November 14, 2009
Ramatou’s Baby
So, it’s been a while since I’ve taken the time to sit down and write—more than a month, but wow, it seems like that poop shower was just yesterday…time is really flying. I posted my last blog entry the end of October, when I was in Niamey for my first team meeting. During this visit, I also had the chance to gorge myself on pizza, milkshakes, and Internet time. For those who don’t already know, the American Recreation Center just got wireless, which (when it’s working) is fast enough to allow me to Skype people and EVEN video chat. I swam, I napped, I snacked, I did laundry. There was also a Halloween party for volunteers. I was really excited at the prospect of costumes, but, in true Katie form, I ended up going to bed early and slept through it. Then, before I knew it, I was back in village.
A few days before my trip to Niamey, my neighbor, Ramatou, gave birth to her first child. Ramatou works at the local school with her husband, and is one of my favorite people in the village. She’s a very pretty, petite, seemingly quiet woman, but underneath all that class she is wonderfully sassy. Like most schoolteachers in Niger, she and her husband were forced to move to find work, so they live away from the rest of their family. Like me, they are renting a mud house from my new adoptive father, Cemogo.
Ramatou is unlike a lot of Nigeriens in that she is very educated, speaks perfect French and a little English. I’m not clear about what her father does for work, but I know he went to school in Germany. As a consequence of this privileged upbringing, Ramatou developed a unique perspective on life in Niger. For example, she told me that she does not support polygamy and that she would never let her husband become her boss. (Did I ever mention that men are legally able to have up to four wives in Niger?) Ramatou was also the first person in my concession to invite me to dinner and really make an effort to make me feel welcome. She’s absolutely fantastic. Her only flaw is—for some unknown reason—she likes to inform me when I am perspiring. I’m not sure why she feels compelled to report this fact to me, but sure enough, every time she sees me it’s: “Greetings Hamsatou, how was your sleep? (pause) You are sweating.” But, Ramatou wins back all lost “cool points” for putting up with being two-and-a-half-weeks overdue during a month of 110-degree heat in a land where there is no AC.
Watching Ramatou haul her big pregnant belly around made me realize giving birth in a rural, third-world village is not something I ever want to do. While there is a maternity ward at the loktoro kwaara (doctor’s hut), my village does not have a lot of emergency care available should something go wrong. Really, Ramatou was lucky even to have the maternity ward available considering more than 70% of Nigerien women give birth at home. I was impressed to learn most women here continue to pound millet, scrub pots, sweep, etc. through the early stages of labor. Not only does this distract the women from the discomfort, but they claim it also helps the labor progress. In the final stages of delivery, a woman will go into her hut and give birth while squatting or standing up. This position actually makes for an easier delivery considering a woman’s anatomy. And, to top it all off, Nigerien women make every effort not to cry out or show the pain she is feeling during delivery. No one cries here, except children and anasara volunteers.
Ramatou ended up going into labor in the middle of the night, so I missed all the action. Thanks be to Allah, there were no difficulties with her pregnancy and a healthy baby boy was brought into the world. I went to visit her at the maternity ward the next day. The room where she had given birth had a floor, a window and two beds, but was really not much more than the mud house I live in. Ramatou looked worn out, but relieved not to be pregnant anymore. The baby, who would receive his name five days later during a “showing ceremony,” was in the arms of another older woman who was spooning broth into his mouth. I learned during PST feeding a baby anything but breast milk during the first months (or something) of life is bad, so red flags shot up the minute I saw the baby eating broth.
Misinformation, superstition, and unhealthy traditions are an unfortunate part of pregnancy and childcare in Niger. For example, many women believe that breast milk isn’t as good for their babies as formula or regular food. As a consequence, mothers sometimes give their children water instead of milk, which—of course—is rarely clean. Many Nigeriens also believe that the first breast milk a woman produces after giving birth contains bad juju, so often a mother won’t feed her baby the colostrum—breast milk that contains vital antibodies. Then, remember one in four Nigerien children die before they turn five.
