This seemed to me like a simple question. The commune’s council meets regularly, and I’ve sat in on enough of them to know that they usually set the precise date for the next meeting at the end of each.

“Uhhh… you’ll have to ask the mayor. He’s in Konni today.”

“Will he be in tomorrow?”

“Uhh… I don’t know.”

Sigh. This really shouldn’t be difficult.

This is a common trend. The mayor is usually the only one in the mairie to know when meetings are happening, when NGOs are coming to visit, etc., and he is away on business fairly often; in Konni, in Tahoua, visiting another commune. So it is far too common to have what could be simple inquiries go unanswered.

But I had an idea: Some other volunteers had used blackboard paint to make perpetual calendars in their mairies. If I did this, and got people to use it, then both the municipal staff and the community at large would have a better idea of what was going on at the mairie. And maybe, just maybe, it would encourage planning beyond today, tomorrow, or (at best) next week?

Painting the thing proved more complicated than I anticipated, but I won’t cry over spilt…erm… paint. In the end it got done, and while the first couple of months the only thing written on it was my vacation, people have finally started posting meetings and NGO visits, and overall the reaction has been really positive.

The mairie recently got solar panels, and thus electricity, and a computer. Everyone is really excited about it, obviously. And I, apparently, have been appointed “computer expert”. Those of you actually are deserving of such a title should find this amusing… I know probably as much as the average American does, but was a bit concerned about being expected to answer every technological question they came up with.

As it turned out, I really had nothing to worry about. They really just wanted to use Word and Excel, and I am more than qualified to teach someone how to cut and paste. We went over incredibly basic skills, but they were the most useful skills for the work they were trying to do. For the most part, they wanted to be able to store records in the computer, so we made a template for birth, death, and marriage certificates. Then they needed to write letters, type up meeting minutes, or record a budget.

For weeks, I was constantly running between my office and the secretary’s desk, helping her undo a delete or cut and paste something, or into the mayor’s office, trying to figure out how to say “double click” in Hausa… But lately they haven’t needed my help nearly as often. Rabi, the secretary, can now do pretty much everything she needs to on a daily basis without any help from me. The other day she pointed this out. She was beaming. I remember how frustrated she had seemed. It was overwhelming; a huge amount of new skills to acquire in a very short period of time, and some of the male staff could be a bit impatient with her. Tasks that she could have done without help in maybe 20 minutes on the typewriter now took an hour and a half, with constant pauses to ask me to explain things or show her something. But now, she is confident and capable of doing her work on the computer. I asked her if she preferred the computer or the typewriter, now that she has gotten the hang of it. “The computer,” she said immediately, smiling (this is a woman who just a few weeks earlier seemed about ready to throw the computer out the window and/or burst into frustrated tears). “It’s faster. If I make a mistake I don’t have to start all over again. And we have the birth certificates saved, so I can just change the name and date without retyping the whole thing. And years from now it’ll all still be there if we need to find something. It’s so much better.”

One of the goals for Municipal & Community Development is Civics Education, which means teaching people, usually kids, about what the government’s role is and about what it means to be a good citizen. The Scouts does this in a way, promoting civic participation and volunteerism. Another project that I had discussed with some of my villagers was starting a student government at the middle school. This would teach kids about the electoral process, how the government is structured, etc., and provide a means for the students to become more active participants in their community and take on leadership roles. Both the municipal staff and the school director were supportive of this idea, and the director and I set up a meeting for the following week with the few teachers who would facilitate the student government to make an action plan, a timeline for what needed to be done to get this going.

Unfortunately, the teachers went on strike the following week, so we pushed the meeting back to the next week. They were on strike the next week, as well… and the next… The strike would go for a few days, stop, and then start up again. Apparently the teachers haven’t been receiving the pay checks… In the end, we decided to put this project on hold, try to make a plan over the summer vacation, and start the student government next school year. Keep your fingers crossed…

After the chaos of that first meeting, we had two more sessions with Ary, formed 3 scout groups (two of older kids and one for the younger kids), and the older groups began having weekly meetings. Unlike American scouts, these groups are made up of both boys and girls. I helped them to plan a “community clean up day”, where they picked a part of the town and went to pick up litter for about an hour. They did this at least twice, and were so enthusiastic. Every time I walk through the village, I see some of the kids and they would raise their two fingers, the international “Scout” sign, and say, “Farida! SCOOTS!” They are so into it.

