Food

I

Rice

Cous-Cous

Peanut Sauce

Onion Sauce

Pate

Gumbo Sauce

Inyam Frites

Baguettes

Beef Brochettes

Goat

Hibiscus Juice,

If we are lucky, Pizza.

II

The cook who is man and from Niger prepares all the meals for the Peace-Corps Volunteers-in-training (me).  I am always worried about being hungry.  I get headaches when I am hungry.  I hope it is not cous-cous. Good. Nestle Quick to mix and make Carnation powdered milk palatable.  I need protein if I am going to survive.

I watched as they killed the goat, its head turned toward Mecca, them whispering,

praying to Allah.

I cannot eat the cooked goat meat.

I find that Mangos are better than oranges and bananas.  Fresh plucked from some tree I cannot seem to find in this village called Hamdalaye.  I buy the fresh mango from a market woman who does not speak French, Hausa, Zarma or Tomashek.   I give her a CFA.

She gives me the mango.

Something is wrong. She is unhappy.  She rubs the old bill between her

brown redearthdustdirt fingers.

I am slow.

She has seen that I have other bills, bills which are cleaner, crisper, newer.

She wants a different bill.  I give her a newer bill. I get a smile.

I cannot remember if we make eye contact.

III

“Here is a list of physical education (éducation physique) vocabulary words you will need to know in French:

high jump: saut en hauteur,

offense: l’attack,

long jump: saut en longeur,

start: début,

guard: la défense,

finish: fin,

triple jump (girls are not allowed to perform the triple jump because it could interfere with their ability to make babies): triple saut.”

To Niamey

I

An excursion to the capital of this African nation called Niger, which is not to be confused with Nigeria.  It sits along the Niger River.  We are told we will find the Grand Marche, the american embassy, the u.s. consulate, a u.s. marine base, the Hotel Sofitel, a French anasara store, the american cultural center, the Petite Marche, rip-off row, and the Stade.

We are again a herd — without the docile faces or lumbering bodies.  We move quickly and with determination.  We will not miss out on anything.

“Americans do everything like a business.”

An opportunity to shop for: chocolate, fabric, gifts for our families. (Finally.)

I buy chocolate and cloth. I privately, secretly, think the cloth is ugly.  It is purple.  It has a pattern not unlike paisley.  I call it faux-paisley.  I know I will never wear it as a pagne. Maybe, maybe, I will get a dress made by a tailor.  I eat the chocolate in the van on the way back to our compound in the village of  Hamdalaye.  I am disappointed.  I do not like the taste.

II

As a special treat we are taken to the u.s. ambassador’s house, which is really an estate.

“His” property is:

“The loveliest piece of property in Niger.  It overlooks the Niger River, has mango trees which bear fruit, and actually has green grass.  Peace Corps Volunteers, not Peace Corp administration, are allowed to come any time during the day to swim in his in-ground pool.  Just show the guard your Peace Corps ID and he will let you in.  Be sure to greet the guard with the proper greeting:

‘Al-hamdalaylaye’”.

The ambassador throws a special July 4th party for the volunteers and the volunteers-in-training.

There is budweiser beer.  There is a barbecue.  There is a softball game.

The ambassador likes the Peace Corps Volunteers.

I swim in the ambassador’s pool.   I am thinking of the “Things you will need to bring to Niger.” list.  I cannot remember if if “bathing suit” was on the list.  I am thankful I brought one.

I drink a lot of this stale, aluminum-tasting beer.

I never liked beer.

I do not play softball.

I never liked softball.

I like the grass.  It grows over the redearthdustdirt because the lawn is constantly sprinkled with water, even though half of Niger is a desert, the Sahara, and the other half is a scrubby half-desert, the Sahel.  The grass is prickly and grows in clumps.  It is not all comfortable to lay on.  I imagine it as a small act of resistance from the redearthdustdirt.  No soft, green, chem-lawn, for mr. ambassador.  I am happy for this small act.  I suddenly desire to see more of it.

Dust Storm

I

Like a wall it is moving toward us.  Truly.  I can see the clear, blue, sky, and the huge, red, sun above it.  A dust storm! It is the REDEARTHDUSTDIRT coming.  It is coming for me.  It is our secret.  I know it.  I am ecstatic.  I am being pushed in a cab by someone, a worried Black Nigerien, who saw my white face and was scared for me.  I was not scared.  I am packed into a cab with volunteers I do not remember.  It is all around us.  I imagine it is my redearthdustdirt.  It is black.  There is blackness inside this wall of redearthdustdirt.  And, I remember.  I am in the heart of Black Africa.  And I laugh.  I like this blackness.

It is gone.

To be continued...