So judging from the few of you have asked, many must actually be wondering, “What the heck is she doing over there since she has said nothing of work?!” Well… In one month here in Niger I have managed to find a place to live and to get a map of the country- well, only sort of. Things move slowly, and in addition to the general pace, everything closes in the afternoon for 2-4 hours, and even the smallest things are laden with bureaucracy. This means you have to pick and choose priorities, and hope that none are too pressing.
Part 1
Thinking that it would be helpful to my own research and to the NGO, I have been on a mission to locate a map of Niger noting roads and villages. The search began at a bookstore- an obvious start- and was almost completely shut down when the salesperson tried to convince me that laminated map devoid of detail was worth the $50 USD price tag. I had heard that the Geography Department at the University had some great maps (since they have recently receiving funding from oil and mining companies) so I trekked across the Niger River to their campus one afternoon. After waiting several hours to speak with the department head, I followed him around the building for another few hours. We finally stopped in a research room full of drawers of maps. As he started pulling them out, I realized that there were way too detailed for my purposes, not to mention that I needed something to take with me. These maps obviously lived in this room and had for a long time. With my blood sugar starting to plummet, we found some tape and laid out the maps to piece together the region of Niamey. A critical piece was missing. Back to his office we went, where crawling on hands and knees he found the crumpled piece under his desk. “Voila!” he triumphantly waved the crumpled mass around. He let me know that I could come back to look at the maps whenever I wanted, but that he had a friend at the national geographic institute (IGNN) that might be able to create a map for me for a few dollars. So after two more days of waiting, I finally was able to give a list of the 100 villages where fistula patients have “been reintegrated” by the various non-profits in town. I have been promised that I will soon have a map with the villages labeled on it. We will see… No map yet…
Part 2
My new landlord, Rabiou, is a young educated guy who spent his formative years in Senegal, right across from the Peace Corps training center. Bonding over a common love for all things Senegalese, he offered to take me to Nigelec and SEEN, the electricity and water companies to get the services turned on. I was thrilled since Rabiou seems trustworthy and his father sits in the general assembly. I assumed that this meant that I would not experience the nightmare of others- I had heard of the necessary bribes, the verbal insults, and the weeks of waiting people experience trying to pays bills and get services. With only a few computers, most exchanges are recorded by hand in legers, creating piles of paper everywhere. You wait to give one person money, someone else to glue a stamp to prove payment, and yet someone else to reprint your bill if (God forbid) you never got it or lost it or brought the wrong one. And although you can bend many rules here, the employees are surprising unyielding about their bureaucratic processes. I blame the French. My required waiting time was compounded by the fact that is Friday and things close early, it is the end of the month, AND it is the end of the year. Everyone in Niamey was there trying to pay bills while the employees were trying to justify their books between shouting threats to turn off electricity. So in addition to those who follow directions and wait in enormous lines, there are also those (like myself and Rabiou) who spend enormous time and energy trying to circumvent the system. Feeling insulted if someone points for us to wait in line, we stand fast, demanding to see directors. They then send us back to the line. I was remarking to one gentleman we had been at this for two days, and he looked at me incredulously. Two weeks he had been coming!
To put services in my name, I needed the last bill, to prove that it had been paid, my passport, some money for a deposit, and my address. All of these items, other than the passport, are difficult to produce. You think the address is easy? Well, my address goes something like this: “The cream colored house with light blue doors next to the school around the corner from the pharmacy and the guy who sells gas cans.” There are no house numbers and since the water and electric meters are obviously numbered, you need the last bill. If you are unlucky, and the last resident has not paid it or someone has been using your tap between tenants to sell water to people, you are going to have a hefty bill in your lap in addition to the deposit. Luckily we spent part of the day driving around to retrieve bills and money from people so that I could start off on the right foot.
I have to admit that I completely relinquished control to Rabiou and followed him around- sitting when he told me to sit, signing paper he gave me to sign, and running after people he motioned for me to chase.
After 12 hours of waiting in lines, I have electricity and water in my new house and can officially move in. I think that the best comment on the experience was best put by one old man as he approached the exit of Nigelec. He turned to those of us waiting, raised his arms and eyes to the sky and proclaimed, “May there be electricity with Nigelec!” It seemed like as good a prayer as any.