Just one problem: Ary isn’t, never was, a scout. He doesn’t really know what goes on at the meetings, and didn’t teach them how to plan or run them. And I am certainly not qualified to teach them this. They have so much enthusiasm, but they don’t really know what to do. They need direction.

When I was in Niamey, I met with the head of Scouts in Niger, and we planned to have him and two other scouts come out for 2 days to give the kids more training and direction. The trouble is just getting the funding to pay for them to come out to our village, food, etc., which isn’t difficult but can take a while. So for the moment, my scouts are kind of in abeyance. They are still enthusiastic, but I don’t think they’ve been keeping up with the weekly meetings, as they really don’t know what to do at the meetings. I’ve explained to them that some scouts from Niamey are going to come, but that I don’t know when they’ll be able to come. My only concern is that they will lose their momentum. Hopefully we’ll be able to get this moving again soon.

Like most mornings, I walked down the main road from my house to the mayor’s office. Like most mornings, I was greeted by several groups of young children as I went. “Farida! Good morning! Hello! Hello Farida!” Unlike most mornings, though, there were not just the usual neighborhood kids. As I approached the mairie, I saw more and more kids. “Farida! There are people at the mairie!” I was starting to get a little bit nervous. As I got closer, I began to hear the rumble of hundreds of little voices. Uh Oh.

Then I turned the corner, and saw them. Easily 1,000 children, all around the mairie. They were up on the hill, in the trees, on the steps. And then they saw me. “FARIIIDAAAAA!!!!!!!!” sounded like a war cry. Good Lord… Within seconds I was surrounded, slightly terrified, thinking both; this is ridiculous, and how in the world are we going to deal with this?? I had to laugh. What else could you do?

It was Saturday, and earlier that week I had gone to the schools, the elementary and middle school and told them that we would be having a meeting on Saturday for any kids interested in joining the new scouts groups. I was beginning to regret making an open invitation…

“Farida is having a party.”

“Farida is going to kill a goat for us.”

I sadly realized that the vast majority of these kids didn’t understand what the meeting was about. They had simply come because I had asked them to. I was doing something, and apparently I’m very interesting.

I went into the mairie and saw the mayor and the SG (Secretaire Generale), who were both chuckling. Thank God. They could easily have been annoyed at the situation, but to my great relief they both found it as amusing as I did. But let’s get serious now, we need to talk strategy.

Even if you have never had to get over 1,000 young children to listen and do what you want them to, I’m sure you can imagine what a difficult task that could be. We decided that we would keep the middle school kids for the meeting, as a reasonable number of them had turned up. We would have to send away the younger kids, and then the following week we would ask the school director to choose 10, 5 girls and 5 boys. The trick would be getting them to leave, now.

The mayor went outside to face the masses. “The guest isn’t coming today. We can’t have the meeting now. You all need to go home.” He made this announcement several times over, but still some of the older kids had to help round up the kids and herd them back towards the village. It was insane.

Finally, we were left with about 40 older kids, ages 12-18. Ary, who works in the city for the government and does youth development stuff, got to the mairie a mere 20 minutes after the majority of kids had left. The first scouts meeting went well, considering the craziness of that morning… Ary explained to the kids a bit about what it meant to be a scout (“scoot-ism” as they call it…), they sand some songs, played some games, and we planned the next meeting where we would form the scout groups based on age. The kids were incredibly excited about all of this, which was a great feeling. What had started out as an enormous disaster had somehow turned into a successful first step in my first project. We were on our way to forming scout groups in our village, creating youth groups that teach responsible citizenship, emphasize the importance of volunteer work, and promote equity between girls and boys. Finally, I thought, I’m doing something.

