tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-289302072024-02-20T21:04:20.913+01:0016°N and 8°Estories and musings of a veteran traveler embarking on a new journeyStephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-60508919199378814702007-05-30T09:29:00.000+01:002007-05-30T10:01:04.655+01:00A final lesson in geting things doneOn Monday I was misled. Duped. I thought for a brief moment in time that I would be able to sail though the Nigerien bureaucracy and exit the country without a hitch. I awoke early on Monday and full of anxiety- I was headed to the water and electric companies to turn off services and pay bills. Something akin to an elementary school teacher on her first day of school, you cannot let them sense your fear. I channeled Senegal- a place much more aggressive and where respect is gained though the fight. I pushed ahead of the already forming crowds and thrust my documents in the line of sight of those behind desks. I lied- I said that I was leaving the next day. Told to come back the next day, I left the building and got in the car with the electrical technicians, forcing them to my house before they went anywhere else. In amazing efficiency, I had the water and electricity turned off and the last bills paid by 10:30 in the morning. What is left is just to get back the deposits I put down, totaling about $50.<br /><br />So being that today is already Wednesday and still no deposits, I am beginning to ask myself just what is $50 worth to me at this point? I have developed a cold and have all but lost my voice. Trying to use this to my advantage as either the "pathetic sick Anasara who suffers so much" or the "sexy mysterious gravel voiced Anasara" has not advanced things. I have sat and waited, read a book, returned each day, and watched numerous Nigeriens attempt to bribe officials. The officials glance up at me and refuse the bribe, but what they don't know is that I am watching closely how much it costs to get things done and recalculating my possible losses.<br /><br />How can this take so long? One guy stamps, another fills out forms, yet another signs, someone has to locate the carbon copy from December, get the bill printed, wait in more lines. It is beautifully ineffective, and I am running out of books.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-50420448537255427372007-05-24T11:17:00.000+01:002007-05-24T12:29:29.025+01:00sprint to the finishI remember how as my two years in Senegal came to end I was surprised by many people. many of whom I considered friends throughout my stay disappointed in the end, and others whom I spent the two years avoiding brought me to tears with their kindness. It seems that this exit is going to be a similar one in which true colors shine through. With just over one week left here in Niger, I am frantically running around and tying up odd ends with regard to research, the house, moving, and trying to see friends. Having a house has allowed me to host a record number of guests from the States, the grand total now at 7. It has been an incredible expense though and a huge pain in the ass at times. My landlord appeared a few days ago to remind me that I was responsible for painting the house before leaving, which he felt was going to cost me approximately $500. He was willing to cut me a deal however and suggested I give him two-thirds cash and let him handle it. I stormed off in a huff and got my own estimate for $130. Then he suggested that we add the estimates together, divide in two, and I pay that sum. What?! A three day battle ensued, but I ultimatately was victorious with the help of 2 Nigerien reinforcements and 3 Americans.<br /><br />I plan to pack up and move out this weekend, and will be starting my own personal reintegration training staying next week with a friend who has air conditioning and cable tv.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-5669225252119166692007-05-16T15:00:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:16.482+01:00Some faces in places<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEZplPL8mdYG1rEsToE4F47r4bO1-RseX6C56WwC6MmuQOyB7gw32MnOtg2jPagVa-C8uBl_f0x25M2UKRZ2BXIJJ9eJhDTBsrZnug8IvECQcJBqrUEUufY6wu_zyFvqJ7nUr/s1600-h/CIMG1526.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEZplPL8mdYG1rEsToE4F47r4bO1-RseX6C56WwC6MmuQOyB7gw32MnOtg2jPagVa-C8uBl_f0x25M2UKRZ2BXIJJ9eJhDTBsrZnug8IvECQcJBqrUEUufY6wu_zyFvqJ7nUr/s200/CIMG1526.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065158999589615666" /></a> A Fulani girl from the Torodi region on market day<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnbJN2CDyKNpj1YDiV00P8_B4-TiyfQMnaLxj0A0hw4QMDkyEiXe4QpdSK4w7elh35UtRNlwo2hIquY3E0MRZbfIH-GRj554HrjFYOWoxM2CLqrs7wSVaoPyWT-08HysrKM7F/s1600-h/CIMG1540.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnbJN2CDyKNpj1YDiV00P8_B4-TiyfQMnaLxj0A0hw4QMDkyEiXe4QpdSK4w7elh35UtRNlwo2hIquY3E0MRZbfIH-GRj554HrjFYOWoxM2CLqrs7wSVaoPyWT-08HysrKM7F/s200/CIMG1540.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065159897237780546" /></a><br />Hourera and her daughter Jeynoba escaping from the heat at my house<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73kU4ksVQOoNztUjdsBHa8X4CX_ofYvK-C7Voz8fLAVQYoifXkkep_aA5S46ZbxehcS0btxVmdK9WxW84gWgf3uuiQwmbbMU9zjtuK0AAfCxMATK1efHFFeafl1gtCWN16z3k/s1600-h/CIMG1566.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73kU4ksVQOoNztUjdsBHa8X4CX_ofYvK-C7Voz8fLAVQYoifXkkep_aA5S46ZbxehcS0btxVmdK9WxW84gWgf3uuiQwmbbMU9zjtuK0AAfCxMATK1efHFFeafl1gtCWN16z3k/s200/CIMG1566.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065161142778296402" /></a><br />Bella Women of AyerouStephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-87363666325978046812007-05-16T14:28:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:17.166+01:00Hippos Go Berzerk<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdPq7jggt_HJVmTEhenAlpURlk04FwNCq0OewV4RRUd5RuqMcvYkDDnKM24TctXiSclfJ88-y37P3vSVmkdn6_r6LZczcLxG7Y4odJr09h-CyAfdD966qQxOf5RjtHnsvN-Cz/s1600-h/CIMG1560.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdPq7jggt_HJVmTEhenAlpURlk04FwNCq0OewV4RRUd5RuqMcvYkDDnKM24TctXiSclfJ88-y37P3vSVmkdn6_r6LZczcLxG7Y4odJr09h-CyAfdD966qQxOf5RjtHnsvN-Cz/s200/CIMG1560.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065156873580804114" /></a><br />Mom reminded me recently that when I was little, my favorite book was one called Hippos Go Berzerk which I refered to as Hippos Do the Zerk. Well Ma, I finally saw them zerk-ing in full form. Leigh and Brian and I went to the border town of Ayerou last weekend to catch a colorful market and to see the growing hippo population. Ayerou marks the ancient crossroads of Niger, Mali and Burkina Faso. We took a dugout canoe downstream in the evening and saw about 30 hippos wallowing in the shallow parts of the river. They were incredible- calling to each other, yawning, and actually brawling right there infront of us. The locals have lived with the powerful beasts for ages and know each one and their personalities. They look like rocks until you see their little ears twitching above the waterline.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnjNk2sEyZpUwr5GsoYKaFTRGJ4O5XJEtP9ZBj7BEP3GQIihGbuh7lpFA2t-2L7UhTW4-1O087lVkeENOoLNsZayRNc5X741yocq-qgeF-jR0CD6mLdJWmWTiCufCUW0Vn297E/s1600-h/CIMG1564.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnjNk2sEyZpUwr5GsoYKaFTRGJ4O5XJEtP9ZBj7BEP3GQIihGbuh7lpFA2t-2L7UhTW4-1O087lVkeENOoLNsZayRNc5X741yocq-qgeF-jR0CD6mLdJWmWTiCufCUW0Vn297E/s200/CIMG1564.