General Activities…
January was an eventful month. Inter-Service Training (IST) was rapidly approaching, so I was trying to get to know my community at super-speed. The normal, non-refugee volunteer spends three whole months in his post before going to IST in Hamdallaye, at which one learns the “how to” of projects. However, due to the timing of consolidation and the time it took to get my new post ready, I only spent five weeks in village before IST.
Thus, I dedicated a great deal of time to running around talking to people, while simultaneously getting settled into my new home. The mayor’s office at my new post is much less active than at my old, so I only go there twice a week and usually don’t stay more than a couple hours. When I do make to the office (which lies on the edge of town) Seyni (SAY-nee), the Etat-Civil, and I are usually the only ones there. On one of my first visits, I asked Seyni if there was anything small/easy I could help him with in the office. I wanted to get to know the place, without taking on too much responsibility. Birth certificates, was his response. He invited me to come write birth certificates.
Because of Niger’s underdevelopment, public officials must handwrite all public records and subsequent copies. Thus, when someone announces a birth, marriage, or death, the mayor’s staff must write out three copies of the certificate: one to be sent to Niamey, one to stay at the mayor’s, and a copy for the declarer. Unfortunately, life often outpaces bureaucracy, creating a looming backlog of unwritten certificates.
My first day of helping, Seyni handed me a 12” by 16” book of blank birth acts and gave me a brief tutorial. The documents are all in French, which I don’t actually speak; nevertheless, Seyni assured me it didn’t matter if I made mistakes. After just the first few copies, my hand began to cramp, so I flipped ahead to see the rest of the book—99% of the entries were for illiterate farmers. In the entire book, one or two fathers identified themselves as “shopkeepers,” and no more than six had completed elementary school. In the whole book, there was only one birth act on which identified the mother to be literate.
It takes me about ten minutes to write the three copies for each act (plus some hand stretching breaks), so I estimate I write about ten certificates for each morning I spend at the mayor’s. After a couple weeks of (what I thought was) very diligent effort, I had worked my way through most of the book. Even though my book had been waiting to be filled out since 2006, I began to worry I would soon write myself out of a job. Concerned, I asked Seyni, “What do you do when you aren’t writing birth acts?” Seyni, who spends every weekday from seven a.m. to one p.m. copying these certificates, was clearly confused by my words. I rephrased the question, “What other work do you do when the birth certificates are finished?” He paused for a moment, sorting his way though my awkward Zarma. “It never finishes,” he replied. Seyni then drew my attention to the table in the back of the room, struggling to support at least ten more books of the commune’s birth acts, all waiting to be filled out.
I later observed Seyni doing a lot of work in addition to the birth certificates. I watched him organize the taxes for the entire commune, which is no small task. Also, as he is the only member of the mayor’s staff that comes to work, he must address all requests, inquiries and complaints that passersby may bring.
Though it’s much less exciting than the mayor’s office at Gotheye, I enjoy the time I spend with Seyni. For one, I really feel like I am helping him out, even if it is in a small, small way. Also, the quiet hours I spend writing birth certificates breaks up the (often overwhelming) rest of my day.
Besides going to the mayor’s, I’ve been all over town, getting to know the community. Here are some highlights: I visited the (destroyed/abandoned) community garden; drew a “resource map” of the entire village; taught a woman in my village to make friendship bracelets; learned to weave traditional Zarma mats out of palm leaves; journeyed to the next village’s market; spent a few afternoons at the clinic, watching the doctor give shots; attended nearly ten naming ceremonies, a wedding and two funerals; I sat in on a geography class at the primary school; learned to play “Blackbird” on my guitar; AND participated in no less than ONE MILLION get-to-know-you discussions with my villagers.