Happy Tabaski, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Friday, December 29, 2006
Monday, December 25, 2006
Etran Finatawa & Me
In lieu of eggnog and mom's butter cookies, I spent last night eating meat on a stick and listening to Taureg music under the stars. My options for the evening were Poker & Porn night with the Peace Corps volunteers who have definitely been in country too long, or an evening out with three Fulani men that I had met in town. Although sure to disappoint some of you, I chose the latter. I had met Mohammed while house hunting and he is a young Fulani guy who dresses a bit like a rasta and actually knows Tamara, a girl from my Peace Corps group who served here in Niger before doing another tour in Senegal.
Mohammed walked me over to his house since it was time for the prayer and he wanted to change his clothes. He lives in the little grass hut village completely in the center of town that is comprised of mostly Fulani peoples who have been unable to survive in the countryside due to periods of drought and the price of millet. I pass by the little village almost daily and have wondered how and when I would be able to enter. The village at night is (to me) magical. I lose all sense of depth perception and start walking like a Lipizzaner horse. People speak quietly and are focused on what they are doing, and rationed light from gas lanterns peeks out from the walls of organic material. You can't tell what things are exactly, but there are fantastic shadows everywhere. We passed one hut and Mohammed pointed out that it was the local cinema- kids of all ages were sitting in chairs, pouring out into the path, all fixated on the tv screen inside the hut.
We met up with his cousin and brother and headed off to the Taureg Music Festival held on the other side of town. I wish I had brought my camera. It was incredible. There were many Taureg bands form all over the country, including Etran Finatawa whose CD you can get in the US. People were dressing in traditional garb, meaning that the men were cloaked in white and deep purple indigo robes, heads and mouths covered in dark turbans. Dancers brandished swords and other blades and swirled in the sand. One of the guitarists went by the name "Bob"- a tribute to his rastafarian phase, although last night he was covered head to toe in indigo cloth. So picture this- a intimidating goup of folk to the Western eye- a crowd of turbaned men with black eyes peeking above dark cloth. And one by one they pick up a cherry red electric guitar and rock the house. The bands were amazing. And in a predominantly Muslim country, surrounded by people who fit a physical sterotype that would sadly threaten most Americans, the musicians celebrated the advent of Christmas and every one wished for peace and unity among people of different cultures. Although family and friends were greatly missed (not to mention cinnamon buns), it was a very special Christmas Eve. I hope that your has been as memorable in other wonderful ways.
www.worldmusic.net/home/features/etran.html
Mohammed walked me over to his house since it was time for the prayer and he wanted to change his clothes. He lives in the little grass hut village completely in the center of town that is comprised of mostly Fulani peoples who have been unable to survive in the countryside due to periods of drought and the price of millet. I pass by the little village almost daily and have wondered how and when I would be able to enter. The village at night is (to me) magical. I lose all sense of depth perception and start walking like a Lipizzaner horse. People speak quietly and are focused on what they are doing, and rationed light from gas lanterns peeks out from the walls of organic material. You can't tell what things are exactly, but there are fantastic shadows everywhere. We passed one hut and Mohammed pointed out that it was the local cinema- kids of all ages were sitting in chairs, pouring out into the path, all fixated on the tv screen inside the hut.
We met up with his cousin and brother and headed off to the Taureg Music Festival held on the other side of town. I wish I had brought my camera. It was incredible. There were many Taureg bands form all over the country, including Etran Finatawa whose CD you can get in the US. People were dressing in traditional garb, meaning that the men were cloaked in white and deep purple indigo robes, heads and mouths covered in dark turbans. Dancers brandished swords and other blades and swirled in the sand. One of the guitarists went by the name "Bob"- a tribute to his rastafarian phase, although last night he was covered head to toe in indigo cloth. So picture this- a intimidating goup of folk to the Western eye- a crowd of turbaned men with black eyes peeking above dark cloth. And one by one they pick up a cherry red electric guitar and rock the house. The bands were amazing. And in a predominantly Muslim country, surrounded by people who fit a physical sterotype that would sadly threaten most Americans, the musicians celebrated the advent of Christmas and every one wished for peace and unity among people of different cultures. Although family and friends were greatly missed (not to mention cinnamon buns), it was a very special Christmas Eve. I hope that your has been as memorable in other wonderful ways.
www.worldmusic.net/home/features/etran.html
Friday, December 22, 2006
Happy Holidays!
