A final lesson in geting things done

On 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.

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.

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.

sprint to the finish

I 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.

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.

Some faces in places

A Fulani girl from the Torodi region on market day

Hourera and her daughter Jeynoba escaping from the heat at my house

Bella Women of Ayerou

Hippos Go Berzerk

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.

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.

Top 10 Things That I Will miss about Niger

1. men still carry swords
2. the way people dance like no one is watching
3. herds of sheep and camels in downtown traffic
4. the little girl next door that screams like she just spotted Santa claus evertime I leave my house
5. tea
6. the sound and feel of the night in the desert
7. the beauty and diversity of the Fulani women
8. the night sky
9. call to prayer
10. how the concept of forming a line to wait for something is a completely foregn one

When systems fail

Yes, 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.

When technology fails: a word from Lucie

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.

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.

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.

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:
If you really need a computer fix, there's always Leyla's Cybercafe: This is where Steph often blogs and writes to all of you.






Here's the proprietor Amina with Steph:






And Leyla's has the added bonus of being a full service cafe where you can dine with friends:
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...

...or watch the sunset over the River Niger: Due courage, Steph. I have faith that this latest obstacle, too, shall be overcome.

Love,

Lucie

Spirited Away

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?)

What 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So 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.

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.

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.

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.

Earth Day in Niger? Maybe Next Year...

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

What does the future hold for the people and the environment of Niger? I am afraid that only time will tell.

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

Mon amie

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ça chauffe ici!

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

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

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

oh la la!

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

We're Engaged!

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

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.

My house

Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a salon, a terrace and a kitchen. And privacy. Awesome.

Niger Wildlife

There’s a cockroach in my closet. I know that it is better than a rat in the kitchen, but what cha gonna do? This guy is huge, he has claimed the space and refuses to make the acquaintance of my flip flop. I fear him touching any of my clothing so continue to live out of suitcases that are currently being used at the foot of my bed to stabilize my mosquito net over my foam mattress “bed.” For the moment it is like camping in an empty house.

This weekend was not only the New Year, but also Tabaski, the holiday that commemorates Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son. There were parties everywhere. Sunday morning I was gently awoken from sleep by the call to prayer. I wondered where the local mosque was and where people would be praying, since on the holidays seeing hundreds of people kneeling in reverence is fantastic. I did not think that opening my front door, I would find 8 rows of people the length of a soccer field kneeling in prayer facing me. At least I was in the right direction on the receiving end. I walked around the neighborhood knowing that people were going to be excited about the day and smartly dressed. After being harassed by some cheeky kid selling baguettes, I returned to the house with breakfast. An hour or so later, I exited the house again to find that a veritable slaughter had occurred outside my door. In Senegal, the sacrificing of the ram happens in the house and the meat is prepared to eat right away. Here, they have a slightly different way of going about it. Everyone gathers outside their doors, and the rams are sacrificed together in clusters on the street. The whole community is involved together in the skinning and preparation of the meat. Nothing is wasted and so as I walked around checking out everyone’s meat, I saw many a child standing on a pile of bile, excitedly shaking out the contents of the stomach. The meat is then slow cooked over a fire for 24 hours. It was nothing to see 20 carcasses around a small bonfire. Not the site for a vegetarian, but surely there is nothing closer to organic free range than the meat here. And it was delicious- at least for the first few days… With Christmas, New Years and Tabaski all clustered together, the already loose work ethic of Niger was further exacerbated. Although (I promise) I have been trying to work, things are bit hard when everything is closed for days on end. Having moved into the new house, I have water and electricity, but needed to get a gas can for my little stove top to prepare meals for myself. Unable to do so, I have survived the last few days on baguettes, protein bars, and half rancid meat. I am happy to report that I now have a functional stove top and am looking forward to that morning coffee.

I rang in the new year with some Dutch and Nigeriens. There was dancing to Celine Dion that got everyone so excited we formed a conga line on the porch. We sipped on cokes and lit sparklers to ring in the new year. And then the fireworks began. Sounding like gunshots, and usually being set off by a 5 year old, you are more likely than not to get hit by a bottle rocket. The kid sees the white person, is astonished to see you actually exist and not just in fairy tales, and forgets that they are holding a lit firecracker- pointed directly at you. I would not be surprised if most of the fireworks probably did not meet safety standards in some Western nation and have now been dumped here in Africa. After the holiday my nerves were completely frayed.

And so now for the cricket in my bathroom. He chirps so loudly that the echo is incredible. And the termites in my wall. And the toilet that runs continuously. Is this my introduction to home ownership?

Happy New Year!