I wanted to ask Ramatou why she wasn’t nursing the baby, but something stopped me. I think I didn’t want to seem like a know-it-all anasara—especially because I know so little about pregnancy. Peace Corps staff emphasized many times during our training that we, as Americans, have a large body of knowledge in so many subjects where we do not consider ourselves to be informed. In other words, a lot of the time, we don’t recognize the basic knowledge we hold as valuable because everyone we know, knows it too. For example, unless I got an MBA, I would not feel competent enough to educate people about business strategy. But, after going to public high school and even just having a job in the U.S. I really do have more business knowledge than a lot of business owners here. Now, I’m not saying that I could do a better job selling camels than a Tuareg camel herder; but I do understand the concepts of supply and demand, cost, markup, revenue, and profit whereas they may not. (Less than 20% of Nigeriens are even literate.) The same goes for basic healthcare. I’m not a doctor, but I do know it is not a good idea to let a newborn baby drink Niger River water. Unfortunately, many mothers here do not know that. Ramatou, because of her economic means, represents a special case…and I think that may be why I hesitated to correct her childcare practices. I figured she knows what she was doing. Perhaps I should have said something, but either way, her child is still in good health.
I was in Niamey when Ramatou and her husband hosted the baby-naming/showing ceremony, but since women give birth rather often here, I have already been to quite a few. Here’s how it happens. The family slaughters either a goat or a sheep to make a fancy stew. Everyone shows up in the morning and give their congratulations to the parents. Most people bring soap or money as a gift. All the men sit outside, drink tea, and eat dates. All the women sit inside with the baby and gossip, while preparing biblical amounts of rice for lunch (or koranical amounts, I guess). At some point the maribou, a Muslim holy man, arrives to bless and name the baby. In the old days, the maribou would actually pick the name, but nowadays the father usually makes a “suggestion.” Then everyone eats lunch. In my personal experience lunch is usually a big shitshow. Either there isn’t enough, or people fight over the leftovers. All the women bicker about the cooking of the rice and the most strategic way to serve it. In my opinion, these ceremonies are actually kind of intense. The women are always fired up and yelling over one another. And, when it comes to the cooking, I have seen women get violent with each other more than once. Before the party is over, everyone gets a plastic bag of punch to take home (WARNING: THIS PUNCH IS MADE WITH RIVER WATER). All in all—it’s a fun day.
I was really sad to have missed Ramatou’s baby’s ceremony, especially since it was her first child, but Allah did not will me to be there. When I got back, she (among others) was upset with me, but I won her back over with some fancy soap and a bib I bought for Ousman—her baby had a name now. She’s doing great as a new mom too. Granted, she does have a hired nurse to help her out, but I wouldn’t feel ready to raise a child even with an army of Mary Poppinses.
My Own, Personal Magic Potion
The first week I was back from Niamey, I was very busy with visiting all my friends, etc. It was also that week another volunteer’s parents came to visit, so the entire cluster of volunteers got together at the hostel in my village to cook dinner. Her parents were having a surprisingly pleasant visit, in spite of the 110-degree heat and squat toilets. To celebrate their arrival, the volunteer’s village had a big party and killed a sheep. Her father’s short stay in my town (they just spent one night at the hostel) caused quite a stir. For at least three days afterwards, my villagers kept asking me who the anasara bambata (enormous white person) was. Keeping in mind Nigeriens equate largeness with both wealth and importance, it’s no wonder everyone was so excited by the visit of this obviously very important gentleman.
After her parents left, I began to get back into my routine; I was tragically behind on visiting people, so that was my first priority. One of the people I was most eager to see was my new friend, Haoua (How-wa). (I realize that I’ve mentioned many Haouas and Ramatous before. I will do my best to make it clear whom I am referring to, but Nigeriens generally recycle the same 30 names
[1] for boys and 30 more for girls
[2].) Anyway, this particular Haoua is the younger sister of my adoptive father. She lives in another house, not far from mine, with her husband, Hassan. When I first wandered in to her concession (yard), I actually had no idea she was “related” to me. I was just exploring a new part of town and saw friendly-looking group of people. Haoua, however, recognized me immediately and was disappointed I didn’t know who she was. I launched into my usual routine about how I have a terrible memory and have trouble remembering peoples’ names, especially Nigerien names—because they are so strange. I then asked if I could sit and chat. At this, Haoua forgave me, and set about the business of trying to get me to eat something.