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065157827063543842" /></a><br />That night we camped out on the roof of the local 'hotel' along the banks of the river. We wanted to get a good spot to see the herds of cows swim across in the morning for the market, not to mention to maximize the night breeze. Unfortunately we also had not much of a choice- the hotel managers had decided to paint every single room of the hotel that day and they were not ready for guests. Poor Leigh had to then be further tortured by looking at the air conditioning units in the rooms, not being able to benefit from any of them. Buckets of river water were collected for our baths and we climbed over a tall wall to get to the stony roof where our mats were spread out. We discovered that the spot had been claimed at sundown by some local lovers and with complete indignance, the three of us kicked them off our roof before settling in for the night. It has been great to have Lu here to share in the experiences, although I am sure that this hotel one was one she could have done without. I keep having to remind her that there are no vicious beasts here that will go bump in the night. I think that both she and I are a little surprised at how vividly Gabon has entered her blood memory.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtk90kFRRAe15th6KNHuNErxiCcSXE-y9uWj7uTY-hyB2osSVTL4Nq8XU4Gsp2B51d43I_vk_B7URVQjaecCgrN8Fa6OMGxy_I1dmCD36lEddPpgscn8TXnMeMLcQwALFCU2i/s1600-h/CIMG1579.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtk90kFRRAe15th6KNHuNErxiCcSXE-y9uWj7uTY-hyB2osSVTL4Nq8XU4Gsp2B51d43I_vk_B7URVQjaecCgrN8Fa6OMGxy_I1dmCD36lEddPpgscn8TXnMeMLcQwALFCU2i/s200/CIMG1579.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065155469126498306" /></a>Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-52334830683164951412007-05-08T13:27:00.000+01:002007-05-08T13:34:05.059+01:00Top 10 Things That I Will miss about Niger1. men still carry swords <br />2. the way people dance like no one is watching<br />3. herds of sheep and camels in downtown traffic<br />4. the little girl next door that screams like she just spotted Santa claus evertime I leave my house<br />5. tea<br />6. the sound and feel of the night in the desert<br />7. the beauty and diversity of the Fulani women<br />8. the night sky<br />9. call to prayer<br />10. how the concept of forming a line to wait for something is a completely foregn oneStephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-33408280578150410312007-05-04T17:43:00.000+01:002007-05-04T17:58:16.234+01:00When systems failYes, it is true. My new fabulous, lovely and amazing computer has failed me and left me to manage this month alone without photos, movies, music or much to write on. I have successfully body-blocked tens of Nigeriens anxious to get their hands on a Mac to fiddle around with it, convinced that with a little fineggling they can make it cooperate. Trying to insist that it is nothing like the local television hooked up to a car battery that you can just smack around to light up, I realized that physically intervening between the machine and them was the way to go. After finding the zen spot in myself that could control the absolute panic about the loss of data and photos over the last month and a half, I have regrouped and am focusing on other things- mainly reading some books in French that I have been putting off and doing things the old way and taking notes in a now chaotic looking notebook. My sister gets here next week and her 2 week visit with me about wraps it up. The last few days are going to be spent saying goodbyes and fighting my way through the electric and water companies- all alone this time.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-66335097773756326622007-05-03T06:21:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:18.270+01:00When technology fails: a word from Lucie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9EeySnJA940q8sV1bO3MvTRaBhyphenhyphen9IJdPTUbWCim6QGsjuxFE8dPcnVKw8T4Yo4jcD1UHsKRZInGGNtuwUQP56W6LxtoGNhpGSvyyZY8SFCwFSRq6S7czxQItR-gkoSsXr-s0/s1600-h/Lucie+outstretched+paw.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9EeySnJA940q8sV1bO3MvTRaBhyphenhyphen9IJdPTUbWCim6QGsjuxFE8dPcnVKw8T4Yo4jcD1UHsKRZInGGNtuwUQP56W6LxtoGNhpGSvyyZY8SFCwFSRq6S7czxQItR-gkoSsXr-s0/s200/Lucie+outstretched+paw.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060201160231922626" /></a>Hi folks. It's me, Lucie, posting from NYC. I live with Parks and I'm a friend of Steph's. Since I like to tell it like it is, I feel compelled to shed a little feline perspective on the technology situation over in Niamey.<br /><br />Holly called Steph yesterday only to discover that Steph was experiencing some major computer problems. Being a cat who is only semi computer literate, I did not understand the details of the conversation. However, I did catch some phrases like "all white screen" and "possible hard drive failure". Oh, and there were some explitives thrown in. They were talking on speaker and both of them sounded pretty frantic. I guess it appears Steph may not be able to use her laptop much for next several weeks. <br /><br />Am I supposed to express sympathy here? Shoot, if that would only happen to Holly's computer, I'd be thrilled; more of her attention would be on ME, rather than on that silly machine. I am here to let you know that life without a laptop can and does go on. I mean, who needs a laptop?? Computers can start to control you when you begin plugging more and more 'stuff' into them, then rely on them to spit it back at you. Plus, they make you believe they are necessary to do things that all of us people (and cats) did just fine before they came into our lives. Without computers you can still do the important things like eat, nap and hang out with friends. Incidentally, I think the Nigeriens have the right idea with the siestas and the tea rituals. They sound like my kind of people. <br /><br />Anyway, Steph, you're just going to have to embrace going back to pen and paper, back to notebooks of data...back to the basics. You can do this! As proof, here you were back in January expertly handling patients' paper charts: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3rrYizi6Dd-G3KdO6zS7wvJAZS_oAFSMYHaz0RmJvhTuZzzGDxnLqX3pqvS5EjQyIYSRe9gZI7mVvQ_3U4a2vylnhjDwvVmAXJMbWL0UBJ3B-hzUSDaPAQqzw_2FRLe10rgY/s1600-h/Steph+c+patient+charts.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3rrYizi6Dd-G3KdO6zS7wvJAZS_oAFSMYHaz0RmJvhTuZzzGDxnLqX3pqvS5EjQyIYSRe9gZI7mVvQ_3U4a2vylnhjDwvVmAXJMbWL0UBJ3B-hzUSDaPAQqzw_2FRLe10rgY/s200/Steph+c+patient+charts.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060204059334847442" /></a><br />If you really need a computer fix, there's always Leyla's Cybercafe: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ZCf4owllW0-Er2JU4PEb0Hri1nF2yBkWOShvOX9MC4JjA9jHRBbFH-W3IWT7QRtBOqPgwpXBzGgADYELPdK9ePQLbVUXMGRP50avBFQLyCYukKvLfzE7HDEh8Fexy4m4DEwt/s1600-h/entrance+to+Leyla%27s.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ZCf4owllW0-Er2JU4PEb0Hri1nF2yBkWOShvOX9MC4JjA9jHRBbFH-W3IWT7QRtBOqPgwpXBzGgADYELPdK9ePQLbVUXMGRP50avBFQLyCYukKvLfzE7HDEh8Fexy4m4DEwt/s200/entrance+to+Leyla%27s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060205373594840050" /></a>This is where Steph often blogs and writes to all of you. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Here's the proprietor Amina with Steph: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBhov_kffpCzrT2_rff3BEGxsD7uc6uuQeH2PrnAyYWuRaPa2-Ap0CZU7HhZU8Ti0aFW5V1tDhH75jnklW1HtjTgGBcE5TKcEh8scod47Ks8OFMNjEdF0nVbxEt4RsbZmv_t3/s1600-h/Amina+%26+Steph+%40+Leyla%27s.