"Kungia", my women's leader/Nigerien grandmother, and some of her friends. She's amazing.

The well in the community garden. Pulling water is hard!

My garden! My villagers helped me plant carrots and cabbage (mine are the 4 blocks that look empty... because I had just planted them, not because i'm agriculturally inept - although that's probably true, too)

Top: My house! Cute, eh? Middle: My yard, complete with "shade hangar": where I find refuge when there is just too much sun, and where I sleep at night (my mattress and bedding get put inside during the day so they don't get too dusty, and you can see the miskito net above the cot) Left: My "shower" (bucket-bath area. basically, you sit on the stool and use a cup to pour water on yourself. there's a drain on the other side of the stool. it's actually pretty nice, especially when it's hot)

You're probably wondering if I'm actually doing any work in Niger... well...

I haven't started any "projects" yet, but will be doing so in the next few weeks now that IST is over, and I'll be sure to keep you posted (as best I can...) when I do. For my first few months I did a lot of trying to get to know people and a lot of observing the community. I am in the MCD (Municipal and Community Development) program, which, as you may already know, means I work primarilly with the local government. Niger is just at starting the process of decentralization (switching from only central government to a combination of central and local government, which means easier access to the government for the average citizen and, hopefully, more efficient/sustainable development). It was only in 2004 that the first ever local elections, and we just found out that the second ever local elections will be held this coming April. Basically, this means that both those working in the government and the majority of citizens still aren't perfectly clear on what everyone's roles are/ought to be. Niger asked Peace Corps to come up with a program that would help local government officials work more effeciently on the one hand and encourage citizen participation in community development on the other. So... en principe, that's my job. Stay tuned for what that really ends up looking like.

During my first few months in the village, I went to many meetings that were being held at the mairie to update the commune's PDC (development plan). This is a five year plan, meant to lay out what they hope to accomplish in each village in the commune (build schools, train midwives, etc.) . A team of NGOs is working with my commune to update their PDC, and it was really interesting to sit in on the meetings. Each village had a meeting with various representatives (the chief, farmers, women's groups, youth, etc.) to make a list of what resources they have (how many classrooms, wells, fields) and what they need. The commune council then met, went over each group's information, and tried to assess priorities and determine what was pheasable in the next few years. They should have the budget in place when I get back, so I'm looking forward to seeing what progress has been made. Once the PDC is in place I'm hoping to use it as a starting point for some projects, such as getting a community group (like a youth group) involved in activities that will help the commune achieve some of their goals. Wish me luck.........

Here are some pictures of my house now that it is a little more lived in (aka I put pictures up)

This is Bingley. He came to live with me for 24 hours, but had to go back to his mom for a while because... well... he was too tiny, as you can see. He cried the WHOLE TIME. That was about 6 weeks ago, so I am hoping that when I get back to my village later this week he'll be able to come move in for good. For those of you who are wondering, he got his name by being born the week I was reading Pride and Prejudice.

Let me preface this with stating that in the states, in an area that I am familiar with, where I speak the language, with clearly marked roads, google maps, GPS, cell phones, and gas stations at which to stop and ask directions, I get lost with remarkable frequency. So when I was faced with finding my way for the first time through the bush from my village to my market town, following unmarked footpaths and with very limited language skills, I was...well... expecting a bit of an adventure.

It seemed that the first logical step would be to go to the mairie, where I spend most of my mornings, and ask the mayor or the SG for directions. Easy, right?

me: "I need to go to the market, but I don't know how to get there..."

mayor: "oh, just go to the doctor's office and ask some of the women there. They'll tell you."

sigh. seriously? I thought, you can't just tell me first?

I walked back towards the doctor's and asked one of my neighbors.

maria: "oh, its easy. you'll see children on the road."

me: "okay. but... which road?"

maria: "the road. the road to the market"

sigh. of course. silly question, really...