Haoua’s husband Hassan was also delighted by my visit and started chatting me up. As a young solider, Hassan had traveled all over Niger. He knew all about the rebels up north, and the bandits out west. He had also spent time in Nigeria and Ghana, and so spoke some (very broken) English.
There was another gentleman, Moussa, sitting with the group who was excited I had come to chat. I had seen him around town and got the sense from the way Haoua and Hassan talked to him, he was the annoying friend, who isn’t actually your friend, always talks, and never leaves. True to his nature, Moussa cut off my conversation with Hassan to inform me he had an anasara friend. I must not have given him enough of a reaction, because he immediately got up to retrieve photographic evidence of this friendship. When he came back he handed two or three pictures to me to inspect. I was surprised to see the photos were of a Christian priest baptizing Moussa in the Niger River—especially considering that Niger is 99% Muslim. I asked Moussa how long he had been a Christian, but he didn’t answer in apparent confusion. I explained to him the priest had baptized him to wash away all his sins, something most devout Christians do as a kind of rite of passage. Moussa shook his head and said that the priest in the photo had just wanted to give him a bath (as a gesture of friendship?). I didn’t see the need to clarify the matter as I’m sure both the priest and Moussa were perfectly happy believing their version of what happened. I, however, took a moment to appreciate how this incident contributed to the bizarreness of anasaras in the eyes of my villagers.
Haoua, who was obviously irritated Moussa was hogging the anasara’s attention, started telling me about Hassan’s work. I was little skeptical when she told me he worked as a doctor, since I hadn’t seen him around the loktoro kwaara. I asked where he studied medicine, and it became obvious I was missing some key point in the conversation. To help me understand, Hassan said he would show me, then led me into the extra house next door to their house. Inside it was dark and the air was thick with incense, but I could still see there were two rooms. The first was empty except for a couple mats on the dirt floor. The back room, however, was overwhelmed with a collection of bottles and strange skins, hats, and robes hanging on the walls. Seeing this, I understood—Hassan was a traditional healer, or “black doctor” in Zarma.
Hassan started unwrapping various pouches and showing me what was inside. Each powder he showed me was completely undistinguishable from the next in my eyes, but he assured me they all had different purposes. This one is for a headache, the next for stomach issues, the next to aid conception, or to help a person who had be possessed by a ganji (evil spirit). I was mesmerized by the scene in front of me, but Hassan drew my attention seven cockleshells in his hand. He told me, with these shells, he could read Allah’s will. He then began to demonstrate for me by tossing the shells into the sand and interpreting their placement. After a few throws, he asked his wife, Haoua, to take over.
I was a little skeptical of my future, according to Hassan and Haoua. During Hassan’s first throw he had predicted things that were not exactly radical. For example, he told me I would get a call from America and that one of my Peace Corps friends would get sick—both of which happen fairly often for a PCV. Hassan also predicted I would teach him English, which seemed an interesting thing for Allah to will.
Haoua’s spent more time with me, but her predictions were much more vague. She told me I should sacrifice sugar and dates by giving them to children around town. If I did this, she told me, I would ma kaani gumo gumo, which literally translates as “feel happy a lot.” In the midst of many other predictions, the shells also revealed to Haoua that Allah willed me to participate in another ceremony in order to feel even happier. She explained the ceremony to me and asked if I would be willing come back the next day to do it.
As I mentioned mere paragraphs ago, Niger is officially 99% Muslim. There are, however, certain areas of the country where some continue to practice the same animist ceremonies as their ancestors. My village is in one of these areas. Of course, all remnants of traditional culture exist only under the guise of having a Koranic origin. Since more than 80% of Nigeriens are illiterate, very few people have ever actually read the Koran. Consequently a great deal of “Muslimism” in this country isn’t actually Muslim, but rather tradition, superstition, or rumor. Some do recognize animist traditions as blasphemy, creating tension between various members of the community. For this reason, I was a little apprehensive to participate in the ceremony. I didn’t want to align myself with a controversial group or have my villagers label me as anti-Muslim. I was even more apprehensive when Haoua instructed me not to tell anyone about the ceremony. It is your secret, she told me. (She didn’t say anything about blog posts.)