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBhov_kffpCzrT2_rff3BEGxsD7uc6uuQeH2PrnAyYWuRaPa2-Ap0CZU7HhZU8Ti0aFW5V1tDhH75jnklW1HtjTgGBcE5TKcEh8scod47Ks8OFMNjEdF0nVbxEt4RsbZmv_t3/s200/Amina+%26+Steph+%40+Leyla%27s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060205098716933090" /></a> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And Leyla's has the added bonus of being a full service cafe where you can dine with friends: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPr2LPAG11G1Vl9thMfmRim2-mYAKr_XM4PuVQu_2pS1JTJCBHtTN_Y5B7FYwFQBHjLmm4j6NDjgy2Wfqbp7j6hBOpRp17hljEhL4U1FTVtAmPI35PZepHjHzLQG74TMKGZTFu/s1600-h/Cafe+Leyla.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPr2LPAG11G1Vl9thMfmRim2-mYAKr_XM4PuVQu_2pS1JTJCBHtTN_Y5B7FYwFQBHjLmm4j6NDjgy2Wfqbp7j6hBOpRp17hljEhL4U1FTVtAmPI35PZepHjHzLQG74TMKGZTFu/s200/Cafe+Leyla.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060205712897256450" /></a><br />Last but not least, you can use the time you may have spent tapping on the keyboard to enjoy the moment over there in Niamey. You can do things like hang out and laugh with kids...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQMUmgTOcXOonv0Bcy3eZHB7n14Z_fTzBv0lVJ1nOveJ8-kBeuri5lPvroEKU24tEBGG-JFRx_7h3W538gE0pyD1yHepJMDcZzDLHJGVpHCt8SfDS5VbYTtINAvLwK5qno0JN/s1600-h/kids+on+rte+from+Koure.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQMUmgTOcXOonv0Bcy3eZHB7n14Z_fTzBv0lVJ1nOveJ8-kBeuri5lPvroEKU24tEBGG-JFRx_7h3W538gE0pyD1yHepJMDcZzDLHJGVpHCt8SfDS5VbYTtINAvLwK5qno0JN/s200/kids+on+rte+from+Koure.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060223674450488354" /></a><br /><br />...or watch the sunset over the River Niger:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcubas0nfH1qTS6LeEKhZh8p7e0hpGTQW_4EaFY4N3FSZya8HUY2aW7Bt9Br30BfTIoRzXfZOkHwPTl2OskggNblo63ZkGVyisiUHfJdqr1q4A8bz4iQWQRg1WkqIwaZmzoha/s1600-h/sunset+over+river+niger.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcubas0nfH1qTS6LeEKhZh8p7e0hpGTQW_4EaFY4N3FSZya8HUY2aW7Bt9Br30BfTIoRzXfZOkHwPTl2OskggNblo63ZkGVyisiUHfJdqr1q4A8bz4iQWQRg1WkqIwaZmzoha/s200/sunset+over+river+niger.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060206017839934482" /></a> Due courage, Steph. I have faith that this latest obstacle, too, shall be overcome. <br /> <br />Love, <br /><br />LucieHOllhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313312963755380916noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-37971810454572123302007-04-22T11:30:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:18.578+01:00Spirited Away<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJVecQQxhEQQzE0IoFKRd0ikYzzQK5_kPntpm_QLBAQbeJ9DFi66GhwX42qGtQ69OwX4uD1-MOiDelbGoZACFOKaHMq80maTsA_IyTsxctab_ukS94ymK31GGuhPGweRJOX5C/s1600-h/CIMG1366.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJVecQQxhEQQzE0IoFKRd0ikYzzQK5_kPntpm_QLBAQbeJ9DFi66GhwX42qGtQ69OwX4uD1-MOiDelbGoZACFOKaHMq80maTsA_IyTsxctab_ukS94ymK31GGuhPGweRJOX5C/s200/CIMG1366.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056200979046121618" /></a><br />The last month and a bit are ahead of me and as incredibly anxious I am to get home, this weekend was a nice reminder of the things that I love here. I guess in the hum drum of work, I have gotten caught up in the daily commute to the hospital and return to the house. I have not been out in a while to do other things other than go to marketplaces. Most of my Nigeriens friends come over in the evenings and so there is really no reason for me to head out into the night either. I guess it is funny how living in an 'exotic' place can also become quite hum drum. My friend Allison has been in town- she and I were at Emory together and then she did Peace Corps here while I was in Senegal. She has returned for a month to do some work on schistosomiasis for her masters degree in public health. It has been great to reconnect. So this weekend we went to another spirit possession where about six of the nature spirits showed up. A guy arranged the ceremony to see if the spirits were ok with him marrying a certain lady friend. I have to say I would not have wanted to be in her position! (don't get any ideas, Christopher) After about eight hours of music and dance in the hot sun, the mediums for the various spirits started to get possessed. We took our usual seat behind the musicians so that the possessions happened direcly infront of us. I love the energies of the ceremonies, the music, and how casual it all is. I love that can't be explained in my American head and that it just moves the questions of life around in my head, solving none of them. Before coming here I had no idea that this paractice was going to be so prevalent. We have even had several fistula patients with spirits at the hospital. But it is one of those great things bout being here that you can't get anywhere else. So to help me ignore the heat, I get to focus looking forward to the enormous rain ceremony to be held next week. (PS- the photo is with Isaka, a high priest, and his wife. Pedro- notice Natty Boh?)Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-89644051389051856042007-04-17T17:51:00.000+01:002007-04-17T18:46:07.548+01:00What does it mean to work in Niger? (on a I'm-feeling-negative day)I hear more and more often now as things are winding down, “so hey- how is that research going?” During the week I go to the hospital every morning for several hours and do interviews, and catch up with the women who are there waiting for fistula repair surgery. We sit and eat peanuts, hold children, bead necklaces and chat. We position ourselves to avoid the running pools of urine coming from the newcomers in the compound. We watch people from other wards in the hospital come through the courtyard to use the bathroom and the sinks- boys with missing arms, women who have wasted from an unknown disease. Every once in a while, someone will inhale quickly and mumble, “May Allah save us,” and we all turn to look at the misfortune that has fallen the person that just entered our little area.<br /><br />Patients watch rats with fur wet from sewage be chased by cats who roam throughout the hospital. The wood piled up outside the hospital kitchen reminds me of the deforestation, dust, pollution and heat here. Women approach holding their sick children out at an arms length. My white skin leads them to believe that I can make miracles happen.<br /><br />This is surely “Month 6” talking- six months on top of fine tuned cynicism from the previous years in West Africa. But lately, what does it mean to work here in Niger? It means you get frustrated- at the lack of resources, at incompetence, at the snails pace at which things move. You get mad at the government for its disregard for its citizens. You feel embarrassed and guilty about the ample resources we have in developed nations at the expense of places like this. And you get mad at yourself for your own shortcomings and your inability to affect change. <br /><br />You also get lazy, because no matter how you try, your water intake cannot offset the water loss in the sweat rolling off you. You lounge for 3 hours a day because… what the heck- no one else is working and it has not cooled off any. It means that after hello, you ask people about how they are handling the heat and general fatigue.<br /><br />It means that you get involved: You put a comforting hand on the shoulder of a friend with TB. You celebrate the results of an HIV test.<br /><br />It means that your work is only a little tiny part of being here and life happens around you and to you, whether or not it was in your original grant application to come here.