Library

Library:

Excerpt from “The Glass Bead Game” (Das Glasperlenspiel), by Herman Hesse

“Sometimes he felt capable of any achievements. At other times he might forget everything and daydream with a new softness and surrender, listen to the wind and rain, gaze into the chalice of a flower or the moving waters of a river, understanding nothing, divining everything, lost in sympathy, curiosity, the craving to comprehend, carried away from his own self toward another, toward the world, toward the mystery and sacrament, the at once painful and lovely disporting of the world of appearances.”

Can you imagine being presented with this passage and only understanding every third or fourth word? My abounding love for learning, books, and literature is steering my aspirations, the goals of my service, toward the creation of a public library. I have not yet reached the six month mark and have not, therefore, participated in the famed In-Service Training (IST) which will provide me with the basic knowledge and courage to start a real project. At this point I couldn’t get started even if I was overly anxious enough to want to. The training will be mostly centered on funding sources available to volunteers. Unfortunately, books are very expensive. But, I have opened my eyes to start searching for the future librarian for the Public Library and Community Center of K___ M________. (Edited for security)

Other volunteers have succeeded in the creation of a library but stories, myths, and warnings are circulated about wonderful libraries without librarians, without the money to pay them, or without continued interest from the community. It is very anti-PC of me to say this, but having a library without patrons still seems better to me than having no library at all. I grew up with a library always available (not that I spent ALL my time there) and I have grown to love stepping into the atmosphere of silent contemplation only a library can offer. It’s almost as if the building itself is thinking…deeply thinking. It’s like a living organism with one organ dwelling hopelessly on romance and love, another organ totally rational and valuing only pure facts and figures, and yet another devoted to distant pasts and forgotten languages and cultures. To stumble around a library is to stumble around the world, when your checkbook can’t quite provide the means to do so in real life. I just can’t imagine what my life, especially the last five years of my life, would have been like if libraries didn’t exist. So, you, faithful blog readers, will clearly be hearing more about libraries from me.

Today was bittersweet; as is every day to some extent, especially in the Peace Corps. I spoke to my favorite high school teacher and he informed me that he no longer works at the CEG, he has been reassigned to a different village. For many volunteers, myself included, this is a constant surprise and disappointment. People from schools and mayor’s offices will appear one day, brighten your life indescribably, and disappear the next. You think you find someone who will be a key to your happiness and possibly someone who will provide help with projects and moments later they are moved to some random location, sometimes hundreds of kilometers away. They have little to no say, of course, because they are in need of the job and saying no to a new assignment means you’re broke! I value flexibility and I try to embody it literally and figuratively, but my God, it sometimes seems there is no rhyme or reason to the process. En tous cas, I wish my friends wouldn’t be taken from me with such stunning frequency.

Southwest Potatoes

So I peel the potatoes and cut them meticulously into uniformly random pieces, about the size of a quarter and as thick as three nickels, never four. All the while I can already taste the finished product. Usually, as is the case with human neurology as well as many other animals, more pleasure is had preparing and anticipating the reward than when actually or receiving it. But in retrospect, tasting the southwest seasoning doused liberally on these potato bits, fried golden brown, with precious olive oil, may have been the moment of purest pleasure all day long. There’s something about southwest seasoning that sets me right. I couldn’t help singing to myself as I flipped up the frying pan, sending the potatoes into the air and letting them fall back into the pan. The sound of the sizzling, the silence of the potatoes in the air, and then the sizzling again. The kitchen is a place of mediation, of the yoga of cooking. Rarely, while preparing food, am I somewhere else mentally. Each cut, each potato peeled keeps me right here in the kitchen, right now, totally in the moment. Later, when eating the food my mind begins to ramble. In Hausa there’s a word for things that come into your mind, or in a Hausa’s terminology are brought into your mind, while you are eating. Santi is that word. If you bring up something random, or even not so random, while eating a Hausa will tell you that you did santi. I’m starting to demystify this concept for myself (as Westerners often do) while writing this entry. Now, I think about those ideas coming to me as me leaving the now moment in which, while cooking the food I was so absorbed – skittering off into the infinite array of memories and connections after having been so present in the kitchen. But now I will re-mystify because this idea of santi, if said by a Nigerien man, who never cook the food themselves, can’t be explained by my justification above. I suppose I’ll have to accept the mystery and destiny of santi. And back to Southwest Potatoes. I hope potatoes come into my life now as GI disorders did during my first three months. For the last 18 months before coming to Niger I avoided starchy vegetables like potatoes like the plague. I indeed thought it a crime to call them vegetables at all! Now here I am, asking Allah to bring me more.