But how could I pass up such an experience? How many times in my life was I going to have the chance to participate in a traditional African ceremony? After hearing what the ceremony entailed, I decided it seemed private enough and I agreed. Not to mention Haoua promised participating would endow me with strength, make everyone like me, and make all my dreams come true. How can you turn down an offer like that?
An afternoon later that week, I walked back to Haoua’s with a bucket with a lid and small coins as an offering—things she had told me I would need. When I arrived only Hassan and Haoua were home. They brought me into the hut where Hassan works and told me to sit with my bucket in front of me. Hassan and Haoua sat too, so that the three of us formed a triangle. Hassan began by pouring a few liters of river water into my bucket while chanting “in the name of Allah” in Arabic, bismilla. He then added pinches and dashes of four or five different colored powders, while chanting something in Songhai. He finished the potion by spraying a generous amount of cheap perfume.
When the potion was ready, both Hassan and Haoua chanted for two or three minutes while making several synchronized gestures. I tried to follow along, but really had no idea what was happening. Haoua, then, instructed me to place the pointer finger of my right hand on the rim of the bucket, and they both did the same. There was more chanting, then Hassan turned to me and told me to tell the bucket what I wanted. I was so flustered, I couldn’t thing of anything to say. I hadn’t understood I was actually going to have to do something for the ceremony. Plus, I had no idea how to explain all my hopes and dreams in Zarma.
Luckily, Hassan gave me the okay to do this step in English—so I wasn’t limited by my Zarma vocabulary and didn’t have to censor myself . I leaned forward and told my magic potion exactly what I wanted out of life. And what did I ask for? I guess that’s between me and Allah. When I was done, Hassan said a few more words conclude the ceremony, then put the lid on my bucket. He and Haoua were both beaming at me. I got the sense they were both excited I had agree to participate, actually shown up, and that the ceremony had been such a success. I gave Hassan a 500 CFA as a gift, while thanking him profusely for taking the time to make all my dreams come true. Then, Haoua led me outside and instructed me to go home and bathe in the potion.
And I did.
The experience was totally unreal to me. The whole time I kept thinking, I chose such a strange life, how lucky am I? I found out later that I was suppose to repeat the process four times, but I only managed to go back once more before all parties forgot the undertaking. So my dreams will at least half come true.
The Rest of My Life in Village
Besides going to naming ceremonies and brewing magic potions, I have been continuing with my little routine.
Work at the mayor’s office is still not really work at all. I am teaching the Etat-Civil how to use Excel and learning an impressive vocabulary of swear words thanks to Ramatou the secretary at the mayor’s (not the same Ramatou as my neighbor who gave birth or my homestay mother). One morning at the mayor’s, I had a young, educated gentleman approach me and asked me all about Peace Corps and what I wanted to do for the next two years. After I got done explaining why I had been sent to work her, he asked if I would want to help create a library in my village. I love the idea of acting as a support to project villagers already want, rather than coming up with projects and trying to get them involved. Thus, I was really excited this man had sought me out to tell me about this idea. I wanted to help and perhaps I will have the chance. However I still won’t begin doing projects until February. And even when I do start, building a library would be an enormous undertaking. This thought made me hesitant to commit to anything. I told him I would help him as much as I could, if Allah agreed. A few days later, I found out this guy was wrong when he told me there was no library nearby. My village already has a library—so my work here is done.
This same gentleman—a schoolteacher—also asked me to teach him and some of his colleagues English (as so many Nigeriens do). This guy was different though; he was clearly very educated and spoke pretty good English already. So, I told him that if he got a group together, and picked a meeting time, I would come and facilitate a conversation. Nothing has started yet, but I think an English club would be a great non-project to occupy me until February. My new friend (who’s name I can’t remember) also promised to help me with my Zarma, so all in all, I was very glad to have met him.
I’ve actually met a lot of interesting, helpful people while just sitting around the mayor’s. There are tons of NGO workers, village chiefs, businessmen, commune council members, farmers, travelers, and just straight up big shots rolling through. I even met a reporter for the UN, but he disappeared before we got the chance to talk. Another morning, mid-nose pick, a young blonde woman came in the door of my “office.”