It hardly feels like the Christmas season here, although I was reminded by a Nigerien Santa who accosted me on the street to come into his store. The mornings and evenings requiring sweatshirts and sweaters are slowly falling behind me, and I can feel the heat starting to arrive. I tried listening to Christmas carols on my iPod but that seemed even more depressing than anticipating the heat wave. There is a Tuareg Music Festival this weekend over the holiday and plenty of parties to go to with other Americans and Europeans. I even found grapefruit in the market, a personal marker of the holiday season since our house is always full of grapefruit for Christmas sent by grandma.
This New Years will arrive finding me in my new home here (Inshallah)- a 4 bedroom 3 bathroom house in a neighborhood called Recasement in the north of the city. It seems that Fulbright is all too happy to give you your check, but when it comes to support and housing in country, they are also happy to tell you that you are on your own. Complaining to family at home about the housing situation, I was reminded of my first introduction to village life seven years ago- those lonely days after my heart sank watching the Peace Corps vehicle drive away. I thought the entire thing a bit cruel. Those first few days I pantomimed my way through life not understanding a damn thing and sharing a room with my 3 teenage host brothers. I would wake up on the floor mattress, looking up at them while they stared down at me from folding chairs. At least someone was making sure that I was breathing. I bumbled through this until I realized that I was experiencing my first bout with amoebas. Not knowing where a toilet was or how to ask for it, I was forced to mime to my host family that I had just puked all over their room.
So getting settled in Niamey should have been a piece of cake. I have money to do things, I have knowledge of a language and a culture, and after all, I am not sick. Think again. Housing is neither easy to find nor cheap in Niamey and although I will have a nice home for the 6 months I am here, it will more than likely only ever be furnished with some mats and a couple beds. My new house faces onto a school courtyard and the little huts that serve as classrooms. Around the corner is a small market and little shops. I am also not that far away from Dimol where (eventually) I will be working. So although this landing has been better than the village one years ago, it has also been marked by vomiting in other people’s houses. In an effort to save money, I chose the cheaper option for malaria prophylaxis and supplied myself with 6 months worth of doxycycline. In just 2 weeks, the doxy has wreaked havoc on my digestive tact. If anything, this bout has solved the mystery of the bidet for me, although proper usage of which continues to escape me. I mean, exactly how are you supposed to mount that thing?
Until the house is ready I am staying with a third year Peace Corps volunteer in her house and entertaining the other volunteers who are passing through for the holiday. A visit to a French doctor has me back in working order although he confirmed for me yet again that I speak French with not only an African accent, but a very Fulani one. Jennifer, the other Fulbright, has taken to identifying Fulani in town by the same accent, since she says that they speak like I do- “ a very bizarre, but understandable patois.”
I am afraid that my adventures this time have consisted mostly of house hunting and bathroom humor, although I am sure that there will be more to come. I wish you all a very happy and healthy holiday season.
This New Years will arrive finding me in my new home here (Inshallah)- a 4 bedroom 3 bathroom house in a neighborhood called Recasement in the north of the city. It seems that Fulbright is all too happy to give you your check, but when it comes to support and housing in country, they are also happy to tell you that you are on your own. Complaining to family at home about the housing situation, I was reminded of my first introduction to village life seven years ago- those lonely days after my heart sank watching the Peace Corps vehicle drive away. I thought the entire thing a bit cruel. Those first few days I pantomimed my way through life not understanding a damn thing and sharing a room with my 3 teenage host brothers. I would wake up on the floor mattress, looking up at them while they stared down at me from folding chairs. At least someone was making sure that I was breathing. I bumbled through this until I realized that I was experiencing my first bout with amoebas. Not knowing where a toilet was or how to ask for it, I was forced to mime to my host family that I had just puked all over their room.