Tabaski

So as the story goes (and correct me if I’m wrong): God musters up the courage to speak and s/he’s all like “Yo Abraham, what you’re gunna have to do is kill your son to prove your love for me.” Then Abraham is all like, “Aight God, you’re pretty stellar, if I do say so myself, so I’ll do it.” Abraham is about to do the deed when, in a stunning anti-climax, God decides that he should just kill a sheep instead.
The rest is his-tory. This morning a huge amount of men, women, and children went to the largest mosque in town, one that is used only twice a year for Tabaski and Ramadan, for a special 9am prayer. The sheep stayed home and surely sensed the change of atmosphere, something was brewing out there, they could feel it. After the prayer everyone returned home in an anxious trot, mentally prepared for the sheepicide. And so it was that today, hundreds of bah-ing sheep and maa-ing goats had their lives ended in tribute to Abraham’s fealty, and to the love of God. The scene was so gory and bloody that it seemed to me to be out of a movie. Pools of brilliant red blood in the 10am sunlight. “Jini ya yi yawa,” said a little girl – too much blood. Yeah, I said in English, yeah.
Within the next few hours certain households started burning huge piles of wood surrounded by as many as ten or twelve carcasses. They would be slow roasted and basted in the animal’s own body fat, but not eaten until the next morning, as is the tradition. Instead, the first day of the fête families feast on the organs only. As they day progressed there were many events worthy of recounting but they were more like non-events, a sort of daydream. I went to my neighbor’s house and whether it was planned this way or not I arrived at the exact time that they were ready to eat – but this was no normal meal. There was ice water. There was couscous and a sauce unparalleled by anything I have ever tasted in Niger. His wife, whose name I still can’t pronounce, is full of mystical powers. She is something like a sorceress when she begins to brew these unspeakably delicious stews, of which she will never tell me the full list of ingredients. The sauce was full of melt-in-your-mouth onions, tomatoes, and peppers poured over perfectly cooked guinea fowl and chicken. My first sip of cold water put me into a trance and I departed this sweet world for a brief moment.
I started to walk around and made it 200 ft. before I sat down to drink some tea with some people I’ve never met. There was a guy named Jos, dressed super-fly and a red car (with air-conditioning he assured me) was parked nearby. Apparently he is some sort of village celebrity back from Cotonou where he works selling motorcycles and cars. People were flocking to him having heard that he was back in town and I was along for the ride. I stayed for almost three hours talking to him about Niger, being a bachelor, business, and the U.S. After a while I realized I should visit more people so I made my way to the road and sat down with some friends where I often have profitable conversations. BBC Nigeria was on and I tried to understand as much as possible. The problem with understanding a discourse or lecture in a new language is the moment the speaker makes the switch to pronouns and ceases to mention the people, places, or processes that are the basis of the discussion. If you happened to have missed any one of these things you are hopelessly lost. Only rarely do I catch all the details.
The two o’clock prayer rolled around and when everyone went to the mosque I went to the tasha, where all the personal vehicles which constitute Nigerien public transport pass through. To my surprise, there were people engaged in all sorts of card games and gambling. I guess I thought, or assumed, that a culture that prohibits alcohol and concubinage would also prohibit gambling. I played some foosball (yes even in Niger, except no beer to go with it) and despite my partner being the best player in the tasha, I lost the game for us in a miserable display of ham-fistedness. Embarrassed, but smiling, I walked home ready to relax but I was called into a concession, it was the home of Baragé, a man who started the École Privé here in town. Also there was the co-founder of the school, ex-vice-mayor, founder of the Centre de Developpement Communautaire, and village badass, Moumouni. This is where I learned the most about the traditions of the fête. We laughed a lot, sat on mats, it was quite wonderful.
Soon thereafter, Moumouni asked me if I wanted to take a trip to Mai Kalgo, a nearby village. Sure, I said. When do you want to go? He asked. Whenever you want, I said. How about tomorrow and we’ll come back Saturday? …Ok, yeah, sure. I said, running through all the possible snags in this plan. I have learned to keep my word much more than in the U.S. because you’ll get some serious beef from people even for small promises that you don’t keep. I was not sure what to expect of the visit or the village but he assured me that he has a house and family there and it will be fun. See entry, Mai Kalgo for details on this trip.
After an hour or so, the sun was about 45 minutes from setting so I headed towards my house. Halidou, my neighbor, called me in from the street and with a slight reluctance I entered. “You got here just when the organs are ready to eat.” He says calmly. At this point I’m just a molecule of water flowing in the River Tabaski, ready to go anywhere and unable to change my destiny. Destiny then led me to eat some intestines, then they brought the liver which, delicious and meaty, I devoured. Then came the heart, and I recalled the sheep whose head I had rubbed just that morning, and as I ate his heart, sautéed in a frying pan of his own body fat, I felt something of the sheep’s life force, and I rejoiced. Halidou came over with a bag full of dates. “Eat these and you won’t have diarrhea.” I asked him if even Nigeriens get diarrhea and he said, Yes of course. I foresaw the future, dates would do me no good but I ate them anyway. The question remains as to whether it is the bacteria from the meat that causes the diarrhea or the sheer quantity of easily digestible meat relative to the other foods eaten during the day.
I went home after a vigorous hand washing and took an open air shower in the twilight. All the mud walls around my house were a brilliant orangish red, and I felt overwhelmed by appreciation for the pastel orange and purple clouds and the way they augmented the ethereal twilight.

