I can't believe that I have had a full house for almost a week! It has been fantastic, and in addition to the house guests, chez moi has become the official hang-out for half of Niamey. Friends have taken to stopping by in the evening, pulling out a plastic mat and making tea for themselves on the terrace. I hear the comings and goings, and the radio will suddenly blast and I know that Mohammed has arrived to test out the latest CD. My absolute favorite of which is "Grippe Aviare"- a musical delight from the Ivory Coast called "Bird Flu." I am still trying to get my hands on the video, in which people are shown eating chicken and then suddenly break out into what we know in the States as the wedding chicken-dance. Aria has started stocking a small bar in his guardian room- pastis, gin, wine, etc. People bring over their preferred indulgences and Aria discreetly tucks it all away in his room and then regulates. Although he can also be an instigator, I am finding out...
Hisham has been staying with us for one week before heading up to Agadez. He is making his second documentary about Nigerien music and you can learn about his work at www.sublimefrequencies.com. We have all had a wonderful time together, sharing friends, contacts, and supporting each other in our goals here. Mohammed arranged for a private Wodaabe concert for Hisham to film, and so I have posted some of those photos. Traditionally, the men paint their faces and the wear special clothing for an annual festival called the Gerewol. Once a year, the nomadic families gather, men dress up and perform, and the women choose their husbands from the line-up. But as more tourists come and as Nigeriens in general are interested in this aspect of their culture, dressing this way has become a sort of Wodaabe "shtick" and there are performances all around town. Wodaabe youth and getting involved and the songs and dance that might otherwise be lost are getting passed on.
And so we have had a full week- searching for traditional and modern music all over the streets of Niamey with Hisham, seeing giraffes and having the car break down, drinking tea (and Aria's stash) in the evening under the stars, and laughing and laughing. It is so incredible to be surrounded with such inspiring old and new friends. We are saving a chicken dance for you all...
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Wodaabe
Believe it or not, Parker and I ended up having our own private concert outside the city. It helps that we have become fast friends with a documentary film maker, and were able to use my Fulani connections here to put together a concert for him to film. We happily sat in the sand with the women and watched the men get ready and then sing and dance for hours. Bouncing babies on our knees and bemoaning the fact that no one was making us tea, we had an incredible day and are now professional "grips."
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Half a Woman
Finally! You are thinking from the title that I have written about the fistula patients- the women who have suffered so much and who have such inspiring stories to tell. I am very sorry to disappoint, but this posting is, yet again, about yours truly.
After trying to buck the system and live as a female alone in a house without a guard and a maid, I have buckled and hired staff. After a Lebanese acquaintance gave me a radio and threw 4 dead red roses over my gate in the middle of the night, I realized that a male presence in the compound would be a good one. I hired a Rastafarian Tuareg to pass the nights at the house. He has his own room and bathroom separate from the house, and within the gates to the outside. My safety is not in jeopardy (unless you find the primary students outside my gate threatening), although I decided that I did not like the thought of people stopping by without my knowledge- roses or not. And after all, providing jobs for people in one of the poorest countries on earth is not a minor contribution.
School is back in session though, and the number of kids running around outside the gate has multiplied exponentially. This does mean that am getting a little more attention than I would prefer first thing in the morning. The most threatening of which recently came from a primary school student taking a piss against the building. In the middle of relieving himself, he looked up to see me pass by. “Anasara [white person]! Hey, donne-moi cent franc!” Not yet done emptying his bladder he stood there blankly, not sure what came next, and I think half expected me to approach holding out money.
The Togolese woman who comes three times a week to remove the layers of sand and dust that have settled inside the house, has successfully questioned my womanhood. When she arrived for the first day, I had bought some cleaning supplies- things that I thought would be sufficient: buckets, soap, brooms, rags. Evidently, I have no clue how to clean a house here in Niger and she was appalled at the filth. I thought it was fine. Please, please buy the appropriate items, she pleaded. I must have glass cleaner, a brush and a mop. And don’t you want me to cook? What do you eat? As I handed over a meager pile of laundry, I sheepishly asked if maybe she could make fufu on Fridays… She has successfully shamed me however, and now I feel as if I need to clean the house before she arrives.
I have in fact been spending more and more time at Dimol and at the National Hospital in the fistula compound. It is very frustrating not being able to talk directly to people. There are a few Fulani patients there, and once we are able to share a couple greetings, the ice is broken, they smile, and they start removing bracelets to give me. It has been very frustrating- having once been able to talk to people and break some of those barriers immediately, I am now ever more that white mute foreigner waiting for someone to talk to. So instead of barging into a room spouting greetings and starting a conversation, I awkwardly stand by, try to look approachable and wait for someone that I can ask to help me approach someone to talk to. I watch the Peace Corps volunteers jealously- they move around so easily, and people are immediately less formal and open to talking with them. What is frustrating is that I remember how that feels. So I am doing my best- I learned a couple greetings in Zarma and Hausa and am always scoping the crowd for a Fulani speaker.