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-73539575526996856382007-04-17T17:45:00.000+01:002007-04-17T17:48:04.083+01:00So how hot is it?The weather seems to be my new favorite subject. I think in part because sharing the daily temperatures with family and friends somehow feels like an accomplishment in my mind. Possibly nothing else worked or happened in my day, but hey- it reached 120 degrees! I keep reminding myself that I already did this- hot season, I mean- twice while I was in Senegal. And then I was in a little village without a fridge and struggled with a water filter that could not purify the warm water fast enough for me to drink it. Batteries in my camera exploded and candles melted. (Vache Qui Rit cheese never changed form) But at least there was open space, a breeze, and I could safely sleep outside under the stars.<br /><br />City living has brought some luxuries to ease the pain of hot season- mostly a refrigerator. But I seem to have traded in the open spaces, breezes, and outdoor sleeping for cold water. I rent my fridge from the boutique owner down the way, and unfortunately I am now duct taping it shut. (thanks, Paul) Although it keeps things colder than room temperature it is far from making ice. For that, I have to demurely ask the neighbors. I am finding too that the electricity is cut more and more as the temperatures rise. That means that I wake in the middle of the night choking in my own sweat as the ceiling fan ceases to whir.<br /><br />The pots and pans in the kitchen are hot to touch although they have not been on the stove. Inside the house, my chairs are risky to sit in since the metal arm rests feel as if they could burn. I shower constantly (never bothering to dry off) and gulp liters of water as if they were Dixie cups. <br /><br />Kudos to my sister who is coming to visit in May- I guess she thinks that Gabon has prepared her, but wait til she lands here in the Sahel- c’est autre chose. (du courage, Lu!) The rains are supposed to come in June to break the heat, but maybe I’ll be lucky and they’ll come a little early this year.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-24740850541299341302007-04-08T10:43:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:18.804+01:00Earth Day in Niger? Maybe Next Year...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlonr7hS1Ud_jBseNjSMkTHXWKcMwad30_c9UHje8eAJ1IGXNOmPR4xMabVBG_3eoeCm90ttqw3RVAq7Ek6vNdMyZAN33fMwE2-WxPSqhPnPwOPg5sgSo4vfzS1O-EJGA_KRFQ/s1600-h/Streets+of+Niamey.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlonr7hS1Ud_jBseNjSMkTHXWKcMwad30_c9UHje8eAJ1IGXNOmPR4xMabVBG_3eoeCm90ttqw3RVAq7Ek6vNdMyZAN33fMwE2-WxPSqhPnPwOPg5sgSo4vfzS1O-EJGA_KRFQ/s200/Streets+of+Niamey.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050993215565971266" /></a><br />“Non, merci,” I say declining a plastic bag to cover each of my purchases from the corner store: one for the eggs, one for the bread, one for the chewing gum. The boutique owners here in Niamey, Niger always give me a quizzical look when I suggest that they place the purchases directly into my backpack. <br /><br />Although many Americans will participate in Earth Day festivities this month, the official occasion to think about the state of the environment will go unnoticed here in the Republic of Niger in West Africa.<br /><br />Plastic bags litter the streets, fill the open sewers, and hang like heavy fruit blowing in the breeze from the thorns of acacia trees. Every little purchase made in the market or in stores is shrouded in its own opaque black plastic bag. With a brief lifespan as a bag, the plastic is then tossed into the streets where it finally catches on thorns or becomes the source of clogging for an open sewer.<br /><br />Niger’s environmental problems are large, and include deforestation, desertification, drought, pollution, in addition to serious issues resulting from poorly managed gold and uranium mining industries. Many of these could be mitigated with national policy measures, international support, and education. But the poor and corrupt Nigerien government experiences little environmental leadership from the developed world. So in the meantime, the lack of a waste disposal system, combined with a plethora of plastic, is choking the immediate environment.<br /><br />Niger competes for the title of the poorest and least developed nation on earth. Its population is growing at a rate of 3 percent, and the pressures to survive on the edge of the Sahara desert are increasingly intense. It seems to be an odd twist of fate that gas prices soar around $5 per gallon here, a land-locked nation twice the size of Texas. Recent trade agreements with China make me wonder how much of that will translate into a Nigerien market flooded with even more cheaply manufactured plastic items.<br /><br />And somehow, in a country where 82 percent of the population depends on agriculture and livestock for survival, few think twice about tossing trash out the car window, or discarding items in the streets as they walk. <br /><br />Yet I find it hard to believe that environmentalism is a luxury permitted only to those with food and economic security. Speaking to a Nigerien friend about my concerns, he said, “I know, it is terrible- something has to change.” And finishing the last drops of yogurt from the plastic container, he tossed it over his shoulder with a shrug as we continued to walk down the street. <br /><br />What does the future hold for the people and the environment of Niger? I am afraid that only time will tell.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-37366419247823447342007-04-02T17:18:00.000+01:002007-04-02T17:29:35.307+01:00The Body (according to Aria)Those of you who have met my guardian Aria (you laugh, but that number now totals 5) know that he is an amateur philosopher on all things. The soliloquy usually amounts to a small tome on life, racism, religion, colonialism, classism, or drugs. He is an extremely thin man whom I was shocked to learn is only three years older than me. He drinks only milk and tea and as a result is skin and bones. He refuses most food I prepare saying that anything with oil, salt, sauce, and spice is bad for his body: He has a weak heart (liberally defined) and cannot eat any of the aforementioned. Some healer once told him that his body lacks water and so he must eat milk and white rice. So he does. He also tightly ties a small strip of cloth around his chest, pulled up high, under his armpits, and tied in the front with a bow. He wears this 24/7 and under all shirts. I first saw him apply it when he had a verbal fight with someone and he dramatically told me he had to tie himself together to keep his body from splitting in two from the emotional suffering. Evidently, he is now using it to prevent coughing fits.<br /><br />Aria has been sick lately, although to be honest, it is hard to tell what is simply dramatics, what is the result of acute malnutrition, and what symptoms have been brought on by a virus, parasite, etc. In an effort to make light of a serious situation, I don’t want to completely dismiss that his malnutrition is not only brought on by finicky eating but also extreme poverty. I have made two trips to the clinic with him this past week, dropping the equivalent of his monthly salary on exams and various medicines. It just goes to show you that people here literally cannot afford to get sick. The first doctor prescribed Aria food: He said that his problem was hunger. The chest pains, the body aches, and the general this and thats. Aria dismissed the diagnosis in a huff, although finished the acetaminophen tablets the doctor gave him.<br /><br />I myself came down with a little something last week. Aria diagnosed me saying that the splitting headache and muscle aches were brought on from not taking enough naps. (I've decided not to argue.) He spotted me taking Tylenol and asked for some also. Miraculously the little pills from America cured him of all his ills. Recently, he said the Tylenol is not working- the drug is no longer good enough. Finding him curled up in a ball recently, I took him to the clinic again. This time they ordered tests for parasites and for TB and gave him a couple prescriptions: one for multivitamins, and one for a drug called Doliprane.