Back at the mairie, I explained my dilemma to my friend Rabi, the secretary. She took pity on me, walked outside with me to point me in the right direction, explained that if I went to the middle school I would see the path, and repeated the assurance that I would see women and children en route once I got over there. Great! Perfect! I'm off!

I walked over to the middle school, only to find myself standing alone in the desert, wandering in circles, and looking around with increasing amusement for the seemingly invisible path...

After a few minutes, I saw a man on a camel approaching from the direction of my village.

me: Excuse me! Are you going to the market?

him: No. But give me money and I'll take you on my camel.

me: what?

him: MONEY!

sigh.

me: no... I don't want to go on your camel. I just want to know which path to take...

him: yes. great. give me money and we'll go.

me: goodbye. (I turned to leave)

him: no, no, wait. Okay, look. It's right over that way. Do you see that woman? you need to go over there.

me: great! thank you!

and, once again, I was off.

I got to the general area where we had seen the women walking, but by the time I got over there they were out of sight. but there was a footpath, or what looked like it might have been a footpath. I really hope this path doesn't fork... here goes nothing... just a few minutes later I met a woman on the way who had stopped to feed her baby. I introduced myself, and learned that she was also heading for the market (thank God!). We turned a corner and were faced with the dreaded fork-in-the-road, but now with my nwe guide, I was all set. We talked some of the way, but mostly walked along side by side while I listened to her singing some hausa song. The rest of our journey was so peaceful, almost surreal.

deep breath. I can do this.

I've gotten a lot of questions about what I'm eating and what Nigeriens eat, so here is an overview:

Most meals in Niger include what Hausa's call tuwo, which is millet, pounded into flour and cooked with water to make a thick paste-like substance, which is served with sauce. Milllet, or hatsi, itself doesn't have much flavor, but its super filling and the sauces can be really tasty.

The sauces vary, sometimes they use a spicy red sauce, sometimes a peanut sauce (my personal favorite - and, happily, my villagers' favorite as well), sometimes an okra sauce (thus far I have only heard of this one), etc.

Rice and sauce is another common meal. Also, rice and beans, with tonka (hot combination of spices) and sauteed onions (SO good!).

Fancier meals, such as those I might have at the mairie (mayor's office), include lamb or goat meat and possibly couscous.

Nigeriens usually eat from a communal platter, using their right hand. This took me some getting used to, but by now I've adjusted (and, I'm sorry mom but, I may not be able to break the habit of eating rice with my hands entirely once I'm home...)

Most of the time, I cook for myself (because I like cooking... although I could eat with a family in my neighborhood whenever I want), so I do get some American-ish food on a regular basis. I get fish in my market town almost every monday, and make grilled cheese and tomato soup most weeks. (Not to mention the occasional treat of care-package food from amazing people at home! Mac&cheese or a can of clam chowder may not seem that exciting, but trust me, it is very much appreciated - thank you all!)

Vegitables can be scarce in Niger for most of the year, but it is currently cold season, which is also gardening season, so most markets have ample fresh produce (such as carrots, tomatos, lettuce, cabbage, etc.) available.

**On that note - I've started a garden! I'm growing carrots and cabbage, and a few of my villagers, especially some women from the women's group and the guys in charge of agriculture, have been helping me learn how to plant and take care of it :-) I walk to the community garden with my borrowed watering can and water my small plot of garden every afternoon, and then hang around for a bit talking to the women by the well or some of the young girls who are there...It's been a lot of fun (pictures to come, insha'allah)

*First of all, let me explain my internet-access issue: I don't have it. My village is several hours from the city of Konni, where there is a Peace Corps transit house/hostel, where I usually spend a few days each month, but Konni is a small city and doesn't have any internet cafes. There is a precarious internet connection up in Tahoua, which is the regional capital of my region (the Tahoua region...), but this is yet further from Konni and so far I have only been up there once to go to the bank... Long story short, I'm going to try to update this as often as I can, but please bare with me and don't think I've forgotten to keep you all updated on my life...it's just that getting online/communicating in general is a little more complicated here than it is in the States.

