It was 1984, and I was 22, flying to my post as a Peace Corps volunteer. I was glued to the window as we crossed the Sahara, awed by the barren expanse that was shrouded in red haze to the horizon. When I pressed my hand to the pane, it came back warm. I remember thinking it would green up as we approached Niger, which I knew was dry, but not desert desert. I’d grown up in the Cuyahoga Valley, splashing through brooks and pressing autumn leaves between wax paper sheets on my mother’s ironing board. Only as we descended to the Niamey airport did I make out any trees. They were spindly, unfamiliar. It felt like we were landing on the moon.

My assignment was as a “nutritionist” in a maternal and infant clinic in the village of Torodi. In practice, that meant doing well-baby checkups, mixin

See Full Page