Tinctures and teeth, pelts and poisons!

Every village of sufficient size has one day every week when the market area, built of wooden shade hangers and old, beaten trees fills past its limits with people selling everything imaginable. People come on foot, in bush taxi, donkey or cow cart, or in the back of trucks from near and far to haggle for the things they need. Some markets have only animals, and others only sandals and raw meat. But most, like my market, are a wonderful sight full of options and have a wonderful bustling energy. Farmers and herders come from far away with cucumbers, okra, potatoes, sweet potatoes, yams, sugarcane, hot peppers, salt, spices, herbs. City folk come out with medicines in boxes for every possible ailment, they bring from the market-rich regional capitals tomatoes, bananas, pineapples, mirrors, string, cell phones, oranges and watermelons. Herders, often of the Fulani ethnic group, dressed in winter hats and interesting vests, bring cattle, donkeys, goats and sheep. One might also find a camel for sale or a horse.
However, one does not go to the market expecting to find all of these things. They always have certain staple items but produce is hit-or-miss in almost every market, and prices have varied even over the four short months I have been here. At market nothing has a price of its own. Bardering is a skill learned very young, as well as selling for a profit. Kids spend a few hours out in the fields every day collecting weeds and other shrubs to bring back into town and sell as animal feed. Being a person who, because of my whiteness, is obviously chalk full of money, at least enough to have come here in a plane to begin with, I tend to encounter some ruthless bargainers. But those of you who know me well can see me walking away from many a sale instead of being ripped off and setting the stage for future rip-offs. My favorite line when given an obviously inflated price is "even for a Nigerien?" You scoundrel. We both smile and either I ask him to lower his price "because of Allah" and he does, or I find a different seller. One good advantage of markets here is that there is always more than one person selling any one item.
There is one man I am anxious to get to know, the Medicine Man. He has tinctures and teeth, pelts and poisons! When I get my language down I will discover his training, his lineage, his mysterious salves and perfumes! It took all my restraint not to buy the rock python skin, head and fangs included. It was beautiful. Who would have thought that my biggest predicament this week would be whether to buy a snakeskin or an oscillating fan...