<br /><br />Later that same afternoon, he was bouncing around like usual. He proudly told me that since taking the magic Doliprane he has not coughed or had bone aches- even that bone on his back that had been hot has cooled off (his description). My curiosity was peaked and I glanced at the content- -500 mg of Acetaminophen….Tylenol.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-89417422420893805182007-03-27T13:58:00.000+01:002007-03-27T14:23:10.631+01:00Mon amieA 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-32894159992047468392007-03-24T15:37:00.000+01:002007-03-24T15:41:58.830+01:00Ça 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-8451661610011776432007-03-19T15:23:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:19.021+01:00oh la la!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IQisBkESLaAZihglPCPMzS62tY-HMpnZcv6qmrT1Wl2nqH-3HaD_ZnhUjY958pGdy9731rni1vCdziHLmmkoj3a0_JxlwKR12A4nEAPELFWle87rHeeoSDFiQXOFMe4tm7Up/s1600-h/CIMG1188.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IQisBkESLaAZihglPCPMzS62tY-HMpnZcv6qmrT1Wl2nqH-3HaD_ZnhUjY958pGdy9731rni1vCdziHLmmkoj3a0_JxlwKR12A4nEAPELFWle87rHeeoSDFiQXOFMe4tm7Up/s200/CIMG1188.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5043641634265931314" /></a><br />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...Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-6587960554860180292007-03-13T12:15:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:19.155+01:00We're Engaged!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_Opj3pO2WBh0f22wV0Q1ytN0RuQmBnTkl3IuYjNGdihx5VDz8WL6j9e6DWLpNTJlIn7kYkgp5NHjbNdv71oXwkWAextMCyiFBrMPq8wm3ZVPY5x0z9EYYxn49puG5Oi6DoCM/s1600-h/CIMG1063.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_Opj3pO2WBh0f22wV0Q1ytN0RuQmBnTkl3IuYjNGdihx5VDz8WL6j9e6DWLpNTJlIn7kYkgp5NHjbNdv71oXwkWAextMCyiFBrMPq8wm3ZVPY5x0z9EYYxn49puG5Oi6DoCM/s200/CIMG1063.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041370682488823410" /></a><br />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.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-36107216898191908572007-02-26T22:39:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:19.360+01:00HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEPH!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXWiMGBrnWQg84FdYwzt_78Wrq7M1BHXPy7O0JZsUQ0zEm2BnCfiW7ROvIL-Pn4IiRap_5x5z1goYv6xK4lpT2IKnm3aDchdXA9oGiQlnRQFkjalUMNKYXDvF9kK0B-M0axJl/s1600-h/steph+%26+lard+corn.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXWiMGBrnWQg84FdYwzt_78Wrq7M1BHXPy7O0JZsUQ0zEm2BnCfiW7ROvIL-Pn4IiRap_5x5z1goYv6xK4lpT2IKnm3aDchdXA9oGiQlnRQFkjalUMNKYXDvF9kK0B-M0axJl/s200/steph+%26+lard+corn.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5035961698530210242" /></a><br />From the zocalo of Oaxaca....<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzJWPvLNe-eCOtvJkNhe4lo3p5-katUo2jAefIfabNLfd5jpKW5xoXdtT4MCr1Q739uo_zIBXxf4Ua9P0ncNEqHAQ8Jr8UM-APpgbZgSnssqKnflYF1x2M57AZv8H_veVtEYn/s1600-h/Steph+in+blue+scarf.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzJWPvLNe-eCOtvJkNhe4lo3p5-katUo2jAefIfabNLfd5jpKW5xoXdtT4MCr1Q739uo_zIBXxf4Ua9P0ncNEqHAQ8Jr8UM-APpgbZgSnssqKnflYF1x2M57AZv8H_veVtEYn/s200/Steph+in+blue+scarf.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5035961234673742258" /></a><br />...to the streets of Niamey...<br /><br />Steph is a rockstar.<br /><br />Happy birthday, Steph! We all hope you celebrate like you mean it - Niger style. If you can't find your favorite lard-covered corn, I'm sure there are plenty of innard brochettes at the grand marche. <br /><br />Love, ParksHOllhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313312963755380916noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-48855422984574231852007-02-23T09:30:00.001+01:002008-12-12T09:33:19.463+01:00Niger Trip COS STATS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1yXAud3BW4mlnccvXsSO-f97egD5cYDyhtXEq_m0-JkrIz9wTDt_Eiw3JIUP00fUSPFA3Jn_xmVIthMdzui00jd7hbESt9CWAqHJkVEEOSpM9ciKmHujqnsT1F3HZqsQfnvj/s1600-h/Steph&Holl+in+recasement.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1yXAud3BW4mlnccvXsSO-f97egD5cYDyhtXEq_m0-JkrIz9wTDt_Eiw3JIUP00fUSPFA3Jn_xmVIthMdzui00jd7hbESt9CWAqHJkVEEOSpM9ciKmHujqnsT1F3HZqsQfnvj/s200/Steph&Holl+in+recasement.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034640252749552978" /></a><br />It's me, Parks, posting again from NYC. <br /><br />The end of a Peace Corps Volunteer’s 27-month service commitment is affectionately known as their “C.O.S.”, or “Completion Of Service”. Back when Steph and I were in Peace Corps Senegal, there was a C.O.S. tradition for each group who had come to the country together. Someone in the group would compile the “COS Statistics” to be published in our quarterly publication “The Volunteer Exchange”. One evening last month Steph and I were fondly remembering some of our group's stats which I had written in '01 for a deadline-pressed editor, and my village neighbor, Andy Sherman. Pressed ham, sick bay antics (Elinoff), Star Wars Bar, and Boyker-isms were certainly among the highlights. <br /><br />In honor of my recent visit, I’ve decided to publish some of our own stats from Niger. They're a little silly, and mostly for the benefit of Steph and Hisham, who just had his own COS from the Niger trip. But I just want everyone to know what a fantastic time we had over there. Steph was not only a warm and generous hostess to me and many others, but she was a wonderful person with whom to become acquainted with this new place (further inland than I'd ever been on the African continent) and with so many new friends. I can’t thank her enough for having me stay with her in Niamey and for sharing so much of her life there with me. <br /><br />Steph – these are for you, babe. An early Bday present. Enjoy!<br /><br /><br />NIGER TRIP C.O.S. STATS:<br /><br />NUMBER OF.....<br /><br />People picked up on Parker’s Air Maroc flight- 1 (2 if you count the random Brit, who was on my flight home, too)<br />Times Parkie was scrubbed at the Hammam Ziani in Casa- 2 (read: not enough)<br />Times Hisham was scrubbed at the Hammam Ziani-0 (afraid he’d miss the flight)<br />People staying at Steph’s house, officially-2 – counting Aria<br />People staying at Steph’s house, unofficially-5 and counting…<br />Times we discussed Maaaaali-139<br />Shower spigot explosions-2 (read: 1 too many)<br />Calls to Rabio to regulate something in that house-9<br />Times Aria made tea in the front yard-91<br />Trips to Leyla’s-Numerous<br />Times we told the taximan "Recasement, premier laterite" and didn't know what it meant-46<br />Brochettes consumed-189, at least<br />Biere Nigers consumed-129, at least<br />Giraffes who walked along side us-6 and ½ (the baby)<br />Picnics under a tree-1 <br />Meals over an open sewer-1 (read: 1 too many)<br />Times the car broke down from Koure to Niamey-3<br />“A-hole villages” encountered on the goudron-2<br />Private concerts thrown together, attended, and even filmed-3 and counting…<br />Times Steph’s cell phone ran out of credit-43 (read: she’s way assimilated)<br />Critters scurrying on the house roof in the morning-7, on average<br />Oral Roberts Pilots encountered by Steph at Grand Hotel-4<br />Times said pilots left hotel grounds in 4 days -0<br />Times we flirtatiously called “Taximan!” -22<br />Times Aria threatened to quit his job -6<br />Times Aria actually quit his job-0<br />Body wraps Aria applied to “keep from being broken”-1<br />Emergen-Cs ingested-About 62<br />Emergen-Cs free-based by Steph en brousse-1<br />Beers consumed via Nalgene in Chateau1-1, it was the last day, OK?