Mon amie

A young girl that I see frequently in my comings and goings about town had a difficult question for me today. I don’t know her name, but we always greet each other with smiles and “salut, mon amie!” She works in one of the telecenters, privately owned phones available for public use. As cell phones have become more and more prevelant, telecenters are harder and harder to find along the streets. But you can call anywhere for a nice price, all recorded through units you watch tick by as you talk. This telecenter in particular is the one I use to call home, since the units tick by at a pace slower than the usual $3/minute.

She has met all my visitors at some time or another as we have all been in there to call home, and she has sat quietly and watched me cry as I work through moments of homesickness. Today, after I made a call home, she looked up at me from behind her desk and said, “Mon amie, I have so much shame, but I must ask you a question.” I was a bit puzzled- what could she possibly want to ask? I prepared myself for a request for money. Instead, she told me that her sister is pregnant and at a loss for what to do. She is terrified to have the child, but does not know where to go and to whom to turn. Did I know anything or anyone who could help? It was the last thing that I expected her to say, and I actually was at a loss on how to respond. My mind flashed back to the marketplace in Agadez where I had pointed out to Chris some blue powder that brightens laundry that women in Senegal used to drink to abort fetuses. It was also known to kill the desperate woman who drank it. I told her that I would think about it and get back to her.

Having a child here out of wedlock would be a disaster. The child is sure to be treated badly and to have few opportunities in life, and the mother has no chance at marriage and therefore no future financial and social security. Neither one has a chance.

I didn’t even know who to ask. Abortion is illegal here, and even the private French clinic that treats individuals like myself will not perform them. I thought of several Nigerien friends here to ask, but I quickly realized that they would also express religious views that would condemn the very question. Even the President of an organization with the tagline “Maternity without Risk” replied, “It is so delicate. I cannot ask anyone since they will then talk and say that the organization promotes abortion.”

But abortions are one of the main causes of maternal mortality worldwide. If she is desperate enough, she will seek out a traditional healer who may give her something to drink that could make her very ill and possibly kill her. She may decide to have the baby and live the rest of her life in the streets. Or she may hide somewhere for the remaining few months and dispose of the child in the sewers. It seems that these are her options.

The abortion debate is certainly one that we are familiar with in the US, but here, in my mind, there is nothing to debate. Policy threatens women’s right to choose in the US, but not the same way that poverty, conservative religious views, and a complete lack of social services have condemned her now no matter what she chooses. Neither she nor the potential child have anywhere to turn, and I too am at a loss.

Ça chauffe ici!

My first few days back in Niamey have been punctuated by tears of homesickness and cold showers to try to ward off the heat. The weather has successfully reached candle-melting and battery-exploding hot. It is the type of heat where a fan actually makes things worse, blowing the scorching air directly onto you. Walking around the neighborhood in the evenings and having friends over for tea and music has lifted my spirits some, and I have been reminded of how much I love the village feel of the neighborhood. There are huts just outside my door; I regularly see donkeys, camels and other livestock in the pathways; and everyone prefers to sit, socialize and even sleep outside. It is a far cry from the neighborhood not far away where all you see in the street are the uniformed guards sitting outside high walls covered in bougainvillea. Most nights there is drumming and dancing happening a few houses over and I love how the sound floats in the air.

In a place where aspects of life have not changed for decades, it seems however, that during my two week absence a lot has happened. University students across the river are protesting and have clashed with police. Their learning environment and living conditions there are a disgrace and this outcry is unfortunately not the first one to be met with police violence. In addition, there was a bus accident and several people died. A fire also consumed all the huts in the poor neighborhood where my friend Mohammed lives. Mohammed’s hut and only a couple others are still standing. Aria, my guardian, is ill and although he claims dramatically that the ills of the world have attacked his heart, I guess from the cycling fevers that he also has malaria. I left the house this morning to buy him some medicine and came across a massive crowd in the middle of the street. Someone in the center was being beaten by flip-flops, sticks, and tree branches. I assumed that it was a thief as unfortunately that is what happens to people who steal around here. Instead, I was surprised to learn that it was a man who had stolen the sex of someone else. This was making sense to everyone but me. Evidently, if you touch him, your sex then disappears. In order to get it back you need to beat him. The most obvious explanation for sexual dysfunction, naturally… Children were playing with the crowd, running toward the mass, and then as the crowd of people pushed toward them, they screamed laughing and ran away, only to turn and run back toward the crowd again. I could see from where I had positioned myself that the man in the center was bleeding. Taxis were honking to try to break through the crowd and take their clients to the market. I felt helpless. Some onlookers were alarmed, but many expressed amusement. Not knowing where this was to end, I decided that it was best for me to leave. There’s no 911 service to call after all. This was the justice system.

These are the types of things that I hesitate to share lest they just propagate stereotypes of Africa, but they are also a serious reality. And this is not Africa the vast continent- this is Niger, a small part. Many people here live on the edge- of hunger, of abject poverty and of reason. So whether it is the smothering weather or not, things are certainly heating up around here. I plan to lay low and stay cool.

oh la la!

A week in Paris was just what the doctor ordered! The daily dose of hot baths has almost removed the layers of dirt that I rapidly accumulated months previous, and the fantastic rate of pastery and cheese intake has threatened to create the round figure that people here in Niamey so admire. We walked ourselves into sore muscles, knees and feet in a week in the city trying to take in the beautiful weather and admire the architecture and everything that Paris has to offer (and more pasteries and more cheese). I returned to Niamey to find that the "blow-dryer-in-the-face" weather has arrived in my absence. Getting off the plane, a blast of hot sandy wind scorched open my pores in a proper welcome. Chris was super lucky to have missed this part... I should be leaving the first week in June, hopefully before the rains and the open sewers flood the neighborhood...

We're Engaged!

Chris has been here in Niger for a couple weeks, and on our recent trip to Agadez and from there to the oasis village of Timia, we got engaged. Our time together has been great- filled with nights on dunes, canoe rides looking for hippos, spotting wild giraffes, not to mention the memorable trip to Timia. Love and miss you all.