A Traveler No Longer

From October 6th, 2010:

It has been a little more than six days since my arrival at post but things have changed a lot in that short time. I was installed third out of four people scheduled to be installed that fateful Thursday. After hours of protocol, meeting regional and departmental level government figures, gendarme captains and heads of education we arrived at my site at 7pm. We unloaded everything off of the snorkel-equipped land cruiser and examined my new house. It is humongous! Five rooms and a space for washing as well. All the rooms have 12 to 13ft ceilings, the walls are made of concrete and the roof is sturdy tin. Instantly, I began imagining the myriad ways I might furnish and equip my house. An oscillating fan maybe, a couch of sorts, some tapestries...but what to do with all the rooms? A kitchen, yes, another one a bedroom, maybe a relaxation room or a lounge? So many possibilities. Later that night we had a meeting with all of my neighbors and some of the leaders of the women's groups and young people's organizations near my neighborhood. A Peace Corps official helped me communicate my needs and my ground rules regarding important topics like kids, water, food, and visitors. It was amazing. Another warm reception by the people of Niger, wonderful people.
I still have no couch as of today, or fan, or stove or gas tank, but I have a bed and a water filter, which is good. The lack of stove means that I have been eating food with my neighbor Halidou and his family. We don't eat 'with' the family, but they are around. I will assure everyone who has ever studied hospitality in the States that the level of hospitality endemic to the culture of Niger exceeds anything I have ever experienced. The first day upon going to the market Halidou bought me fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, kuli kuli (peanut butter without the oil, like hard biscuits) and bananas. He would not let me pay for anything. I tell him I love apples, too. But we found none. That night he knocks on my door and brings me scrambled eggs with tomatoes, onions, and peppers! I was in heaven. Long story short I was forced to get over my discomfort at all the money he was spending on my food because every day he brought me something better than the day before.
Then, last night he shows up at my door. "I've been looking for you all day." He says, and hands me a bag full of apples and guavas!!! First I thought they were miniature pears, but no, delicious ripe guavas. I didn't quite know how to eat a guava so trial and error ensued. I cleaned them and ate one after cutting off the nubs at each end, they were a rich pink inside and there were some really crunchy seeds. Later I asked if I had done rightly in eating the skin and was affirmed. Guavas are one of my new favorite fruits.
So my first dilemma was: why do I even leave my house if my food is brought to me and neighbors come visit every once in a while? The answer is obvious but has wild unforseeable consequences. I must go out and get to know the ville, starting with the people. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the first days are an exaggerated caricature of what every day will be like after the villagers get used to seeing me walking around. They say volunteers often experience the 'fishbowl effect.' Due to the preposterous amount of handshaking that goes on here in Niger, some of which last 60+ seconds, I will rename it the 'petting zoo effect.' A long handshake is now something I really enjoy and I realize it is indeed a sign of respect and admiration. But I must say, at the beginning it takes a lot of mental energy to understand how it works. I shook more hands in my first three days at ville than I did in all 4 years of college! I realized quickly that the market area, which straddles the road which goes all the way from Niamey in the West through Dosso, Maradi, Zinder, and to Diffa in the East, is the most overwhelming place I can go. Unfortunately, it is where all the social circles mesh and interact, mixing and combining, losing key players then dispersing, re-forming new circles around people and places of interest and intrigue. I, of course, attract a fair amount of attention. Who is this French-looking man with the cap, beard, and strange small backpack? What is he doing here? He seems to know Hausa, how peculiar. I learned by osmosis that wearing the backpack makes people think I am a traveler, which I am no longer. So I decided to leave behind the backpack when I'm out on 'getting to know people' walks.
There is a certain psychology of sitting which is for some Westerners very hard to understand. In villages all over the world people sit to enjoy each other's presence and experience, together, the passage of time. Westerners often perceive sitting as wasting time, which it is not. Its value is not quantifiable however, cultivating social relationships is culturally paramount in most villages around the world. That which I have written above is a nearly direct translation of a quote by a man named Andreas Fulegang. I wrote it from memory because I couldn't find the original. The quote, for me, reinforces a subtle but potent feeling I have been experiencing over the past few days while realizing the value of sitting with people, in silence or conversation. The feeling is a sort of mutual respect, to be accepted by people in your community, to listen to each other, and to not worry about where the conversation is going or how long it will last. Some of these people are much older than I am and to feel worthy of their time and presence is much more powerful for me than any accomplishment. And when the barrage of questions about my future, my Hausa skills, my home, my family, and just what the hell I am doing here has ended, the silence that insues is the most brilliant, calm, and reassuring silence that one can hope for in this life. We sit in silence and listen to the sounds, without trying to comprehend them.