So... with that said... let me try and explain what I've been doing for the past few months...

Having just finished my first three months of service, I am back in the capital city, Niamey (Nee-ah-may), for three weeks of IST (In Service Training). During this second training period we will do a little more language, but mostly be focusing on how to plan and manage projects, apply for grants, etc. While you can start small projects in your village during your first few months, most people (myself included) take that time to get to know the community, work on language skills, make friends, identify the strengths and needs of the community, brainstorm potential future projects, and generally get a feel for what your service will be like fort he next two years. So, in a nutshell, that's what I've been doing up until now. Trying to learn Hausa, getting to know my villagers as best I can, finding ways to feel comfortable and at home in this new enviornment/village/house, etc. In Peace Corps lingo, trying to become a "well-intergrated" volunteer... easy, right?

...

I've had some really funny moments, some really frustrating moments, some really joyful moments. What I can say for certain is that on the worst days, I love it here. There are moments that are difficult, and there's no use trying to sugar coat that. It's a totally different culture. Language barriers can be frustrating and are a constant presence. But at the end of the day, every single day, I'm so glad that I'm here.

So... with all that said... where do I possibly begin?? I've started to draft potential blog entries many times over the past few months, and each time I find myself up against a wall. There is so much to explain, so much that is impossible to adequately explain, and so much that I am sure to overlook, as a lot of things that probably don't make any sense to you or are really interesting already seem normal to me... I'm going to write a series of entries, trying to explain various aspects of village life, my life, my work, etc., today and next weekend before I head back to Konni. If anything is unclear or if any of you have questions about anything (that I have mentioned or otherwise), please leave a comment and ask me. I promise I'll respond, it just might take a while...

>I have pictures but am having trouble loading them. Insha'allah (God willing), they'll be up before I go back to the bush.

Mini Hausa Lesson: "Sai hankuri" (sigh hankooree) : have patience. (aka the moto of my life here)

So here it is: my first house!

The second picture is the view from my window (which more often than not includes a camel or two).

The other outdoor picture is of my concession (outdoor walled-in area where I sleep and hang out). The sticks you see will soon have more sticks on top of them to create shade (which is called a "hangar" in french... not sure what to call it is english). Also, the door will *hopefully* be attached in the near future.

The last two pictures are of the inside of my house. It is a one roomhouse, with mudbrick walls, a cement floor, a tin roof, and two windows. On my table you see a water fliter and gas stove, and in the bottow picture you see my bookshelf (which I obviously couldn't live without!) and the trunk where I keep food.

Home Sweet Home! :-)

As I mentioned, it's Ramadan right now, the month long Islamic fast during which Muslims do not eat or drink anything from morning prayer (about 5am) to evening prayer (around 7pm). Since virtually everyone around in Muslim, the fast affects basically every aspect of daily life. It's been really interesting to witness, as it is a very different kind of fast than I am used to. For starters, it's completely uniform, unlike lent. Everyone does the same thing and everyone knows that everyone is doing it. Technically if someone is sick, pregnant, or travelling long distances they are absolved from the fast, but for the most part it seems that most people partake regardless of those circumstances. While not eating from 5am to 7pm is certainly a challenge, I don't think that holds a candle to abstaining from drinking water through the heat of the day, especially here. As a matter of necessity, so as to avoid heat stroke or severe dehydration, activity dwindles and people spend a lot more time sitting in the shade during this month.

At first, the constant discussion of the fast threw me off a bit. Understand, as far as lent is concerned I try not to mention that I'm fasting and to keep what I'm doing/not doing for lent to myself and am accostumed to others treating their fasts in a similar way. But the difference here is that everyone is doing exactly the same thing. People talk about it, often, but they typically talk about it just as they would the weather. "Hello, How's your health? How's your family? How's your fast?", etc. go the regular greetings.

This discussion of fasting has also put my Hausa skills to the test. When asked, I've explained that I'm not fasting now but that I do a different fast in March. (Although I do think I'll participate next year, when I'm in my village..) "Do you eat food?" they ask of Christians during Lent.