I have had a Canadian PhD student move in with me for 2 months to help defray the costs, and Holly comes next Wednesday for a couple weeks. So soon I will have a full house! Hopefully, this will help the neighbors out too- I can’t tell you how many times I have been approached in the street to be asked in a hushed voice if I intend to live in the house alone. With the comings and goings of my male Nigerien friends- Monsour, Mohammed, Sale, Moussa, Rabiou- I must look like one very busy and hard working Anasara lady. I assure the inquirers that my husband has permitted me only 6 months from home and that this time away is very hard for him to endure. So far, they seem to be satisfied with that response. And with Jennifer’s arrival, everyone seems to be more relieved…
After trying to buck the system and live as a female alone in a house without a guard and a maid, I have buckled and hired staff. After a Lebanese acquaintance gave me a radio and threw 4 dead red roses over my gate in the middle of the night, I realized that a male presence in the compound would be a good one. I hired a Rastafarian Tuareg to pass the nights at the house. He has his own room and bathroom separate from the house, and within the gates to the outside. My safety is not in jeopardy (unless you find the primary students outside my gate threatening), although I decided that I did not like the thought of people stopping by without my knowledge- roses or not. And after all, providing jobs for people in one of the poorest countries on earth is not a minor contribution.
School is back in session though, and the number of kids running around outside the gate has multiplied exponentially. This does mean that am getting a little more attention than I would prefer first thing in the morning. The most threatening of which recently came from a primary school student taking a piss against the building. In the middle of relieving himself, he looked up to see me pass by. “Anasara [white person]! Hey, donne-moi cent franc!” Not yet done emptying his bladder he stood there blankly, not sure what came next, and I think half expected me to approach holding out money.
The Togolese woman who comes three times a week to remove the layers of sand and dust that have settled inside the house, has successfully questioned my womanhood. When she arrived for the first day, I had bought some cleaning supplies- things that I thought would be sufficient: buckets, soap, brooms, rags. Evidently, I have no clue how to clean a house here in Niger and she was appalled at the filth. I thought it was fine. Please, please buy the appropriate items, she pleaded. I must have glass cleaner, a brush and a mop. And don’t you want me to cook? What do you eat? As I handed over a meager pile of laundry, I sheepishly asked if maybe she could make fufu on Fridays… She has successfully shamed me however, and now I feel as if I need to clean the house before she arrives.
I have in fact been spending more and more time at Dimol and at the National Hospital in the fistula compound. It is very frustrating not being able to talk directly to people. There are a few Fulani patients there, and once we are able to share a couple greetings, the ice is broken, they smile, and they start removing bracelets to give me. It has been very frustrating- having once been able to talk to people and break some of those barriers immediately, I am now ever more that white mute foreigner waiting for someone to talk to. So instead of barging into a room spouting greetings and starting a conversation, I awkwardly stand by, try to look approachable and wait for someone that I can ask to help me approach someone to talk to. I watch the Peace Corps volunteers jealously- they move around so easily, and people are immediately less formal and open to talking with them. What is frustrating is that I remember how that feels. So I am doing my best- I learned a couple greetings in Zarma and Hausa and am always scoping the crowd for a Fulani speaker.
I have had a Canadian PhD student move in with me for 2 months to help defray the costs, and Holly comes next Wednesday for a couple weeks. So soon I will have a full house! Hopefully, this will help the neighbors out too- I can’t tell you how many times I have been approached in the street to be asked in a hushed voice if I intend to live in the house alone. With the comings and goings of my male Nigerien friends- Monsour, Mohammed, Sale, Moussa, Rabiou- I must look like one very busy and hard working Anasara lady. I assure the inquirers that my husband has permitted me only 6 months from home and that this time away is very hard for him to endure. So far, they seem to be satisfied with that response. And with Jennifer’s arrival, everyone seems to be more relieved…
Monday, January 08, 2007
Paper or Plastic?
The dilemma: Is it better to buy a bed made of twigs in a desert country, or a plastic and metal bed that will be around long after this earth is inhabitable?
I actually have been debating this for some time, and it is a lose-lose situation. The twig beds are made south of here where there are trees and then brought in on gas guzzling trucks to be sold here in Niamey. Supposedly the twigs are harvested by licensed individuals from living trees and the entire process is closely regulated. Now, I am experienced enough to know that that is basically a pipe dream, but at least it is not a frame made form some large pieces of wood.
The other option is to buy a metal frame with woven plastic rope. Neither of these materials are going anywhere fast, and the vendors have assured me that no matter how much weight I gain, these sturdy beds and chairs will never break.
I chose the twig bed. At the very least I comforted myself in knowing that the twig furniture was made by a society of handicapped individuals. Thirty dollars later, Mohammed and I were faced with wondering how we were going to get the frame back to my house. I bought a double bed, and it must weigh as much as one tree. We sent someone off to find a cart to put it on while we dove into the market for a few more items. The last time I tried to do this myself, I was quoted prices 2 to 3 times more than the going price. For $4 the vendor was going to pull the bed on the cart and walk all the way to my house which is at least 2 miles from the market. As he walked off with my bed, I bought some plants for the house- aloe, mint, basil, and Moroccan strawberry, moringa, and papaya trees. We took off in a taxi to wait for my bed.
