A Big Thank-You!

On behalf of myself, Jennifer Blouin, and, according to the chief of Mai Lafiya, THANK YOU!

We were able to raise over $800 to help support the grain bank. The money has been received and the bank cooperative is in the process of purchasing grain (also potentially considering enlarging the storage facility!).

I will try to figure out a way to get some pictures. :-)

The chief, Ali, has said that this year's harvest was okay, which is good news. By contributing to the grain bank, you have helped enhance an incredibly important community institution that will help buffer the community from future food shortages. (It's also given me greater peace of mind!)

Again, my sincerest thanks.

Request for Help

(The text below is from a letter sent to family and friends, hence some repetitious information. However, the request for help is new--and urgent. Thank you.)

On June 13th, I left New York City for a summer internship in northern Nigeria. I'm working with a project of the Earth Institute at Columbia University, where I'm currently attending grad school--1 year down, 1 year to go!

Since returning from the Peace Corps 5 years ago, I’ve been itching to get back to Africa. The region I’ve been working in since June speaks the same language I learned in Peace Corps—Hausa. The internship has kept me plenty busy (evaluating tree nurseries, surveying nutrition and cooking practices, etc.), but I was able to get 2 weeks off to visit MaiLafiya, the village where I lived in Niger.

Many of you helped fund a village garden, and you’ll be happy to know that the last volunteer there helped them purchase fencing to protect it from animals (photo on my blog). Also, the grain storage bank we started is still in operation—and they expanded it to include millet AND beans!

The importance of a grain bank is that it helps insulate families from drought and famine--families contribute a certain amount of grain after the harvest and store it until the next hungry season. Hungry season is the time period when grain supplies are running low before the new harvest; it's also the time when the market prices for grain are the highest (and least affordable).

Going back was A-MAZ-ING! I surprised everyone when I rode in on a motorcycle on a Tuesday afternoon! (You can read about it in a previous blog post.) They asked me a million questions--how long I'm staying, how my parents are, if I'm married (see, just like Aunt Jeannie and Uncle Milden at Thanksgiving!).

In non-famine years, grain from the bank is sold on the market at the high prices, and the profits are used to buy more grain after the harvest when the market is flooded and prices are low. In famine years, the grain is sold to struggling community members at lower-than-market prices. During my visit, I found out that, since the bank was created, the grain has been sold within the village every single year.

This year, Niger is experiencing an extreme food crisis. The rains last year were bad, and in some places, people literally have nothing to eat. Mai Lafiya is not out of grain yet, but it is running very low. The Chief told me his family has resorted to eating ‘hura’, which is a watery millet drink, for 2 of their 3 meals. I would like to make a ‘deposit’ in the village grain bank—and I’m asking for your help.

A relatively small contribution goes a very long way in Niger—just $50 can buy a sack of grain, like in the picture, which provides about a month of food for a family.

Every size contribution helps because US dollars go so far in Niger. If you are able to contribute at this time, please send a check by Friday, September 17^th, made out to ‘Judy Johnston’ (my mother) to:

Judy Johnston, 1301 N. Shawano Dr., Marshfield, WI 54449

My mom will cash the checks, and we will send the money to the Chief via Western Union. If you’d like to read more about my internship experience and visit to MaiLafiya, check out the rest of my blog postings or Picasa photo album: http://picasaweb.google.com/112277101749352358193/Niger2010# .

Thank you very much for any support—financial or moral—that you can provide!

Trix Are for Kids (and so are trees)

8/30/2010

We just got back from tree-surveying. It was a little rough out there! "Damana" (rainy season) is in full effect! We couldn't get to 1 whole cluster because of the seasonal river. And then there was another spot we couldn't get to because we needed to head through a rice paddy. We started to do it, too. I had no idea rice paddies cut up your legs--tiny little cuts, but hella painful.

And they're very swampy--and wet mud is slippery. I fell and drenched my whole right side in sloppy, smelly, mud-water. When I fell, the GPS and the compass were in my right hand, which I used to break my fall. The GPS was strapped to my wrist, but I dropped the compass. So I spent 5 minutes groping around in the muck for it, successfully thank goodness.

As I watched Dauda in front of me, carrying my orange canvass bag full of 'kayan aiki' (measuring tape, data sheets, Android phone, digital camera), I thought it best we turn back, lest he fall, too, and ruin said 'kayan aiki.'