"Well, yes, we do."

"Do you drink water?"

"Well...yes."

And then they look at me as though I'm utterly ridiculous, and either say "That's not a fast!" or "That sounds like a great fast - I wish I could do that one instead!"

I try, to little avail given my uber-limited vocab, to explain that it's not necesarilly easier, just different. That it lasts longer and each person chooses what they will give up and/or do. Still, I feel like I've done a pretty serious disservice in my explanation, and thankfully I won't have to attempt that discussion with my villagers until next year, when, inshallah (God willing) my language will be slightly more proficient.

I’m swearing in tonight. After nine weeks of training and two additional weeks of language classes, I’ve been given an “intermediate high” rating in Hausa and will be sworn in tonight with five others. Training was long, often exhausting, and unbelievably helpful. I’m so glad to be done with that phase of PC and to be finally moving into my village and starting my work here.

I will go back to Konni tomorrow or Tuesday, and will spend about two days there before getting installed in my village. This will give me a little time to get my stuff in order and do some shopping before heading into the bush, but the real reason for the wait is that Ramadan is ending this week, and there is a huge celebration on Wednesday or Thursday. It would be somewhat overwhelming to try to move in during the fete, so we’re waiting until it’s over. BUT I will be in my village later this week, and I cannot wait. I know it will be difficult, especially these first few months during which I will be trying to:

-learn Hausa

-get to know people (ie make friends so I’m not sad and lonely all the time.)

-brainstorm possible future projects and counterparts to work with

-set up my house (my first house!)

-and much, much more, I'm sure...

Anyways, it will be tough, of that I'm sure. But I can’t wait.

Transportation in Niger is anything but romantic. There are bush taxis, which are usually 15-passenger vans that take you from one village or city to another, and by "you" I mean you, 25 other people, and the occasional livestock. And then there are the buses, for the much longer journeys, such as the treck from Niamey to Konni, my regional capital, the city about an hour away from my village.

that's right, *my* village.

We had site visits last week, and I got to take said bus ride out to Konni (about 7 hours... not bad compared to my friends' trip of 14+ hours!). I met most of the other volunteers in my region, saw the hostel (Peace Corps property for the region where we have team meetings, and are able to come in to write project proposals, etc.), and spent 4 full days in my village. but I'll talk more about that later... What I'd really like to tell you all about was the bus ride.

the buses, while hardly Greyhounds, are significantly more comfortable than the alternative (bush taxis, that is), mostely because they only allow one person per seat (for the most part...). Still, the roads are...bumpy... very bumpy...

So there I was, sitting between two other trainees on our way out to site visits, talking to pass the time, occasionally attempting to read (which is basically impossible for more of the road... see above paragraph), and generally spacing out. Suddenly, some of the Nigeriens started getting excited and pointing. One woman tapped us on the shoulder and pointed out the window.

There were giraffes. RIGHT NEXT TO THE ROAD.

They were literally within about 30 feet of me. Standing, looking, eating from a few of the trees. About 15 wild giraffes.

I should mention that this particular heard of giraffes is the only herd of West African giraffes left.

And there they were. Tall and elegant and strange and beautiful.

"So this is Africa..."

On the bus ride back, I was telling my friend Kira, who had been on a different bus on the way there and didn't get to see the giraffes, about the whole experience. Then our bus suddenly came to a stop.

"How funny would it be if the bus was stopping because a giraffe was crossing the road?" she joked.

It was.

And we saw several more standing on the side of the road, once again.

breathtaking. that's really all there is to say.

I do have to get going now, but I'll be sure to write more about my village soon.

Also - I have a niece!!! As of three days ago! And she is BEAUTIFUL!!! :-)

miss you all and hope all is well in the states!

"One coffee pleace. Without breastmilk, thanks."