Over an hour later it arrived. I ran to buy Cokes to thank them both as they struggled to get the bed in the door.
When the vendor left, I slipped an extra $2 in his hand. He was so grateful that he grasped both my hands and promised that he was going to make me a table for my bed as a gift. And then he turned to pull the cart over 2 miles through traffic under the hot sun back to his road side store.
After the hard days work- and one omelette sandwich later- Mohammed passed out for a nap on the floor in front of my radio.
I actually have been debating this for some time, and it is a lose-lose situation. The twig beds are made south of here where there are trees and then brought in on gas guzzling trucks to be sold here in Niamey. Supposedly the twigs are harvested by licensed individuals from living trees and the entire process is closely regulated. Now, I am experienced enough to know that that is basically a pipe dream, but at least it is not a frame made form some large pieces of wood.
The other option is to buy a metal frame with woven plastic rope. Neither of these materials are going anywhere fast, and the vendors have assured me that no matter how much weight I gain, these sturdy beds and chairs will never break.
I chose the twig bed. At the very least I comforted myself in knowing that the twig furniture was made by a society of handicapped individuals. Thirty dollars later, Mohammed and I were faced with wondering how we were going to get the frame back to my house. I bought a double bed, and it must weigh as much as one tree. We sent someone off to find a cart to put it on while we dove into the market for a few more items. The last time I tried to do this myself, I was quoted prices 2 to 3 times more than the going price. For $4 the vendor was going to pull the bed on the cart and walk all the way to my house which is at least 2 miles from the market. As he walked off with my bed, I bought some plants for the house- aloe, mint, basil, and Moroccan strawberry, moringa, and papaya trees. We took off in a taxi to wait for my bed.
Over an hour later it arrived. I ran to buy Cokes to thank them both as they struggled to get the bed in the door.
When the vendor left, I slipped an extra $2 in his hand. He was so grateful that he grasped both my hands and promised that he was going to make me a table for my bed as a gift. And then he turned to pull the cart over 2 miles through traffic under the hot sun back to his road side store.
After the hard days work- and one omelette sandwich later- Mohammed passed out for a nap on the floor in front of my radio.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Niger Wildlife
There’s a cockroach in my closet. I know that it is better than a rat in the kitchen, but what cha gonna do? This guy is huge, he has claimed the space and refuses to make the acquaintance of my flip flop. I fear him touching any of my clothing so continue to live out of suitcases that are currently being used at the foot of my bed to stabilize my mosquito net over my foam mattress “bed.” For the moment it is like camping in an empty house.
This weekend was not only the New Year, but also Tabaski, the holiday that commemorates Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son. There were parties everywhere. Sunday morning I was gently awoken from sleep by the call to prayer. I wondered where the local mosque was and where people would be praying, since on the holidays seeing hundreds of people kneeling in reverence is fantastic. I did not think that opening my front door, I would find 8 rows of people the length of a soccer field kneeling in prayer facing me. At least I was in the right direction on the receiving end. I walked around the neighborhood knowing that people were going to be excited about the day and smartly dressed. After being harassed by some cheeky kid selling baguettes, I returned to the house with breakfast. An hour or so later, I exited the house again to find that a veritable slaughter had occurred outside my door. In Senegal, the sacrificing of the ram happens in the house and the meat is prepared to eat right away. Here, they have a slightly different way of going about it. Everyone gathers outside their doors, and the rams are sacrificed together in clusters on the street. The whole community is involved together in the skinning and preparation of the meat. Nothing is wasted and so as I walked around checking out everyone’s meat, I saw many a child standing on a pile of bile, excitedly shaking out the contents of the stomach. The meat is then slow cooked over a fire for 24 hours. It was nothing to see 20 carcasses around a small bonfire. Not the site for a vegetarian, but surely there is nothing closer to organic free range than the meat here. And it was delicious- at least for the first few days… With Christmas, New Years and Tabaski all clustered together, the already loose work ethic of Niger was further exacerbated. Although (I promise) I have been trying to work, things are bit hard when everything is closed for days on end. Having moved into the new house, I have water and electricity, but needed to get a gas can for my little stove top to prepare meals for myself. Unable to do so, I have survived the last few days on baguettes, protein bars, and half rancid meat. I am happy to report that I now have a functional stove top and am looking forward to that morning coffee.
I rang in the new year with some Dutch and Nigeriens. There was dancing to Celine Dion that got everyone so excited we formed a conga line on the porch. We sipped on cokes and lit sparklers to ring in the new year. And then the fireworks began. Sounding like gunshots, and usually being set off by a 5 year old, you are more likely than not to get hit by a bottle rocket. The kid sees the white person, is astonished to see you actually exist and not just in fairy tales, and forgets that they are holding a lit firecracker- pointed directly at you. I would not be surprised if most of the fireworks probably did not meet safety standards in some Western nation and have now been dumped here in Africa. After the holiday my nerves were completely frayed.
And so now for the cricket in my bathroom. He chirps so loudly that the echo is incredible. And the termites in my wall. And the toilet that runs continuously. Is this my introduction to home ownership?
Happy New Year!
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