We won't get to all the 64 sites they'd originally wanted me to survey (survey: locate a GPS point, put a stake in the ground, run a 17.84 meter string out in all directions from the stake like the radius of a circle, record names, circumference, and height of all trees within the circle, take pictures North-South-West-East). We ran into some timing issues, i.e. the roads aren't good after is starts to rain; really, they weren't even 'roads' to begin with--only cattle and foot paths, which is why we go out on motorcycles. We lowered it to 53, and now it looks like they'll only get 49.

We have certainly made an effort--in Hausa, you might say sannu da kokari. We PCVs in Niger used to translate that into greetings on your effort--like, someone is surprised to be conversing with an American in Hausa and, to express their appreciation or offer encouragement, they say sannu da kokari. Here, however, my colleagues translate it as 'You're trying,' And it annoys me every time.

I was exploring why this is, and I blame the PIRGs--mostly Stacey Hafner, Mia Scampini, Trevor Kaul, and Jessica Tritsch, who drilled it into my head that "try" is "weak language." A better word for "trying" is "working." Anyway, we're "working" on getting as many plots surveyed as possible. For what purpose? Data collection!!! (JAZZ HANDS)

I love data--without it, you can't possibly know the right direction to choose or strategy to hatch. Plus, you get to create exciting excel sheets. As it has been explained to me, this particular data could be used to establish whether or not there is potential to create some kind of global warming/carbon sink/carbon offset program here, which wouldn't be a bad way to generate some income.

Plus, knowing how many and what types of trees are here now will allow them to evaluate whether or not the forestry resources are improving or degrading in the future (as well as biodiversity). They can use it to estimated the economic value of current forestry resources, and, perhaps people smarter than me can use it to figure out something about the rate of deforestation, erosion, and climatic moisture levels.

Today, one of the staff went out to finish up the household survey we put together about trees--what kinds people find most important, what they use various trees for, which ones aren't around anymore, which kinds people would be most likely to care for if they received them from the village tree nursery, etc. I'm excited to see what it says. I wish I could stick around to work with the tree nursery--I even took one of the "How to Run An Environmental Camp" handbooks from the Maradi hostel. (PS--why didn't we ever do one of those?? They sounded SO fun! Imagine--giving a little Nigerien kid from a village a chance to go to camp.)

There's a ton of untapped potential for environmental ed in the schools here. What do I most remember about elementary school? The science project in 1st grade where we drew a face on a styrofoam cup, filled it with dirt, planted grass seeds, and 'cut' Harry's 'hair' when the grass grew; the year every student from every grade went out to the edge of the playground and planted a pine tree as a wind break; trips to school forest; and of course, the days we'd release helium balloons to see who's balloon traveled the farthest. (I don't really remember WHY we did this, but is was exciting...probably not environmentally friendly, though.)

I don't know if these are the same things other students remember, or if I'm just uniquely predisposed to remember enviro/hands-on stuff, but young kids have a lot of energy, and they need to expend it. Hence, I propose creating a giant militia of tiny tree-planters. I think that would pretty much take care of that silly deforestation/desertification problem.

8/11/2010

This morning, I went to the fields. Laminou and Ahna followed us there. The MG (Mai Gari=Chief) and I talked while we went (in broken French-Hausa). Something he said really stuck out to me like never before...or, maybe not 'never,' but now that he said it, it's not just me thinking it--it's been verified.

We were talking about Malam Harou and Haya--how Haya never would have been about to get an X-ray taken of his heart if La'ima (I think that's how you spell Jennifer's Hausa name) hadn't gone with him to the clinic, insisted they x-ray him, and paid for it.

And then MG lamented the fact that Peace Corps has left [the Dakoro region]. He said, "You know, I'm the head of the village, and usually, if you want something done [with government], the head of the village uses his influence, i.e. money bribes, to make things happen for the people in the village. But since I don't have the means, we just get ignored. When Peace Corps was here, the government agents were more receptive because they were worried and scared that they might get into trouble [if they didn't work with us]. But now we don't have anyone to intervene on our behalf."

And I really felt that was true when I was living there. It wasn't that they couldn't do things or didn't have effort (kokari)--at least in Mai Lafiya--it's that the system is not designed to allow them to make things happen.

So, how can I help them now?

Money is what matters, and their money comes from food (crops). I feel like they need money to really make a major purchase for their grain bank. (MG told me that measures of millet have been selling for dala dari da talatin=650 cfa; in the village, they sold the grain from the grain bank to residents of the village for 500 cfa, so they were still making profit for the bank and re-investing it the following harvest.)