Post

It has been a little more than six days since my arrival at post but things have changed so much in that short time. I was installed third out of four people scheduled to be installed that fateful Thursday. After hours of protocol, meeting regional and departmental level government figures, gendarme captains and heads of education we arrived at my new home at 7pm. We unloaded everything off of the snorkel-equipped land cruiser and examined my new house. It is humongous. Five rooms and a space for washing as well. All the rooms have 12 or 13ft ceilings, the walls are made of concrete and the roof is sturdy tin. Instantly I began imagining the myriad of ways I might furnish and equip my new house. An oscillating fan maybe, a couch of sorts, some tapestries maybe? But what to do with all the rooms? One, a kitchen, another a bedroom, the others well maybe a relaxation room and a lounge? So many possibilities.

I still have no couch, or fan, or stove, or gas tank, but I have a bed so that's good, and a mosquito net. The lack of stove means that I have been eating food brought to me by my neighbor and host-country supervisor at the Mairie's office, Halidou. I will assure all of my fellow Hospitality majors that the level of service and hospitality here in Niger exceeds anything I have ever experienced. The first day, Halidou and I went to the market and he bought me fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, kuli kuli (peanut butter w/o the oil, like hard biscuits), and bananas! I tell him I love happels, too. But we found none. That night he brought me scrambled eggs ($$$) with lots of peppers and tomatoes mixed in. I was in heaven! Long story short, I was forced to get over my discomfort at all the money he was spending money my food because every day he brought me something better than the day before. And he would NOT accept any money, only small gifts of food. Such is the cultulre here.

Then, last night he shows up at my door with a bag full of apples and guavas!!! First I thought they were like little pears but no, delicious guavas. I learned about how to eat guavas by trial and error, eating the whole thing and chewing the extra hard seeds, then asking whether I should peel it, or de-seed it, then finding out that eating the whole thing was the way to go.

So my first dilemma was, why do I leave my house if I have all this delicious food brought to me? The answer is obvious but has unforseeably wild consequences. I must go out, get to know the ville, starting with the people. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the first days were an exaggerated caricature of what every day will be like after the villagers get used to seeing me walking around. They say volunteers often experience the 'fishbowl effect', everyone looking at you, inspecting you, admiring you, (not to mention overfeeding you) but here it is more like the 'petting zoo effect.' I shook more hands in my first three days at site than I had in all my years at college. Some of these are long 60 second handshakes, which take a lot of forced relaxation. I realized quickly that the market area, which straddles the road that goes from Niamey all the way across the country to Maradi, Zinder, and Diffa, is the most overwhelming place I can go. Unfortunately, it is where all the social circles mesh and interact, mixing and combining, losing key players then dispersing, re-forming new circles around people and places of intrigue and interest. Needless to say, I attract a fair share of attention as the only identifiable foreignor out of 50,000 or so Nigeriens in the area. Is he french? What's in his backpack? What about that shiny metallic water bottle, maybe he'll give it to me. They're always surprised when I tell them I'll be in my ville for two years. They are used to white foreignors coming for a few days, asking questions, doing some work and leaving. I learned by osmosis that the backpack makes me look like a tourist or a traveller, which I am no longer. So I have decided to leave the books at home when I'm out to see friends.

There is a certain psychology of sitting which is for some Westerners very hard to understand. In villages all over the world people sit and enjoy each other's presence and experience, together, the passage of time.

Rama-dunzo.