<br />Gaulloise smoked-200<br />Gaulloises smoked by people other than Hisham-182<br />Packs of Cravens left on the wall and then found empty-8<br />Passwords better than “fistula”-0<br />Words in Salimatous’s village “sensibilization”-17<br />Fistula patients in the compound-33<br />Beaded necklaces made by the women-463<br />Times we were put on the spot at a sensibilization - 1<br />18-hour recruiting trips en brousse - 1,and counting<br />Times Abdourahmane gave Parks a hard time-many<br />Excessively tall and cold refrigerators leased-1<br />Times Harouna dropped by to check on said refrigerator-23<br />Consecutive calls from Diallo-732<br />Times Mohammed took over the stereo-48<br />Times Dr. Abdoulaye busted in on a private concert in Agadez-2<br />Pagnes on Steph’s bed-14<br />Greetings cooler than "Fofo!"-1 ("Naka wow-wow?")<br />Heart-to-hearts at Club Equestre-2 <br />Bowls of fufu inhaled-Several (thank you Celestine)<br />Ghetto quartier trail rides-1<br />Near death experiences on horseback-5<br />Knitting stages attempted -1<br />Knitting stages held-0<br />Times steph harassed CD vendors hunting for Grippe Aviaire-29<br />Pope videos purchased at La Taverne-1<br />Sets of keys made to Chez Steph-3<br />Sets of keys lost and remade-1 (H.M.)<br />Cassette stands raided-About 11<br />Bucket baths taken -Probably not enough<br />Latenight runs to the airport-2 and counting<br />Packets of “spas-vom” purchased-3<br />Last minute “power runs” to the grand marche-1<br />CFA it takes to get a taxi to pick you up at 2am-5000, apparently<br />Fruit bats swooping over the Niger river at dusk-hundreds<br />Pounds of dried meat smuggled into JFK-About 3<br />Times I was inspired by Steph -Many.<br />Times I crack up, tear up, or get chills just thinking about my time in Niger -Many.<br />Beautiful moments, exchanges, and scenes from Niamey and beyond… -Countless.HOllhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313312963755380916noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-2733898665947576902007-02-21T11:51:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:19.943+01:00What's Behind "If"?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTuHTpaVbzQpsVUhJ0L1h93j6b5hKkgQQZcsV8cJju4o9M_n_3qCIRvJBu8H1WaYLVpPQgYsDcfQ0gvfrnLDx0ZkRTfmSRYccR8ocoqx3jRUiudbOtWyAZMRWHb-At138FGT8y/s1600-h/CIMG0573.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTuHTpaVbzQpsVUhJ0L1h93j6b5hKkgQQZcsV8cJju4o9M_n_3qCIRvJBu8H1WaYLVpPQgYsDcfQ0gvfrnLDx0ZkRTfmSRYccR8ocoqx3jRUiudbOtWyAZMRWHb-At138FGT8y/s200/CIMG0573.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034391250897477330" /></a><br /><br />In French class last week, Lydie asked, “If you could change your life, what would you make different?” In my class is a Moroccan, a Nigerien, and another guy from somewhere in Africa. I am the only girl and the only person from a Western nation. The French teacher has lived all over the world, but was born in Cote d’Ivoire. She asked again as everyone was silent. I hate questions like these in English, let alone in French with her monitoring my grammar. Forcing the topic, she continued, “Convince me of your dreams.” We were all reluctant participants and slowly took turns. My fellow students started by saying, “Well, considering the experience and the years of study I have, I would use those skills in consulting. I cannot imagine doing anything else.” Lydie was getting increasingly frustrated with all of us. “No! What would you do? Anything in the world!” Someone else took a stab at her question, “Well, I have a wife and three children so I cannot change my life. It would not be fair. Maybe in a year or two when the kids are older, I can do things with my wife that we didn’t do in the past.” We were really testing her patience. Forced into a corner, I chose something that I could describe using simple vocabulary: I said that all I wanted was to be a wife and have lots of kids. Other vocations I have been considering lately such as couch potato, professional dog-walker, and yoga aficionado did not translate as easily. She said that she was not convinced. No kidding. It just seemed an appropriate response as I was listening to my fellow students talk about their domestic bliss.<br /><br />As I listed to all of us, I realized that Lydie was having the same problem that I am having in my research. And I just did what my informants do to me. Trying to tease out where the programs and policies for reintegration meet (or don’t) the needs of the fistula patients, I struggle to get the girls to express their plans, hopes and needs for their futures. Typical responses to phrasing of questions that I have labored over include the following: whatever Allah wants; whatever you want to give me; I don’t know. If I really want to hear them chatter, I ask how old they are. Responses average five minutes, and usually we have to return to the topic later on in the interviews. Which makes me wonder, is “if” a luxury?<br /><br />In French class, I could have come up with any number of scenarios for myself if I were to create an imaginary life for myself. My fellow students however, did not seem to grasp her question. They based all their responses on their present professional and personal positions. The women in the hospital are doing the same. Since I was a little girl I have been exposed to fantasy scenarios though books, toys, movies, music and television. We are surrounded with fantasies and “ifs.” In the USA, the general cultural beliefs say that if you work hard, you can have anything you want- and you as an individual have a right to those things and to The Dream.<br /><br />In Senegal, I struggled to teach people about disease prevention: If you do x,y,and z today you will probably avoid getting such and such illness in the future. The hard parts were not the information about the diseases, even pills and medication. The challenge was convincing people to modify their present behavior to prepare for something in the future. The “ifs” were the challenge: if tomorrow, if disease.<br /><br />And here I am, facing that old opponent, Mr. If. It has occurred to me that the whole concept of “reintegration” (as operationalized here) is a Western one, loaded with all these feminist ideas about what a village woman wants and what she should be doing. What she should want to be doing. Programs that teach knitting, lotion and soap making, etc. are actually not reintegration: They are not by definition programs that restore social positions, as they actually aim to change the status quo, and in this case are also ideas that Westerners have about what a village woman needs. And so maybe when I ask, “If you were going home tomorrow, what would you want?” I might as well be asking Lydie’s question, “If you could do something different, what would you do with your life?’’ And they are just as reluctant to talk as I was.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-3128364190473269792007-02-16T17:49:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:20.122+01:00Mouma Bob (yet another private concert)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-hPiQ4q8i164T7qlVYJGjOMmgiRdFCmqq9Myu-2WLnaFEV5UF2DEvECeljO6KS4MUxMgnWb9TytpF_ME3K81-9ANfznrgJNL3iseeu5XofMvGveeL04IVJoXxxw5u-yyCOQ4/s1600-h/privateconcert.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-hPiQ4q8i164T7qlVYJGjOMmgiRdFCmqq9Myu-2WLnaFEV5UF2DEvECeljO6KS4MUxMgnWb9TytpF_ME3K81-9ANfznrgJNL3iseeu5XofMvGveeL04IVJoXxxw5u-yyCOQ4/s200/privateconcert.