Last year, Jennifer got them improved beans, and they really produced. I asked the MG, "What's the next big thing you'd want for the grain bank?" He said he'd want improved millet seed. And it just makes sense--the beans start to produce in 45 days; the improved millet in about 70 days. In a place where the rainy season is erratic and seems shorter and shorter, there's no reason to waste time on slower-growing varieties.

If they could just have enough grain in their own, personal stocks, enabling them to sell at even higher prices to outsiders, then they'd really be somewhere--or at least getting there. Not to mention I could have better peace of mind...

More Gardening Pics...

Here's a picture of what the gardens look like during the cold season. Enjoy!

Still Gardening in Mai Lafiya!

Many family members helped fund a village/school garden while I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Niger. Well, you'll be happy to know that the village/school garden is still going strong!

In fact, the last volunteer in the village (Jennifer Blouin) helped them purchase fencing and doors to help protect the gardens from animals. This way, gardening can be a permanent activity in Mai Lafiya. Sannu da kokari!

(PS--in this picture, you don't see any gardens because gardening starts in the cold season--around November/December.)

Back in the Village

First, a description of 'les personnages'. Ramatou is one of my best friends in the village--she named her second child after me (they actually call her Jesse). Illa is Ramatou's brother-in-law who lives in Dakoro, which is the market town 10K from the village--Mai Lafiya. (2000 cfa is about $4, but I could eat about 5-6 meals on that.)

Illa: Ramatou, give me 2000 cfa--I brought you something from Dakoro.

Ramatou: 2000 cfa?!? What on earth did you bring me?

Illa: To find out, give me the 2000 cfa.

Ramatou: Fine, I'll give it to you. I've got it here. But you have to tell me first!

Illa: I brought Zara.

Ramatou: Zara herself??

Illa: Yep, Zara the white person.

And that's how Ramatou found out that I was back in the village.

Everyone else saw me as I rode into town on the back of Illa's motorcycle, waving like a crazy person. People were waving back, but I'm not sure they knew who it was right away. There was a boy at the well--he was about 7 when I lived there--and he was kind of my first friend, Bouzou. (If you remember the story, he's the one who was so excited when my neighbor gave me a baby chicken--he kept running back to his house to get something else the chick needed. The fourth time he jumped up to get something, he was running out of my concession and accidentally stepped on the chick--splat!) Anyway, he was the first person who's face I could see clearly as I rode in, and as I was recognizing him, he was recognizing me. First, he has this look of curiousity, then surprise, and it all ended in a big smile.

Illa deposited me at the chief's house (the chief is called Mai Gari (MG), owner of the village). No one was there, though. MG's wife, Selma, came in first--she told me MG had gone to Dakoro. Then, about 5 men I knew showed up, and it was enough to make me start crying, which made everyone kind of uncomfortable. I guess no one was really that surprised, though, since I had cried when I had left the village.

Then, MG's compound filled up with kids--seriously, like 30 kids showed up. I knew most of them; I actually felt kind of bad that I didn't have any candy. When I used to go to the market on Fridays, they knew I'd buy candy for them, so every time I'd ride my bike back into town, the kids used to come running.

Now, all the kids were so big! It was a strange experience--in the states, if I don't see someone or their children for a while, I usually have photographs to keep me updated on how they're changing, but I hadn't seen any of these kids since February 2005. It was like one of those nature videos wehre they film the growth of a flower from the planting of the seed until it blooms, but they speed it WAY up so the whole process only takes like 2 minutes.

Someone eventually went on a motorcycle and picked MG up from town--when he got back, he set me up in my old house. No one's living there now; I think they are still holding out hope that Peace Corps will change their minds and re-open the Dakoro regions. I think it's pretty unlikely in the near future.

BTW, because I know Team Dakoro folks would like to vicariously experience my bush taxi ride from Maradi to Dakoro: it took 5 hours. Everyone told me, rather excitedly, "Oh, they're paving that road!" Ha. Well, no one's been paid, so the work has stopped. Plus, they left all kinds of road blocks in order to protect their work, which meant we were mostly driving on sand paths NEXT TO the road. And, it had just rained profusely--so we stopped 5 or 6 times when we got stuck in puddles. Fortunately, there were enough men in the back (I was in the cabine), and I never had to get out and push. This was NOT the case on the return trip, when we got 2 flat tires, and I had to get out twice to help everyone who was fasting push the truck out of the mud.

Don't Worry--Team Maradi is STILL Better than Team Zinder

I made it to Niger at 2:35 pm on Saturday. We had to stop at 6 border checks on the Nigeria side and 2 on the Niger side. Other than being time-consuming and hot, the trip wasn't too bad.