Yesterday was the last day of fasting and today was a big party across the whole country. The market yesterday was the biggest and most crowded I've seen since we've been here. There were tomatoes and peppers, squash and sugarcane, bananas and ginger! The market was so big and so well stocked that I actually found a pair of flip-flops that fit me. After two full months of earnest searching. They happen to be made of denim on regular rubber soles, with fluffy white and blue patches on the straps. I also happen to believe that I was fated to buy them. People have been saving up for months to buy new outfits for themselves and their children in order to properly get down at this day-long feast. Prices at the market were a little high and bargaining was mostly futile. My sandals were 1000CFA, two dollars. A great deal. Fate, I say.
One often sees very small children dressed in wonderful clothes, scaled appropriately from the adult models. There is something very peculiar that happens in your brain when you see small children dressed in miniature models of adult clothing. I think it's a similar thing to seeing a nice-looking (preferably small) dog dressed in a T-shirt and hat. The human mind adores these unique phenomena. Why, I ask? Though I can safely say that no dogs, or cats, wear coats...even in the coldest weather.
Along the same lines of cultural compairson, women here carry babies on their backs secured with a 1x2 meter stretch of fabric wraped around the child and tuck-tied in the front. A fellow volunteer has pictures of her sister with her new baby. Within these pictures is one of her sister with a fancy-shmancy baby carrier with straps and buckles, et cetera. The young girls laugh and ask us sincerely if there is something wrong with the baby that he needs so much...support. We all laugh and then talk about how much it costs, and we laugh again. 20 dollars would be a bargain for one of those baby carriers, and 20 dollars what most village families make in a year. Also children tend to complain, cry, and whine much less that children in the states or say, as did I when I was a child. I have much more anecdotal research to analyze about this family dynamic. Stay tuned.

Journey

There once was a volunteer in Niger,
Who arrived with some clothes and a lair,
He then trained on the rock,
And decided to transfer to Marocc,
And then he left with Amoebas.

A poem by Daouda D. Former PCV

Pseudobaptism / Wurin suna

At 1:30am I awoke to a few raindrops on my face and arms. I am slowly learning to not react with anxiety to this situation. Every time it happens I am irritated for a slightly smaller period of time. I gathered my cell phone, head lamp, and shoes, pulled the four rip cords on each corner of my mosquito net, folded my mattress in half and carried it into my hut.
Five or so hours later I woke up and headed to the market to meet a few friends, after which we headed to David and Mark's house, otherwise known as Issa and Omar. We were told we would leave their house at 7:30am for a baby naming ceremony, a baptism of sorts. Along with Nigerien tradition we actually left at 8am and travelled as a group 400 meters across the road to David's first mother's relative's house, a veritable compound, with 20-30 mats rolled out all surrounded by chairs in a large square. There were already some very distinguished looking elderly men seated at on end of the square. We, the four men, were directed to sit next to them, which we did reluctantly. Soon thereafter we were directed to walk over to a room where the new baby was sequestered. Apparently only women typically go in and see or touch the baby, but our foreignor status cleared that cultural obstacle. The baby was very hairy, long, straight hair. After leaving the dark quarters of the women and baby, we sat again next to the older men. Here is where things got interesting. Being the first in the line of chairs that the distinguished gentlemen were occupying, we started shaking the hand of each new, well-dressed, elder entering the concession. When twenty or so people had come and twenty handshakes had been given, we were approached by the Chef de Canton, the traditional head of the village. We quickly stood up, shook his hand, and greeted him in Hausa. He responded in wonderful French. David and I looked at eachother and knew we should change chairs to sit with slightly less distinguished guests. We were consequently much more relaxed and comfortable. All the women were shuffled off into quite a small area near the baby, which must have been quite crowded.
Man, woman, and child shuffled in, some shaking our hands and exchanging greetings in Zarma, Hausa, and sometimes French. A pile of gifts started to grow in the middle of the square: bags of dates, bars of soap. A master of ceremonies was al the while spouting out phrase after phrase, pacing around the square religiously. I would catch and 'Allah' here and an 'Amin' there. Eventually he started repeating one phrase loudly and I suspected it was the announcement of the baby's name. I was unsure if this was the case and was deep in thought when the master of ceremonies snuck up on us and asked us for offerings for the new child. David, to my left, gave 1000CFA (2$) and I grabbed for my coins. As is scrambled in my pocket he waid something like "et les Francais...," thinking we were French. I gave him some coins and giggled, enjoying his misconception about our outrageous origins.
Soon things started to quiet down and the men were either laying their hands one on the other on their laps, facing upward, or holding them up, palms inward. It was a grand silent prayer. There was a wonderful silence and we couldn't help but give the child a small blessing of our own. Everyone was in their own head - in a box with God as it were. Soon after the prayer some dates were distributed and they were delicious, dried just enough to be chewy like sugary candy.
I learned quickly that in this culture, being in a chair means you have some sort of heirarchical respect, if only for being a man. Younger people always move and give up the chair, and women always give chairs up for the men as well. It is overwhelming at times and always thought-provoking.

