HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEPH!

From the zocalo of Oaxaca....

...to the streets of Niamey...

Steph is a rockstar.

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.

Love, Parks

Niger Trip COS STATS

It's me, Parks, posting again from NYC.

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.

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.

Steph – these are for you, babe. An early Bday present. Enjoy!


NIGER TRIP C.O.S. STATS:

NUMBER OF.....

People picked up on Parker’s Air Maroc flight- 1 (2 if you count the random Brit, who was on my flight home, too)
Times Parkie was scrubbed at the Hammam Ziani in Casa- 2 (read: not enough)
Times Hisham was scrubbed at the Hammam Ziani-0 (afraid he’d miss the flight)
People staying at Steph’s house, officially-2 – counting Aria
People staying at Steph’s house, unofficially-5 and counting…
Times we discussed Maaaaali-139
Shower spigot explosions-2 (read: 1 too many)
Calls to Rabio to regulate something in that house-9
Times Aria made tea in the front yard-91
Trips to Leyla’s-Numerous
Times we told the taximan "Recasement, premier laterite" and didn't know what it meant-46
Brochettes consumed-189, at least
Biere Nigers consumed-129, at least
Giraffes who walked along side us-6 and ½ (the baby)
Picnics under a tree-1
Meals over an open sewer-1 (read: 1 too many)
Times the car broke down from Koure to Niamey-3
“A-hole villages” encountered on the goudron-2
Private concerts thrown together, attended, and even filmed-3 and counting…
Times Steph’s cell phone ran out of credit-43 (read: she’s way assimilated)
Critters scurrying on the house roof in the morning-7, on average
Oral Roberts Pilots encountered by Steph at Grand Hotel-4
Times said pilots left hotel grounds in 4 days -0
Times we flirtatiously called “Taximan!” -22
Times Aria threatened to quit his job -6
Times Aria actually quit his job-0
Body wraps Aria applied to “keep from being broken”-1
Emergen-Cs ingested-About 62
Emergen-Cs free-based by Steph en brousse-1
Beers consumed via Nalgene in Chateau1-1, it was the last day, OK?
Gaulloise smoked-200
Gaulloises smoked by people other than Hisham-182
Packs of Cravens left on the wall and then found empty-8
Passwords better than “fistula”-0
Words in Salimatous’s village “sensibilization”-17
Fistula patients in the compound-33
Beaded necklaces made by the women-463
Times we were put on the spot at a sensibilization - 1
18-hour recruiting trips en brousse - 1,and counting
Times Abdourahmane gave Parks a hard time-many
Excessively tall and cold refrigerators leased-1
Times Harouna dropped by to check on said refrigerator-23
Consecutive calls from Diallo-732
Times Mohammed took over the stereo-48
Times Dr. Abdoulaye busted in on a private concert in Agadez-2
Pagnes on Steph’s bed-14
Greetings cooler than "Fofo!"-1 ("Naka wow-wow?")
Heart-to-hearts at Club Equestre-2
Bowls of fufu inhaled-Several (thank you Celestine)
Ghetto quartier trail rides-1
Near death experiences on horseback-5
Knitting stages attempted -1
Knitting stages held-0
Times steph harassed CD vendors hunting for Grippe Aviaire-29
Pope videos purchased at La Taverne-1
Sets of keys made to Chez Steph-3
Sets of keys lost and remade-1 (H.M.)
Cassette stands raided-About 11
Bucket baths taken -Probably not enough
Latenight runs to the airport-2 and counting
Packets of “spas-vom” purchased-3
Last minute “power runs” to the grand marche-1
CFA it takes to get a taxi to pick you up at 2am-5000, apparently
Fruit bats swooping over the Niger river at dusk-hundreds
Pounds of dried meat smuggled into JFK-About 3
Times I was inspired by Steph -Many.
Times I crack up, tear up, or get chills just thinking about my time in Niger -Many.
Beautiful moments, exchanges, and scenes from Niamey and beyond… -Countless.

What's Behind "If"?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Mouma Bob (yet another private concert)

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).

http://www.imawalanes.com/

What's up Doc?

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?

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.

Bringing Home a Little Taste of Niger

Greetings from Cabrini Boulevard!

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.)

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.

I hope you're all well in your respective parts of the world.

Holly
PS - the photo is of me and Razak proudly displaying a tray of the sheep meat in his kitchen in Baltimore

Call to Prayer

Hello! 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.

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.

Arlit 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.

Residents of uranium mining town fear they are being exposed to radioactive poisoning
http://www.irinnews.org/report.asp?ReportID=46864

Stuck in the sand "en brousse"

Bouncing Around

Earlier this week I went north to the region of Tera and to approximately 10 villages surrounding the town of Tera. In the 18 hours that I spent in the 4x4 on bumpy donkey cart paths sucking in dust and rationing my water, we entered about 10 or more villages and located three women who have fistula. One by one the women climbed in the car leaving villages and families behind to sit on plastic sheets in the rear of the car for the journey to Niamey. "The Americans are coming! The Americans are coming!" was the word being spread, and so any women suffering from fistula should make their way to Niamey in hopes of qualifying for the repair surgery. I have to say with honesty, that this day redefined the word "rural" for me. We would bounce along for hours before coming on 2 grass huts and some goats. A startled woman would emerge with a baby on her hip and eventually point in the direction of the next cluster of huts miles away. It was astonishing. Not only is a village defined as two huts, but miles and miles lie between the clusters and although there are barely discernable track marks in the sand from the last cart that went by, we saw no one on a cart, and only a few people walking with heavy loads on their heads in the middle of the middle of nowhere. The picture is of a Fulani girl who has had three fistula repair surgeries and is now living back in her village. She was all smiles and hopped in our car for a ride (about 10 miles away) to the weekly market. Being stared at is part of being an oddity here, but this was the first time I scared a grown woman so much by my presence that she was brought to tears. Ususally it is the young children who are frightened by how different I look, but scaring adults really reinforced the isolation that these people endure. I often remove my sunglasses as a polite gesture in greeting people, but was reminded that the light color of my eyes is what frightens some more than the color of my skin.

Fulani woman selling milk

A little explanation

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...

Another concert

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."

Last Herd of W. African Giraffes at Koure

Rewbe Fulbe (Fulani Ladies)

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…

Women at Dimol

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.