And now I'm in Maradi, and it's awesome. Hassane and Ado greet you all; so does Kabo from the Maradi Guest House.

I am leaving for Mai Lafiya tomorrow. It seems like the rains this year are good, so hopefully the fields will look good. Ramadan starts in the next couple of days, so everyone will be fasting (joy). I'll probably end up fasting, too, since I'll be staying with friends in the village. Allah ya bamu sa'a.

My Name is Wednesday.

I was sitting under a tree waiting for Abdoul Azziz (my motorcycle driver) to come back with the motorcycle because he had to take Malam Baro--the old, toothless man who helps me identify trees--back to the village because the moto he was riding got a flat. So there I am sitting under the tree, waiting, and I thought about the fact that the name they gave me here--Larraba--means Wednesday. And then I made the obvious leap to Wednesday Adams and thought, 'how funny to share a name with such a strange girl! She's pale and quirky and does strange things. Oh wait--that's exactly what someone in Nigeria could be saying about me.'

Someone asked me when I first got here if I knew which day of the week I was born on, and I told them I had no idea. She was shocked and said that I really should know because it tells you a lot about who you are. Hence the habit of naming people by the days of the week--that way, everyone knows something aout your character as soon as they meet you.

So I asked about Wednesday--Larraba. I was told "If there are good things that are going to happen to you on Friday, you will see the signs on Wednesday." A big Facebook LIKE right here.

Stop, Drop, & Roll, Part Deux

My flaming skirt.

Stop, Drop, & Roll

Monday started off like any other Monday--with a groan because I had to get up earlier than I had for the previous 2 days. Heated enough water for a bucket bath; put all my electronics together into a bag so I could carry them the 45 feet to the office; turned on my computer; plugged in my broadband; cursed the SLOW internet; and went through the Hausa greetings with each new person that comes into the office.

Ina kwana? Ka tashi lafiya? Ina kwanan gida? Ina gajiya? Yaya aiki?


But I hadn't had my coffee yet (Nescafe with powdered milk--hello again Nido!). So, as my computer was trying to load some big file, I went back to my room and put water on the stove. (I should clarify that the stove is a gas tank that sits on the floor in the 'kitchen,' which is a small room with a sink--see the picture.) While I was waiting for the water to boil, I thought I'd do some dishes from the night before.

As I was doing the dishes, the room started to feel warmer, which I assumed was just a result of turning the stove on. But then it was getting REALLY warm, so I looked behind me at the stove and saw a flame shooting up at me from the hem of my skirt.

"I'm on fire!"

I ran out of the kitchen...I guess to show my roommate, Barbara, that, indeed, I was on fire. We both started screaming, and I distinctly remember the words "Stop, Drop, & Roll" flashing through my mind, but in the moment, I decided I didn't really want to roll around on top of a flame.

I thought about pulling the skirt off, but we were making a lot of noise--our male colleague in the room across the hall might open the door and see me without pants on. Meanwhile, the flame was getting bigger and making its way up my skirt. I decided the risk of overexposure wouldn't be as bad as getting burned, so I whipped off the skirt, ran into my room, and slammed the door.

Barbara kicked the skirt outside and eventually doused it with water. For some reason, neither of us thought of that while I was actually wearing the skirt.

Who's a Good Cook?!

I feel wonderfully satiated, and wonderfully gratified. Despite the skeptical glances from my roommate, Barbara--who is a great cook--I have proven that I can successfully cook rice and beans (Niger-style). She may not have liked the burnt onions, but to each his own, right?

One More Thing...

Here's a picture of pate--Mmm!

A Good Food Day

Had some seriously good food in the village this week at a nice Fulani household. Even though my job is to sit in the household from morning til evening in order to observe--in a non-obtrusive way--women's work, hospitality always seems to trump the rules of scientific observation. I.E., some kind of special food is always made or purchased for me.

On Wednesday, I had what's called pate (pa-tay), which is kind of like a porridge mixed with 2 kinds of leaves; to make it really good, my host fried some onions (until they were burnt to a crisp--the tastiest way) in some cow oil. It was amazing.

Then that evening, we had chicken--I can't say one way or the other if I was the reason for chicken or if they would have had chicken anyway, but it was seriously tasty.

You know what else I have to say?

I hate the posting and layout constraints of this blog.

Christmas in July?