So getting settled in Niamey should have been a piece of cake. I have money to do things, I have knowledge of a language and a culture, and after all, I am not sick. Think again. Housing is neither easy to find nor cheap in Niamey and although I will have a nice home for the 6 months I am here, it will more than likely only ever be furnished with some mats and a couple beds. My new house faces onto a school courtyard and the little huts that serve as classrooms. Around the corner is a small market and little shops. I am also not that far away from Dimol where (eventually) I will be working. So although this landing has been better than the village one years ago, it has also been marked by vomiting in other people’s houses. In an effort to save money, I chose the cheaper option for malaria prophylaxis and supplied myself with 6 months worth of doxycycline. In just 2 weeks, the doxy has wreaked havoc on my digestive tact. If anything, this bout has solved the mystery of the bidet for me, although proper usage of which continues to escape me. I mean, exactly how are you supposed to mount that thing?
Until the house is ready I am staying with a third year Peace Corps volunteer in her house and entertaining the other volunteers who are passing through for the holiday. A visit to a French doctor has me back in working order although he confirmed for me yet again that I speak French with not only an African accent, but a very Fulani one. Jennifer, the other Fulbright, has taken to identifying Fulani in town by the same accent, since she says that they speak like I do- “ a very bizarre, but understandable patois.”
I am afraid that my adventures this time have consisted mostly of house hunting and bathroom humor, although I am sure that there will be more to come. I wish you all a very happy and healthy holiday season.
Happy Holidays!
It hardly feels like the Christmas season here, although I was reminded by a Nigerien Santa who accosted me on the street to come into his store. The mornings and evenings requiring sweatshirts and sweaters are slowly falling behind me, and I can feel the heat starting to arrive. I tried listening to Christmas carols on my iPod but that seemed even more depressing than anticipating the heat wave. There is a Tuareg Music Festival this weekend over the holiday and plenty of parties to go to with other Americans and Europeans. I even found grapefruit in the market, a personal marker of the holiday season since our house is always full of grapefruit for Christmas sent by grandma.
This New Years will arrive finding me in my new home here (Inshallah)- a 4 bedroom 3 bathroom house in a neighborhood called Recasement in the north of the city. It seems that Fulbright is all too happy to give you your check, but when it comes to support and housing in country, they are also happy to tell you that you are on your own. Complaining to family at home about the housing situation, I was reminded of my first introduction to village life seven years ago- those lonely days after my heart sank watching the Peace Corps vehicle drive away. I thought the entire thing a bit cruel. Those first few days I pantomimed my way through life not understanding a damn thing and sharing a room with my 3 teenage host brothers. I would wake up on the floor mattress, looking up at them while they stared down at me from folding chairs. At least someone was making sure that I was breathing. I bumbled through this until I realized that I was experiencing my first bout with amoebas. Not knowing where a toilet was or how to ask for it, I was forced to mime to my host family that I had just puked all over their room.
So getting settled in Niamey should have been a piece of cake. I have money to do things, I have knowledge of a language and a culture, and after all, I am not sick. Think again. Housing is neither easy to find nor cheap in Niamey and although I will have a nice home for the 6 months I am here, it will more than likely only ever be furnished with some mats and a couple beds. My new house faces onto a school courtyard and the little huts that serve as classrooms. Around the corner is a small market and little shops. I am also not that far away from Dimol where (eventually) I will be working. So although this landing has been better than the village one years ago, it has also been marked by vomiting in other people’s houses. In an effort to save money, I chose the cheaper option for malaria prophylaxis and supplied myself with 6 months worth of doxycycline. In just 2 weeks, the doxy has wreaked havoc on my digestive tact. If anything, this bout has solved the mystery of the bidet for me, although proper usage of which continues to escape me. I mean, exactly how are you supposed to mount that thing?
Until the house is ready I am staying with a third year Peace Corps volunteer in her house and entertaining the other volunteers who are passing through for the holiday. A visit to a French doctor has me back in working order although he confirmed for me yet again that I speak French with not only an African accent, but a very Fulani one. Jennifer, the other Fulbright, has taken to identifying Fulani in town by the same accent, since she says that they speak like I do- “ a very bizarre, but understandable patois.”