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5032178357383766450" /></a><br />Mouma Bob performed for Hisham to film just outside the city in a mango grove. It was a spectacularly beautiful spot, not to mention GREEN! Of course, in my new role as "grip" I was forced to attend and work sweaty long hours (as shown in the photo). <br /><br />http://www.imawalanes.com/Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-61092582021686483662007-02-16T17:13:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:20.310+01:00What's up Doc?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJvFMl-zJDduzPk1Kc5MT2D2XCC2jRNO3dbo8BTho7vElLyNYuRwGUL0cFPDBu9gWw6lo_TX_pwVDCXKuZR9wYxjkakds6BCJICiD7AT98SS-skeAFWdZfAvFB1sjsMDMjdzU/s1600-h/CIMG0759.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJvFMl-zJDduzPk1Kc5MT2D2XCC2jRNO3dbo8BTho7vElLyNYuRwGUL0cFPDBu9gWw6lo_TX_pwVDCXKuZR9wYxjkakds6BCJICiD7AT98SS-skeAFWdZfAvFB1sjsMDMjdzU/s200/CIMG0759.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5032167538361147810" /></a><br />It has been quite some time since I have posted anything, and as you can tell by now I have been busy hanging out with local rock stars, visiting friends, and working (seriously). Ali got here almost two weeks ago now, and I just really can't believe how the time is flying by. She got here about a week before the other 20 (or so) doctors arrived on medical mission to do surgeries at the National Hospital. About 150 women suffering from obstetric fistula were waiting anxiously for them by the time they all got here. I realized looking out over the courtyard how mundane the scene had become for me until the sheer numbers trippled overnight. In addition to the women, there are nursing babies and infants toddling around. The physical exams began on Valentine's Day, although love seemed to have escaped most of those around me. I watched a mother shake a limp breast at a child dying of malnutrition; I stood and held the hands of women that I have been interviewing as they lay wincing on the examine table; and my translator got a call from home telling her that her 4 month old nephew died of cerebral malaria. It was one of those days where you realize how normalized all these things had become around you and how truly shocking and unacceptable it all is. After several hours I went home deciding that I was just in the way. And I seriously needed a moment to myself. I was back at the hospital today to find that not all the women that I have gotten to know have qualified for surgery. Some of the problems are just too complicated, or there is already too much scar tissue. And I am not sure that they understand. They look to the "Great White Hope"- all these Americans who have arrived to "fix" them. And now what?<br /><br />Ali has been amazing. I had a moment when I watched her examining a patient and was so proud of my old friend. There she was- a doctor! And an amazing one, at that. Surgeries started today, and so my day passed in meetings. Sitting in one of the hospital board rooms, I looked up to see a cat's tail dangling through the hole in the ceiling. Waving slowly back and forth, the tail encouraged my mind to wander and I thankful for the little bit of whimsy it added to the day.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-58629478769776176762007-02-15T07:40:00.002+01:002008-12-12T09:33:20.529+01:00Bringing Home a Little Taste of Niger<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cn4QA2kXjPw/ReM52K9dsaI/AAAAAAAAABY/Dk7LF__w-aY/s1600-h/Parks+%26+Razak+with+the+Tabaski+meat.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cn4QA2kXjPw/ReM52K9dsaI/AAAAAAAAABY/Dk7LF__w-aY/s200/Parks+%26+Razak+with+the+Tabaski+meat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5035932411148218786" /></a><br /><br />Greetings from Cabrini Boulevard!<br /><br />It's me, Holly, a.k.a Parks or Parkie in blogland. At my request Steph has allowed me access to post some entries and photos on her blog now that I'm back stateside. I have several entries to post, but I’ll start with a tale that spans the two continents:<br /><br /> I left Niamey almost 2 weeks ago now and can hardly believe it. Just as I'd been welcomed at Niamey's Diori Hamani airport by Steph, Monsour and crew on January 17, I was chauffered back to the airport Feb. 2 by the same crowd and sent off in style. I even had a piece of luggage shrink-wrapped, for effect. But secretly, the bag contained some pretty special cargo.<br /><br />I recall a night back in January at the local hangout, Steph's front yard. I was sipping Aria's herbal tea with Steph, Mohammed, Diallo, Hisham, and whoever else happened to be over. There was a konk-konk on the front gate and Stephanie opened it to find our friend Monsour. In his hand was a plastic bag that appeared to be filled with something about the size of an Amercian football. Monsour greeted us, then he and Steph retreated to the wall to discuss something. After a few minutes, Steph called over to me "Hey Parks, I forgot to mention that Monsour needs you to get a bag of Tabaski meat to his brother Razak in Baltimore, OK?" Mind you, this statement was made as casually as if she'd just asked me to remember to pick up bread at the boutique.<br /><br />What?? Carry meat on the plane to then deliver it to a Nigerien guy living in Baltimore? I felt a twinge of anxiety. My mind flashed back to my return from Ljlubjana in '02 when I rolled through Kennedy customs only to be accosted by their pack of security dogs. I was subsequently busted for having unintentionally carried on a pastrami sandwich. I still have bad dreams about that day. I think Amy Lynn and Kimberly still laugh about it, as they were there to pick me up.<br /><br />I looked at Monsour and could see in his face this meant a lot to him. I thought of how much he’d helped Steph and me out in Niamey….so I agreed to take the meat. Although I had to ask why it wasn’t in a refrigerator. He explained that it was special sheep meat from the family’s Tabaski fete in December and that they had “treated it” so it would keep for a long time. I was still skeptical. For the next several days, I admit to having sniffed the bag every morning, wondering if I’d smell anything rancid. I never did. <br /><br />Arriving at JFK customs, an agent asked me “what’s in the bag?” I replied innocently “Oh, just some gifts and some fabric”. I passed without incident. No search. No dogs. The meat and I had made it! <br /><br />A few days later, my friend Bekka and I were to drive to Virginia. As we were leaving and I said to her incidentally, “Oh yea, we need to stop by this guy’s house in Baltimore to deliver that bag of meat over there” – I pointed to Monsour’s plastic bag. Now Bekka looked at me like I’d sprouted horns. “What are you talking about? You mean to tell me there’s MEAT in that bag? From Niger? Not refrigerated? You are out of your mind.” I mumbled something about Nigeriens knowing their meat, then changed the subject as I loaded the bag into our Toyota rental. We took off down the turnpike, and every few exits, Bekka would ask “How do you think that meat’s doing back there?” Then we’d speculate on what the heck they had done to it that it didn’t require refrigeration. <br /><br />On the drive I phoned Monsour’s brother Razak. I told him who I was, that I had a surprise for him, and that we’d be by in the afternoon. We soon arrived at his Baltimore house and Razak welcomed us warmly. He served us lunch and the three of us chatted away for part of the afternoon in his lovely apartment. We talked of travels and of life in the US verses life in Niger and beyond. We also had the pleasure of meeting his son 4 year-old son Caleb, ever the host with the most. He offered Bekka popsicles, played cars with us and showed us around the house. And he introduced us to his brother, baby Sam, when he woke up