I have to say, I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve right now--extremely delighted and excited about everything. Why? Because I've just arrived in Abuja (in hopes of a acquiring a visa extension), and I'm staying at a hotel with AC, a king-size bed, a mini-fridge (hello cold water!), flat screen (go Germany!), room service, FAST internet, and a toilet. And even though the toilet does not have a seat, it's still pretty amazing.

Forget the somewhat frightening, 3-dimensional picture on the wall and the holes in the bed's comforter--it's so exciting to know that I won't wake up in the middle of the night because the electricity went out and I'm sweating. Imagine--being woken up by your own sweat.

I'm a little surprised by my level of excitement--I mean, it's not like any of my accommodations are bad (except the boys' quarters in Ikara--I will have nightmares about that bathroom for years). There are just so many little creature comforts in one place!

Some Pics...

There's Only One Thing Wrong with Turkish Toilets...

I know that seems like a strange thing to say, and I'm sure someone else could come up with a million things that are wrong with turkish toilets. Like, there's no where to sit, not to mention the fact that most of the places where I've used a turkish toilet have been less-than-hygenic and actually downright disgusting.

Nevertheless, I remember them being a sign of modernity and comfort when I was in the Peace Corps. After being in the village for 4-6 weeks, it was pretty exciting to get to the hostel where the bathroom was tiled floor-to-ceiling, the hot water heater made for a wonderful showering experience, the toilets flushed, and you could wash your hands under a running faucet.

What I didn't remember, until I spent this last week in the village here in Nigeria, was what I really HATE about turkish toilets. (I should say something briefly about my living situation in the village here because it's quite different from that in Niger. Here I stay in the medical staff quarters--a building which is divided in half for each gender, each side having 2 bedrooms, 1 kitchen, and 1 tiled bathroom. A solar panel powers a water pump, so we always have running water when it's sunny. At night, the doctor turns on the generator for 2-3 hours so we can turn on the lights and ceiling fans in our rooms.)

I remembered what I hate about turkish toilets the moment I walked into the bathroom--the mosquitoes went flying ev-ery-where! Why, in the most modern of bathrooms, are those little killers everywhere?? Because of the water in the toilet drain. It brought back a tiny, forgotten detail of my Peace Corps service--that little bowl we used to cover the toilet hole to *prevent* mosquito breeding. I'm not convinced it actually worked, but it made us volunteers feel better. Here, there's no bowl in the toilet hole (it seems to have been a distinctly Peace Corps innovation). I am convinced that this lack of a bowl has resulted in more mosquitoes biting me in the ass.

Weekend in Kaduna

My colleague, Barbara, invited me to spend the weekend at her apartment in Kaduna, which is about 45 minutes away. Her neighbor girls were very excited about being able to play with my hair--just goes to show, little girls are the same everywhere!

Packing, Unpacking, Re-packing

Ah!! Just a little over 24 hours until my flight leaves from La Guardia, and the 4th round of packing has begun. There may be a fifth round tomorrow if my internship coordinator brings over some 'tarps'--who knows where I'll fit those! Maybe I'll have to get rid of some of my pharmaceuticals...

Mefloquine

Malaria meds day 1--let the games begin.

Excerpt

In preparation to leave next Sunday, I have been trying to 'hausa-fy' myself. Mostly superficial things, like pulling out the few clothing items I still have from 5 years ago--the headscarves (kalibi) and the wrap skirts (zane); the cheap gold earrings (dan kune) that are only remarkable because every woman wears them; the little cloth purse embroidered by our Wodaabe guards; the silver jewelry sold mostly to tourists and Peace Corps volunteers.

I also find myself thinking in Hausa a lot, which might be due to a memoir I'm reading by a political science professor and former Niger Peace Corps Volunteer, William F. S. Miles--he throws in a lot of Hausa phrases. (The book is called My African Horse Problem.)

Maybe it's a combination of the wine and the heat in my subterranean, un-air conditioned apartment, but I started crying after reading a section where Miles returns more than a decade later and offers help the wife of a friend who passed away while he was gone--not because he's returning and offering help, but because of her reaction and how dai-dai it is.

Once upon a cold and foggy Harmattan, I'd ridden horseback all the way to Alhaji Habou's domain. The sandswept landscape was as bleak as the sky, with no other habitations in range. My host instructed his wife to provide me a refreshment, and she rushed to collect milk so fresh that it was still warm from the cow's udder. Now, well over a decade later, she remembered my visit in fine detail.