Big Bugs (for Sean Tierney)

I know now why Nigeriens don't take showers later than 8pm, besided the fact that Jinns live in bathrooms and dirty places and multiply at night. While stepping into my small square sanctuary to bathe I battled hordes of cockroaches. No problem though, just one of many small hurdles (no pun intended). It's worth it to look up at the stars and enjoy the cool water in the warm night air.
After the wonderful bucket bath I talked about the big bugs all around and pointed one out to my host mom, who's approaching 60 years young, and she immediately stomps it with the ball of her foot. Then a big beetle happens to come into view and she grabs it with here fingers, it's the size of a quarter, and then throws it over the concession wall, brushes he hands together like a dealer leaving the table, smiles and laughs. The family proceeds to tell me I can do it, too, then they laugh because they know I just let bugs do their thing - maybe after a few more months.
Since I'm talking about bugs I will say that depending on the size of the bug I may or may not kill it. Depending on my mood I will even search out and destroy its family. Big bugs seem to be harder to kill, emotionally and physically. Maybe I can't kill bugs that really fstartle me, i.e. big bugs. Especially the dive bombers. Once I stepped on a beetle in stride with my heel, and all my weight was transferred onto him. I felt terrible as it happened then when I lifted my foot, he ran away. Whew!!

Energy

Whether it was the barometric pressure change from the incoming storms or the fact that I only drank 6 liters of water yesterday instead of 8, I had a wicked headache by about 8pm. I decided against the Hausa language study session and instead opted to go home and try to get some extra sleep. After twenty or so minutes of feeling the wind get stronger, watching the trees sway violently, and hearing a dull roar in the distance, I finally stood up and slowly untied my mosquito net and hoisted my mattress inside my hut. In retrospect, it is easy to see why I got heat rash when I was sleeping in my hut every night during my first week - because yesterday night the wind shook the hut so much that a thick layer of dust came loose from the thatched roof and coated my body. Somewhere deep inside I knew I wasn't going to get any sleep under by dust blanket. Despite the discomfort, the next hour and a half went by pretty fast, near the end of the storm I stood outside, swatting myself with my Arizona flag bandana (thanks Shimoni), enjoying the incredibly cool breeze. My family emerged one after the other from their respective rooms and they began to make tea. I asked the older daughter Mariama if she could wake me up if more rain came. "Ca fait rien!!!" No problem!! She's very expressive. I replaced my mattress outside on my wooden bedframe and strung up my net. One of the ties I made was upside down, but I left it anyways (a regretful decision). I slept like a smal boy for seven hours or so and when I awoke at 5:15am I decided to listen to my iPod to preemptively drown out the roosters, the prayer call, and the women pounding millet. Oddly, the song that came on, a very startlingly high energy bluegrass song by the band, Trampled by Turtles, came on. Energy akin to Charlie Daniels Band's Devil Went Down to Georgia. No more than five seconds later I felt a raindrop, then three more, then seven more. I scrambled again and as I was getting inside I heard my brother Ali say: "Sa'adu, Ruwa!" "Babu Kyau," I said (no good.) "In sha Allah," he replied, if god wills it. I didn't try to get back to sleep before class, I just read a few chapters of Grapes of Wrath and marvelled at Steinbeck's brilliant ability to express emotional realities through language. Soon thereafter I decided to have a small Bose earbud jam session/dance party by myself in the dark of my hut, with only the light of dawn peeking through the cracks around my door. Today will be a good day.