Like all Nigeriens, I am now a shameless nose-picker. Even though I do it in front of my villagers without restraint, I was rather embarrassed to have this stylish young woman see me with my finger up my nose. Also, after I spend more a week in my village, I am no longer able to interact normally with non-villagers—I find it overwhelming. City folk/my American peers do not tolerate certain behaviors that are normal in the bush, nose-picking being one of them, not washing my hair or blaming my flakiness on Allah’s will are others. ANYWAY, in light of all this, I was very flustered at the arrival of this new visitor and was unable to interact normally. I hid in my book. In spite of my awkwardness, my supervisor insisted I accompany Claude (from Lichtenstein, but working for German aid) as she visited one of the women’s groups the German government was funding.
Claude’s chauffer drove the two of use, plus Claude’s translator, to a field outside of town. As we approached, I recognized several of the women waiting as members of the main women’s group in town, and was delighted they remembered me. There were only four of five members there. Claude seemed disappointed by the turn out, but her translator assured her more people would show up. She was also a bit disheartened that there didn’t seem to be much growing in the fields, but her translator explained to her we were in between growing seasons. This was all an overly optimistic translation of the situation. One of the women had told me there were actually sweet potatoes growing in the field in front of us, but no one was working because it was too hot. Even so, I didn’t correct the translator.
Claude sat down to ask the women’s group some questions about their work, while her translator relayed everything back and forth between Zarma and French. I could understand most of the Zarma, but only a little of the French, so I asked Claude (who speaks English) for the Reader’s Digest version after everything was done. She told me she was just trying to see if the group had adopted any of the innovative farming practices the German funding had paid to teach these women—of course they hadn’t. I’m not sure why third-world farmers are so unwilling to change habits, but during the meeting I did hear a woman say they didn’t make compost as they had been taught because it was too hard. While walking back to the car, Claude told me the German government had done the math and (even excluding the funding the group was given as an expense) the women lose money every year on their cold season garden. It is a negative investment. Considering that all ten of the women’s group in my village plant a cold season garden and that it is their principal motivation for them to form a group, this was a little upsetting. I wonder if all of the groups are losing money…or if they even know it.
Claude and her driver took me back to the mayor’s office, but before she continued on her way to the next big town she asked for my phone number. I think she had picked up on the optimism of her translator, because she told me that she would be working in the area for a while and would love the help of someone who spoke the local language. I also think she might just be looking for a friend nearby. I haven’t heard anything yet, but of course would love to have the ear of a major aid source.
Other than that, I really have not done much besides sit around and chat with people. After two months in my village I have a whole laundry list of things I would like to do, but for some reason, nothing gets done in this country. I would like to: build a Dutch oven, plant a garden, visit all ten of the women’s groups, teach other members of the mayor’s staff to use Excel, get to know the people at the local NGO/help out with some of their projects, visit the schools, learn where on the river women go to wash clothes, buy a clay jug, and find someone to be my counterpart for the next two years. Unfortunately, I need someone’s help to do a lot of these things, so (as I said) nothing gets done. Surprisingly, I also feel like there just aren’t enough hours in the day. I seem to have made too many friends and am constantly apologizing for not visiting so-and-so often enough. I have also adopted a pretty intense regiment of hot yoga and arts and crafts…
Buying bananas is the most exciting part of my week...
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[1] Hassan, Hama, Jzbrilla, Moussa, Mahamadou, Neuhou, Hamani, Issa, Ousman, Amadou, Abdoulay, Moustafa, Adrisa, Moktar, Salisoum, Shaibou, Harou, Kabiro, Hadaire, Abdou + Something else, Sofiani, Rafidi, Jafar, Kassam, Rolli, Souleman, Seydou, Boubacar, Aysaka, Abraham, Mahman, Mumadi
[2] Hamsatou, Ramatou, Haoua, Jamilla, Mariama, Zuera, Oumu, Hasia, Raikia, Zainabou, Fatouma, Biba, Saharatou, Sadie, Amina, Halima, Shaima, Haijeria, Samseyia, Salamatou, Rashida, Maimouna, Adama, Kalima, Fouzia, Aishatou, Sameria, Nafisa, Wasia, Sharifia, Huhray
