I am in a current PCV's home more "in the bush". We got up earlier (for me) this morning and one of the drivers dropped us of in small groups with various PCV's. The car had an iPod adapter thing that plugs into the casette deck. Before people got too tired or too uncomfortable, we were excited to pick out some songs for the mini-road trip. It's the first time I've listened to American music since leaving (also used the shower at the training site today, first non-bucket bath shower since the day we met our host families). With the ten trainees in the back, the car was a little island of America. Just about each song brought back a memory for someone, some stronger than others. The African landscape rolled past, and it was easy to miss the shanties by the side of the road, garbage lined streets, etc. A mini party in the back of the car, walled off from the world outside. A different feeling. These songs were ours from our past life; we haven't yet, perhaps since we will relatively soon split, we never really will, developed "our" song of our PC service or the emblamatic of Niger. A current PCV sat in the front seat. Always around current PCV's, such as our host, I sense our freshness. We move a bit too fast, talk a bit too fast, remain a little bit too excited. The journey volunteer seems, by comparison, a wise old sage, slower to comment, not rushing from task to task, and slow to waste energy.
We stopped briefly by the home of a volunteer who has been here for a month and another trainee and I will stay this weekend with a volunteer who will come to the end of his service at the end of the month. It is encouraging to see their homes; they DO live here, they have places to call their own, time to themselves. But it's superintimdating to me to hear the work they do in the villages, or consider what has passed since, for example, this second year volunteer was in MY shoes over two years ago. My fellow trainee mentioned she brought a Kindle and our host's eyes went wide and he nearly jumped from his chair with excitment. He has only heard of them, never seen one. Again, each day has really been nothing too taxing, but it's the anticpation of what will come and the weight of the two years ahead that leads me to fleeting anxities. The volunteer who had been on site for a month (who by the way has electricity??? say what? apparently several volunteers do) said she had French for most of PST and only two weeks of Zarma. This makes me feel good becaue if she could successfuly transition with two weeks, I, having already had two weeks with a month of pretty intense Zarma to come, can certainly make the transition. Always in the back of my mind though, is the question of what it is about the volunteers who make it through, the ones who really trive and succeed, and those who either leave early or come to no success. I hope I will fall on the right side of the divide.
We watched some villagers build these little hut things, propped up on wood (dad, the book you started reading when I left...poss there were pics of these on the cover). I thought these were houses, but they are actually used to store grain. A guy who spoke English some, learned it in Nigeria, showed me how to weave the millet stalks into a braid which closes off the sides of the "floor" of the hut. That was a terrible description, but the point is, he said I did a fine job (A boori!), and said I did better than the next villager who came along to help out.
Looking around at the volunteer houses I see some things I wish I brought from home, and how difficult it will be to arrange for these things or replace them locality sinks home the fact that we are actually far from home indeed.
Was up before the son came up this morning. When we were driving away from our training village, the sun was a few "inches" above the horizon. At both sunrise and sunset, the sun moves very quickly up and down when it is close to the horizon (remember how I missed the picture of the sunset my first night?). The sun is full, today it cut through some waify clouds, and bright, but when it is newly risen or soon to set, you can look right at it. With the shrubbery and desert ground beneath it (which I think I could easily mistake for America's southwest), I though again, for the hundreth time, so this is Africa.
I have decided I am hoping for a few things:
1) want to be in a village that has never had a previous volunteer. Want to make my own way without expectations.
2) want to have my own hut, home, or concession (like the two people I saw today). Living within another family's concession, I feel pressed for personal space and organizational time.
3) I want to be a healthy walk from the marche, etc. This volunteer has to walk 8k to the gardens. This is part of why I signed up, but as the days off running tick away and my pullups callouses fade, I worry that by the time I finally get into this situation, there will be little base of fitness left. I noticed my host is faily cut, and I wondered if he was doing a lot of field work, but then I noticed he had fashioned dumbells out of old cans and he said he has a pullup bar somewhere near the shower/ latrine. The desire to escape for a run to explore hangs near consciousness much of the time. Sound mind, sound body, right?
As our initial group split up today as small groups peeled away, I was again reminded how isolated we will be in our villages. This is also pretty intimidating. The status quo I think is very manageable, and I feel like I haven't really been taxed too heavily thus far. But remove the support system of my fellow volunteers and the training site itself, and I think it will be a whole new game.
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