On the Importance of "Sai Hankuri"

Depending on the intonation one might translate the phrase "Sai Hankuri" as anything from 'have patience' to 'chill out dude!' But generally it implies the necessity to let the waiting fill. So often today people cannot wait well. They try to fill their waits with something other than the waiting itself. Older brothers often have little patience with younger brothers, and younger brothers have even less patience with their sisters, Niger included. Despite being a foreignor in my host family I find that I bring an attitude that often corresponds with this most Nigerien of expressions.

A fellow volunteer pointed out a quote to me today:
"Don't worry about tommorow, for tommorow has worries of its own." -The Gospel of St. Matthew

Demystification Weekend

The weekend long "demystification" visit to a current Peace Corps Volunteer's site was not quite what I expected. My host, the lovely Kathryn Evans from Colorado, welcomed us with a relaxed attitude into her new home in Guecheme, in the Dosso region of southern Niger. Her former house had been burglarized while she was sleeping outside so she was just moving into her new space when I arrived. She was part of the group that was relocated when there was a kidnapping in late 2009. This sounds pretty scary but it's not. She went from having electricity and running water to having neither, which she described as "not so bad." Consequently we got to experience some very funny moments in the kitchen as she tried to juggle flashlights and spatulas while making us our pesto pasta (pkg. sent from her mother) with crushed almonds (from my roadtrip stash).
As a PCV she was probably the most recognizable person in the village of 5-6,000 people. The consequences thereof included the desire of almost every villager to greet and be greeted by her when passing on the street. It didn't seem to take much energy out of her though. In a culture where each greeting is not a nod of the head, but instead a six part dialogue, this can be very overwhelming. I was amazed at her ability to roll with the excessive attention. The fact that she had two other "anasara" with her didn't make it any easier. Overall, I was left with an excitement to get to my own village and represent my entire country and culture through my unique set of interactions.

First Rain

I stayed awake as the clouds grew higher and higher, having not yet fallen asleep since sunset, and the temperature began to drop. The girls started scrambling and the men slept until the last minute possible. The winds hit a peak and a dusty rain came through the mosquito net as our grand frere woke us up to get inside before the heavy rain came. We scrambled to get all our things inside and talked like children in the basement during a tornado. The chariot spider from earlier that day was still in our two room adobe house. Lying down listening, I heard teh iron doors being berated by the wind, dust, and rain, and my two American roomated Mark and Alan tried desperately to locate the spider - who was as big as a lens cap. The loud sound of the shoe smacking the wall was the symbolic finale of the night. An hour or so later the winds died dwon and the room swealtered. The iron windows were opened and every precious breeze provoked a deep breath by me, savoring the cool feeling on my skin. Very hot. An incredible storm of chirping crickets and frogs filled the night air with sounds to sleep by. The first rain of our journey was one I will never forget.

First Night

A warm reception starts with a handful of smiles. Never before had I imagined the possibility of a goat riding a motorcylcle. During dinner the first night I talked to a nice lady who mentioned that the formateurs heard adn saw our plane flying low overhead, and they rejoiced. I am close to being convinced that the people of Niger really do appreciate the work the Peace Corps does in their country.
My sleep came in two shifts. The first four hours were interesting and the dreams at least partially involved snakes and bugs. I woke up when my houseman Ouessani coughed. He roled over under his mosquito net and I started to hear the swelling and fading of the bugs, frogs, and eventually donkeys. The bugs and frogs seemed to be in an effort to synchronize their rhythms, always getting close but never quite arriving. The donkey waited until the crickets died down to start his provocative he-haw. The starts were visible through the mosquito net. The big dipper was no long visible but I saw a constellation that looked like a large T, something I've never noted before. Lying there I was imagining the endless possibilities of what my villagers might design in the starts and give interesting names. I thought I might ask my friend Metasabia if she knew what the T was. She had pointed out Venus as teh sky slowly turned from pale blue to dark. Finally I drifted off to sleep after 2 hours or so of stargazing, and thinking.