I am afraid that my adventures this time have consisted mostly of house hunting and bathroom humor, although I am sure that there will be more to come. I wish you all a very happy and healthy holiday season.
This New Years will arrive finding me in my new home here (Inshallah)- a 4 bedroom 3 bathroom house in a neighborhood called Recasement in the north of the city. It seems that Fulbright is all too happy to give you your check, but when it comes to support and housing in country, they are also happy to tell you that you are on your own. Complaining to family at home about the housing situation, I was reminded of my first introduction to village life seven years ago- those lonely days after my heart sank watching the Peace Corps vehicle drive away. I thought the entire thing a bit cruel. Those first few days I pantomimed my way through life not understanding a damn thing and sharing a room with my 3 teenage host brothers. I would wake up on the floor mattress, looking up at them while they stared down at me from folding chairs. At least someone was making sure that I was breathing. I bumbled through this until I realized that I was experiencing my first bout with amoebas. Not knowing where a toilet was or how to ask for it, I was forced to mime to my host family that I had just puked all over their room.
So getting settled in Niamey should have been a piece of cake. I have money to do things, I have knowledge of a language and a culture, and after all, I am not sick. Think again. Housing is neither easy to find nor cheap in Niamey and although I will have a nice home for the 6 months I am here, it will more than likely only ever be furnished with some mats and a couple beds. My new house faces onto a school courtyard and the little huts that serve as classrooms. Around the corner is a small market and little shops. I am also not that far away from Dimol where (eventually) I will be working. So although this landing has been better than the village one years ago, it has also been marked by vomiting in other people’s houses. In an effort to save money, I chose the cheaper option for malaria prophylaxis and supplied myself with 6 months worth of doxycycline. In just 2 weeks, the doxy has wreaked havoc on my digestive tact. If anything, this bout has solved the mystery of the bidet for me, although proper usage of which continues to escape me. I mean, exactly how are you supposed to mount that thing?
Until the house is ready I am staying with a third year Peace Corps volunteer in her house and entertaining the other volunteers who are passing through for the holiday. A visit to a French doctor has me back in working order although he confirmed for me yet again that I speak French with not only an African accent, but a very Fulani one. Jennifer, the other Fulbright, has taken to identifying Fulani in town by the same accent, since she says that they speak like I do- “ a very bizarre, but understandable patois.”
I am afraid that my adventures this time have consisted mostly of house hunting and bathroom humor, although I am sure that there will be more to come. I wish you all a very happy and healthy holiday season.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Sucker
I think that it has to be written on my forehead. Like a sign to anyone who didn't interpret my white skin as the sign of a foreigner, the word "sucker" must be there somewhere, setting the tone for interactions. Trying to negotiate this city to find a house has so far been an adventure I care not to repeat. Somehow I have made it this far in life never having to look for housing and negotiate contracts with landlords on my own. I have always moved in with friends or looked for housing with a group of people. And so here I am- on my own, and going it solo for the first time in French- a language where I understand approximately 70% of what people say to me on a good day. And so enter the lisping landlord that speaks French like he is shooting off rocket missiles. Unfortunately for me, the legal affiars between landlords and tenants are best realized when both parties understand the minutia. Not being armed with the 2 required conditions for good bargaining in Niger-- (1) the conviction to walk away and face the tiring process all over again; (2) the knowledge of the general going price for things-- I am fully at the mercy of the middle men and the proprietor. It leaves me frustrated and with the question, just where on the I'm-Getting-Screwed Spectrum am I?
It is certainly not a question of if, but how badly am I being worked over. In order to find a house to rent here, you go through middlemen. Most of your interactions are with them, and they then speak to the proprietor on your behalf. In the meantime, everyone is trying to make a buck. Seems that I have fallen in love with a house (eliminating condition #1 for good bargaining) and am being lied to by the middle men. It doesn't help that the middle men talk amongst themselves in Hausa and then look at me and address their next plan of attack in French. Frustrated with my lack of vocabulary, I have to stop them from time to time and repeat back what I have understood. Basically, this process just continues to reinforce for them that I am clueless. I am trying (much to their dismay) get the contact information for the proprietor so that we can speak directly, although with that incredible lisp...Hopefully, the house will work out. If not, c'est la vie- or certainly a part of it living here in Niamey. I am learning though, as my new favorite phrase in French is Il est con- he is a dickhead.