from his nap. <br /><br />After lunch I handed Razak his surprise and he smiled knowingly. He opened the bag and out spilled multiple morsels of oily, dried, brown meat and bone pieces. Bekka and I were fascinated. This stuff looked crazy! It was essentially fried until you couldn't fry it anymore. He offered us a taste and I tried some. Once you got past the oil coating, it tasted like spicy mutton jerky. Not bad, but not something I’d go out of my way for. Razak, on the other hand, was delighted. He said, “This is great! I will really enjoy this. My brother knows how much I love meat, so he always goes out of his way to get some to me”. (I’ll say.) <br /><br />It was a lovely visit. Both Bekka and I drove away discussing how much fun we’d had talking with Razak and playing with the boys. Razak had given me a little bit of the meat to share with my family in Va. My dad tried some and actually liked it, which made me happy. And of course I’ve saved a few pieces in my apartment in NYC for any of you who find yourselves here in the near future and wish to have your own little taste of Niger. <br /><br />I hope you're all well in your respective parts of the world. <br /><br />Holly<br />PS - the photo is of me and Razak proudly displaying a tray of the sheep meat in his kitchen in BaltimoreHOllhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313312963755380916noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-2691010209721380122007-02-07T12:35:00.000+01:002007-02-07T12:42:58.955+01:00Call to PrayerHello! So Ali arrived here safely on Friday and as with Parkie, things have been full steam ahead. She jumped right into helping me with the research, and after only 2 hours of sleep, she and I went to the hospital to interview women the morning after her arrival. On day 2 of her visit we went to a Bori ritual ceremony on the outskirts of Niamey. The Bori has been described to me as an animist religion, one that is practiced by Housa and Zarma peoples alike, and has resisted the spread of Islam over the centuries. There are people who are soly Bori, although many others are publicly Muslim and privately incorporate Bori practices.<br /><br />So an American guy who lives here has hooked up with Hisham to do some filming of the Bori cult spirit possessions. Brian came here for the first time in 1999 as a BU study abroad student and has now bought land, and dabbles in spirit possession. Great. So... he and Hisham had brokered a deal to ask the spirits if he could film future possessions. With Ali and myself following closely behind, we arrived at one of the grand priests' house (read: cluster of grass huts) where we found the ceremony already 3 or so hours into it. There were several men seated in the sand under a shade structure. They were playing calabash with stick wisks, and from time to time, there were men and women who got up to dance to the music. About 2 more hours later, several of the mediums got up to lie down in the sun. Evidently, it was a form of sacrifice- asking the spirits to have pity on them in the sun and to come into someone for a visit. The people dancing were all mediums at a certian point when things got serious. Mediums are men and women and are usually afflicted with a spirit sickness at some point in their life, where the only cure is to accept the spirit and allow them tp use the human body in communication. Once they accept and go through an initiation, the spirit sickness goes away. They are then obligated to be present at ceremonies and at times when someone is at need. So after some time, there was one women whose eyes grew huge and she started making coughing noises in the back of her throat. She started pacing back and forth, her arms swinging back and forth violently. She then ran over to another medium and smacked her in the head. Evidently, the Lightening spirit had entered her long enough to choose the meduium it wanted. The women that was just smacked on the head then became the object of attention of a man with bells on a small staff. He was calling, welcoming the spirits into the new woman. The one that just lost the possession, just collapsed in the sand. Once the spirit fully entered its chosen medium, she cried out and was taken to a special hut to be dressed in the clothes that the spirit always wears. In this case, it was a red boubou with a red cap. The spirit was also given two scorched millet stalks. Suddenly there were people around us and next to us starting to feel different spirits enter their bodies. Over behind my right shoulder a young boy that was just listening to head phones, stiffened, jerked, and fell to the floor foaming at the mouth. He was possessed my a certain spirit from a spirit familiy, called hauka, that embodies characteristics of the colonizers. There were others across the compound who were mediums for this same spirit family, and although not possessed at the moment, they stared making motions that immitated a salute, to pay respects to the possession. There are some of these spirits that speak English, others French, and each has its own personality-drunk, violent, mad, etc. This young boy continued to foam at the mouth. In another minute he was seated in the dirt looking started and blinking into the sun. The spirit decided not to stay. Then someone else around the compound fell to the dirt. Another started banging their leg into the ground, and yet others, cried and coughed in the initial stages of a possession. There were only two spirits who decided to stay and talk this afternoon- Lightening, and the large colonizer spirit, Kaffer. At one point, an old man began to practically do backflips- the drunk hauka spirit entered him. But then a fight broke out in the background among some women and so the spirit left suddenly. The sun began to set, stars appeared, and the possessions slowed. Finally things were over, we watched everyone pack up their things in between gazes at the sky. The mosque just outside the fence called everyone to prayer for the evening. And as we left, I hooked one foot into the 4x4 and before getting in the car, glanced up to see people bent in prayer, foreheads to the ground. I guess here in Niger, all things are possible.Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-51086101115681142222007-02-04T15:38:00.000+01:002007-02-04T15:54:09.180+01:00Arlit in the news (hopefully)This is a link to an old article about the northern town of Arlit. It was founded about 30 years ago for the uranium mining industry and since the "boom" has come and gone, the residents are struggling financially, not to mention shouldering the disasterous effects of corporate neglect on health and human rights. The word on the ground is that finally this issue is going to get some playing time in the international press. Cross your fingers.<br /><br />Residents of uranium mining town fear they are being exposed to radioactive poisoning<br />http://www.irinnews.org/report.asp?ReportID=46864Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28930207.post-72587629048357949222007-02-02T15:31:00.000+01:002008-12-12T09:33:20.760+01:00Stuck in the sand "en brousse"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhur7kWcP5etTbQoVNTfQvI3mYtz38r-HFoemScp7ZWVtGzXsGke8pWgYjACeMjYwa5jCcqwZBrOI7cOGK2z5wFwGMZaPBdUhZZ0SoklBnIvsFgzGNPXI_HgPKqr6JTcsPtLL8c/s1600-h/CIMG0591.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhur7kWcP5etTbQoVNTfQvI3mYtz38r-HFoemScp7ZWVtGzXsGke8pWgYjACeMjYwa5jCcqwZBrOI7cOGK2z5wFwGMZaPBdUhZZ0SoklBnIvsFgzGNPXI_HgPKqr6JTcsPtLL8c/s200/CIMG0591.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5026945087027455298" /></a>Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17335895354792001388noreply@blogger.com0