How would you respond to that request? Thankfully, for a friend of mine, the man who sells coffee in our village is used to Americans and our awkward attempts at speaking Hausa and Zarma. Only after two weeks of ordering coffee every morning did my fellow PCT realize that he had been using the wrong word for milk...whoops.

Most days, for most of the day, I sit in a small, round hut with 3 or 4 other PCTs, staring quizzically at our language instructer as she pantamimes dramatically to indicate the meaning of the newest Hausa phrase. It is an entertaining, although often exhausting, game of charades.

Learning a new language, one completely unrelated to anything else we know, comes with many challenges and awkward moments. It's already very obvious that a good sense of humor and the ability to laugh at yourself are absolute musts for life in Peace Corps/Niger.

"Farida!" my host mother beckoned me (using my new, Nigerien name) into her house and held up a yellow complet (the traditional west african dress made up of a shirt, pagne - wrap around skirt - and headscarf). Several women excitedly helped me into these new clothes, as I relished in the recognition of laughter's universality. I can't say much to them, but it's funny that my pagne keeps falling off, and we all understand that.

The night felt electric. Maybe because of the excitment of all the PCTs and host families as we got ready to go to a "fashion show"/dance party at the Peace Corps training site. Maybe because of the oncoming monsoon.

We tried to beat the rain, but I constantly had to stop and readjust my african garb, and the downpour hit moments before we reached our destination. During the rainy season it rains once or more a week. The monsoons come quickly. Huge clouds roll in from the east and turn the sky red from all of the sand they carry. The wind picks up, the temperature drops, and the much needed rain falls, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. It's beautiful. And for a short while, its cool. Sometimes even cool enough to wear a sweatshirt! (Not need a sweatshirt, per se, but wear one...)

And then there are the frogs.

If I could only put into words the sheer volume of these frogs...On the way home from the fashion show that night I made my way back through the village with a few other trainees, heading for our respective huts. We inched our way along the edges of the streets, dodging the enorous puddles left from the storm. And the frogs were screaming. It was loud enough to tempt me to cover my ears. Reminiscent of a fire alarm at BC... Who knew such small creatures could make so much noise??

I saw the big dipper the other night. It's completely vertical from this point of view. Strange. Totally familliar and yet totally foreign.

I love it at night here. It cools off a lot and there is almost always a breeze. I'm staying with a family of four in the village outside the Peace Corps training site, although each night about a million kids and teenagers come over to watch TV. They watch a Brazillian soap opera, dubbed in French, the news, and Hausa music videos. I sit and watch the starts, instead.

I am sure that anyone who joins the Peace Corps, or anyone who moves from western civilization to a developping country for that matter, expects to need to learn a lot and drastically alter their day to day routines. I knew that everything would be very different. I even had some ideas about what it would be life. However, the experience of needing to re-learn absolutely everything is...well... strange.

I'm learning Hausa, relearning how to go to verbally communicate. I had to be taught how to go to the bathroom (although I'll spare you the details), how to eat, dress, sit, wave, bathe...Nothing is familiar, and yet, somehow, everything feels natural (most of the time).

With the accomplishment of the most mundane tasks I find constant reassurance. "I can do this."

Somehow, the ability to eat rice and beans with my right hand gives the assurance that two years here is a manageable thing. Because, here, it's all about taking things one step at a time.

We stepped off the plane onto the landing strip and into the blazing sun. "This isn't the hot season," we keep reminding ourselves, as we wipe the sweat from our foreheadsand fan ourselves with whatever is available. It may not be the hot season, but it certainly is hot.

Once we all were through customs, having had our passports, visas, World Health Org. forms checked, I and 46 other Peace Corps trainees congregated by the baggage claim conveyor belt. All of our backpacks, suitcases, and guitars made it here safely, and 47 PCTs breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Tondi, a 6foot+ Nigerien man with the jolliest laugh imaginable, led us outside, where we were met by a group of smiling Peace Corps volunteers with welcome signs and bottles of water. "Is it cold?" someone asked hopefully.

"No...this is Niger. Don't worry. You'll love it."

So far, I do.