It is certainly not a question of if, but how badly am I being worked over. In order to find a house to rent here, you go through middlemen. Most of your interactions are with them, and they then speak to the proprietor on your behalf. In the meantime, everyone is trying to make a buck. Seems that I have fallen in love with a house (eliminating condition #1 for good bargaining) and am being lied to by the middle men. It doesn't help that the middle men talk amongst themselves in Hausa and then look at me and address their next plan of attack in French. Frustrated with my lack of vocabulary, I have to stop them from time to time and repeat back what I have understood. Basically, this process just continues to reinforce for them that I am clueless. I am trying (much to their dismay) get the contact information for the proprietor so that we can speak directly, although with that incredible lisp...Hopefully, the house will work out. If not, c'est la vie- or certainly a part of it living here in Niamey. I am learning though, as my new favorite phrase in French is Il est con- he is a dickhead.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Cash Money
The girls that filed into the office yesterday were incredibly young looking- 15 years old maybe? They were on their way back to their villages after receiving repair surgery. One had a fever and could barely make her thumbprint on the paper to show receipt of the 50,000cfa (approx 100USD) that she was recieving. It is an incredible about of money for a young woman, particularly in the village. The envelopes were comprised of 5 notes of 10,000cfa. One girl had never seen a 10,000cfa note before- she had no idea what it was when shown to her-- and now she had 5 in her hand. The money is intended to help with the reintegration and she can spend it however she pleases- sheep, goats, soap, food. As of yet there has been no tracking or evaluation of this. No one seems to know how they spend the money exactly. The cynical voice in me wonders how long it takes for her husband or father to receive the funds and spend on new clothes for the family for Tabaski, one of the largest annual holidays coming up in a few weeks. But maybe not too- people are full of surprises.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Safety & Security
Receiving ample instructions on how to have a safe stay here in Niger, I feel that it is time to share some of these gems and let you know that your tax dollars are working hard to keep me safe and secure above all else.
According to the Embassy, I should never get into a taxi cab. One would then think that the other remaining options would be acceptable since Niamey is a rather large city- in fact, the Economist has said that it the fastest growing city in the world. This leaves the moped, bicycle, donkey cart, camel as possible vehicles to negotiate the dusty town. These however are not certified, deemed dangerous and therefore acceptable. It seems that one is left to walk from place to place. Distances can be a bit long, and although the weather is rather cool now, things are about to heat up drastically. I suppose that I should think of walking as the sole bit of exercise I am doing other than the daily mandible workout, although walking is in fact also discouraged. It is advised for all Americans to in fact have personal cars (and drivers preferably) and not to leave home unless absolutely necessary. One American wife has followed this advice to the letter and has not left her walled compound surrounded by razor wire in the 7 weeks she has been here. Is seems that “Safety & Security” is in fact defined as remaining as insular as possible.
I wanted to share a couple other gems from the lengthy packet of information on this topic that I received.
1) “Be alert and drive defensively. Vehicle damage is preferable to personal injury.” Um, at the expense of whose personal injury?
2)“In certain situations your own vehicle can be used as a 300lb weapon. Most people will get out of the way of a fast moving vehicle. No matter what the outcome, do not stop your vehicle until you have cleared the scene.”
From previous experiences I knew to pack many zip lock bags in various sizes- they help keep the dust out of electronics among other uses. But this next little gem brought new meaning to "sëaling freshness."
3)“Stock a supply of zip lock bags. In the event that water services fail, plastic bags can be used as an emergency toilet.”
Thank goodness I brought the 2.5 gallon bags!