To Western ears, the circumstances surrounding Alhaji Habou's demise might sound mildly comical. One rainy season night my friend's roof simply caved in during a storm, killing him as he lay in bed. Shi ke nan. Finished. I often thought of my own leaky roof in Yardaje, the clumps of mud falling on me and--worse--soiling my research papers. That's all it takes to die in Hausaland: a heavy rain. It is one of the innumerable reasons why death is anticipated so matter-of-factly.

Mourning in Massachusetts, I wondered: What could I do for my deceased friend? It was then that I though about the widow he'd left behind. Would he not have wished for me to somehow help her? When, or how, was secondary...

Now, with the slight, elderly, bent woman draped in shrouds at the door of my guest quarters courtyard in the nighttime...Habou's widow is anxious about having been summoned to my hut. So I explain.

"You know, Alhaji Habou was my friend. A very good friend. And he was a good man."

"Yes, he was."

"I was used to him, he was used to me."

"So it was."

"When I learned of his passing, my heart was damaged. I wanted to do something for him. But do what?"

"We have a custom," I continue, though not really quite certain who this "we" is or to what custom I am referring. "If a friend dies, we try to help those whom he has left behind."

As often occurs when speaking Hausa to remote herdspeople and nomads, especially female ones, I ceased to be understood. Unaccustomed to ever seeing white people, some rural folk assume that I can only speak in a foreign tongue. Already confused by her presence in my home, Habou's widow asks Lawali the schoolteacher what is going on. Lawali "translates," repeating what I have just said in Hausa.

I reach into the folds of my ashera, my open slit shirt with deep pockets, and fish out a fistful of twenty naira bills. "Take it," I say. "On account of him."

In the nighttime dark, Habou's widow can not see from across the courtyard what I have extracted from my pockets. Slowly, cautiously, she walks over. Her small and bony fingers touch mine as I make the offering. Recognizing what I have placed in her frail hands, she promptly collapses to the ground.

"No, don't cry," Lawali pleads, such displays in front of unrelated menfolk being exceedingly embarrassing. But her tears are already flowing, accompanied by mournful gasps of ambivalent emotions.

After Habou's widow recovers, her first words are not addressed to me, but to Lawali. "Does he"--"he," in this context, meaning the strange Bature, the White Man, "Does he eat millet pasta? How long will he remain in the village?"

"No, he's cooking for himself and his son," Lawali explains. "You need not prepare any food for them."

Repayment, thanks, dignity, reciprocity: all the Fulani widow can think of doing now is to cook our meals for the duration of our stay. But all she knows how to cook is millet--millet pasta dough, millet balls in sour milk, maybe even fried millet fritters. She must not misunderstand. She must not think that I have given her money to serve as our cook.

The next day, Alhaji Habou's widow reciprocates in the only other way she knows: dispatching one of her sons to show himself. To be there. To be seen. Making the effort to travel from your home--however distant--to that of another. Herein lies the heart of the Hausa way: one human being presenting himself, herself, to another. Person to person. Soul to soul. (Miles, 79-81)

Bad News Bears in Niger

Slide show of situation in Niger, with captions. This is right in the region where I lived. The Sacabel market was one of the region's big markets; and Bermo, when I was there, had a big pond--not so right now.

How many trips to the embassy does it take to get a visa?

Everyone keeps asking me when I'm leaving for my internship in northern Nigeria--I wish I knew! I've been to the embassy three times, completed paperwork in duplicate, taken some horrible passport photos, turned in my money order (circa 1998), and learned that they're pretty serious about the 30-minute window for Visa pick-up.

Inchaallah, I'll get to the embassy on time tomorrow, leave with the visa, and finally purchase my plane ticket. In any case, my subletter moves in on the 14th of June, so, if I'm not on a plane, I could be couch surfing.

Really, I'm not complaining--it's been 5 years since I got back from the Peace Corps in Niger, and I'm ridiculously excited to be heading back to West Africa. Besides, the logistical challenges I'm encountering here in the US are just preparation for what I anticipate over the next 2.5 months. Of course, things will be a little different this time--I'll have a cell phone, weekly internet access, and spend part of my time in a city of 1 million (Zaria, Nigeria). And it will be interesting to show up in the village where I'll be working and already speak the language (Hausa)--a big contrast from Peace Corps where I spent the first 6 months just kind of staring at people and writing words down in a little notebook.

This blog is intended for family and friends who might be interested in what I'm doing in Nigeria and who want to find out what has happened in the Peace Corps village (MaiLafiya, Niger) where I lived since I was last there--Niger is only about 6 hours away (inchaallah), so I will definitely be making the trip.