Niamey has been great and I am getting adjusted to things. It is a bit dusty (as to be expected) and seeing camels saunter down the avenues has been a daily occurance. So far I spend most of my days running around the city trying to meet up with people who have promised to help me find housing, or embarking on a small adventure into the Grande Marche to find a pumice stone for my poor feet. I have been to the National Hospital to observe the surgeries and also am starting to spend some time at Dimol where a hot airless room has become my office. The Pulaar is coming in handy, and just as I start to get frustrated with my poor (absurdly infantile) French, I run into someone who speaks Fulani. The dialects are close enough so that although the wording may be different, we are totally understood. It is exciting, since at times of feeling overwhelmed and inadequate, I am reminded that I actually have this tucked away in my pocket for use. Not having time to really buy fabric and go to a tailor, I have be sporting my three Senegalese outfits around town. Everytime, I am met with ÿour shirt's too big!"- seems that to have your shirt fall off one shoulder was all the rage a few years ago in Dakar, but here in Niamey it is so 1999---I look like the poor anasara who has once again failed in an attempt to blend in. A trip to the tailor will do me, and I will soon be putting the much adored teal fabric printed with guinea-foul in the hands of a tailor for a pants outfit. I have tried to upload some photos, but have failed so far. Hopefully I can work that out soon!
According to the Embassy, I should never get into a taxi cab. One would then think that the other remaining options would be acceptable since Niamey is a rather large city- in fact, the Economist has said that it the fastest growing city in the world. This leaves the moped, bicycle, donkey cart, camel as possible vehicles to negotiate the dusty town. These however are not certified, deemed dangerous and therefore acceptable. It seems that one is left to walk from place to place. Distances can be a bit long, and although the weather is rather cool now, things are about to heat up drastically. I suppose that I should think of walking as the sole bit of exercise I am doing other than the daily mandible workout, although walking is in fact also discouraged. It is advised for all Americans to in fact have personal cars (and drivers preferably) and not to leave home unless absolutely necessary. One American wife has followed this advice to the letter and has not left her walled compound surrounded by razor wire in the 7 weeks she has been here. Is seems that “Safety & Security” is in fact defined as remaining as insular as possible.
I wanted to share a couple other gems from the lengthy packet of information on this topic that I received.
1) “Be alert and drive defensively. Vehicle damage is preferable to personal injury.” Um, at the expense of whose personal injury?
2)“In certain situations your own vehicle can be used as a 300lb weapon. Most people will get out of the way of a fast moving vehicle. No matter what the outcome, do not stop your vehicle until you have cleared the scene.”
From previous experiences I knew to pack many zip lock bags in various sizes- they help keep the dust out of electronics among other uses. But this next little gem brought new meaning to "sëaling freshness."
3)“Stock a supply of zip lock bags. In the event that water services fail, plastic bags can be used as an emergency toilet.”
Thank goodness I brought the 2.5 gallon bags!
Niamey has been great and I am getting adjusted to things. It is a bit dusty (as to be expected) and seeing camels saunter down the avenues has been a daily occurance. So far I spend most of my days running around the city trying to meet up with people who have promised to help me find housing, or embarking on a small adventure into the Grande Marche to find a pumice stone for my poor feet. I have been to the National Hospital to observe the surgeries and also am starting to spend some time at Dimol where a hot airless room has become my office. The Pulaar is coming in handy, and just as I start to get frustrated with my poor (absurdly infantile) French, I run into someone who speaks Fulani. The dialects are close enough so that although the wording may be different, we are totally understood. It is exciting, since at times of feeling overwhelmed and inadequate, I am reminded that I actually have this tucked away in my pocket for use. Not having time to really buy fabric and go to a tailor, I have be sporting my three Senegalese outfits around town. Everytime, I am met with ÿour shirt's too big!"- seems that to have your shirt fall off one shoulder was all the rage a few years ago in Dakar, but here in Niamey it is so 1999---I look like the poor anasara who has once again failed in an attempt to blend in. A trip to the tailor will do me, and I will soon be putting the much adored teal fabric printed with guinea-foul in the hands of a tailor for a pants outfit. I have tried to upload some photos, but have failed so far. Hopefully I can work that out soon!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Bon Voyage
Or, Bongarage, as I have heard here in ol' Bawlmer.Posts will appear once I get to Niamey! Hope that you all have a very happy Thanksgiving!
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