My 14-year-old neighbor started a particularly interesting conversation one evening when she randomly asked me (and I quote) “if I had ever seen God.” Considering rural, African villagers rarely engage in abstract, theological discussions, I decided she must have asked the question literately. (Surprisingly) This question caught me a bit off guard. First, I wasn’t completely sure I understood her. Second, I don’t know why she thought being an anasara might privilege me to witness the divine. Finally, I didn’t want to step on any pious, Muslim toes. After a considering all this for a moment, I told her the truth: I saw divinity everywhere—in her and in me. Staring back at me with wide eyes, she clicked her tongue in the back of her throat and said, “Irkoy beeri”—God is great.
I had another memorable conversation the first time I went to see the doctor in my village, Zilah (ZEE-lah). I showed up right as the she was closing up for the afternoon, so the small, one-room clinic was empty. Though I hadn’t been there before, the doctor knew exactly who I was and immediately began interrogating me. The conversation went something like this:
“Why haven’t you come to see me yet? Nadira (the old volunteer) used to come and see me everyday. Your skirt is too old, and it is dirty. Why hasn’t your boyfriend bought you a new one? Where is your boyfriend? Are you married? I will buy you a new skirt when I go to Dosso. How long have you been here? Do you pray? Do you pray the Muslim way? Come with me to the mosque now and I will teach you how to pray correctly.”
Zilah delivered this whole speech in less than 15 seconds, without pause. I managed to slip in a few monosyllabic responses, but was more or less steamrolled by this outpouring. In the end, Zilah turned out to be great company, if a bit preoccupied with finding me a boyfriend…
February 15, 2010
Toilet Issues
Before I left for America, I read something in the pre-departure materials warning parents not to be too concerned when their children tell “war stories” over the phone. War stories…tales of incredible illness, ridiculous infrastructure troubles, or getting sprayed by cow diarrhea. (Parents are also told not to contact the Peace Corps unless they go three months without hearing from their children.) Anyway…I wasn’t even going to bring up my toilet issues (war story)…because I figure everyone listening from home doesn’t need monthly updates on my digestive system…which actually cuts out a great deal of “blog content,” since here so much of my life revolves around my stomach. But, the following was too wonderful of a story to not share. Thus, let me issue a WARNING: This next bit is about poop.
It all started when I learned I would get a new post…
After the attempted kidnappings, it became clear many volunteers would not be able to return to their posts. However, (for obvious reasons) Peace Corps didn’t want team refugee endlessly languishing about the Niamey hostel. So, the Bureau worked to prepare new sites as quickly as possible; and thus, when I arrived at my new site, it was not 100% ready. The house was clean and empty, but had no floor. There was no shade hanger—critical for hot season. And, I didn’t have a latrine.
I didn’t want to spend any more time in the hostel, so I assured my boss, Ousman, I would be comfortable staying in a nearby house, until the mayor (who, as my supervisor, is responsible for all my housing issues) could oversee repairs on my house. Also, agreed to stay with only a temporary latrine. In less technical jargon, a “temporary latrine” is a big clay pot buried in the ground. What a glamorous life I do lead…
The clay pot worked out pretty well in the beginning—really, it was just like a latrine. What’s more, construction on my new latrine seemed to be moving at an encouraging pace. While I was in Dosso for Christmas, the mayor had hired a couple kids to dig the hole and to make the cement cover. Now it just need to be put together and a wall for privacy.
Before I go any further, I have to give you a little background on family matters in my village. The village chief, the mayor, and my landlord, Hama, are all a part of the same family. Unfortunately, some time ago, Hama and the mayor had a bit of a falling out and are now engaged in a full-on feud. I’m not to clear about how it started…something about someone not selling someone rice. Regardless of who’s to blame, this feud puts me in a bit of an awkward situation. First of all, the mayor doesn’t really like to come over to my house/deal with housing issues, because Hama is in charge of the property. And (of course) Hama is always looking for opportunities to point out what a terrible person the mayor is. Thus, when Hama showed me the hole and the concrete slab the mayor had built for me, he pointed to them emphatically, insisting the work was cuta; which (as best as I can translate) means “piece of shit.”
Considering Hama is (perhaps) not the most objective judge of the mayor’s character, I brushed off this review as a consequence of the feud. Yes, the hole was not especially deep and it did seem a bit half-assed…but I wanted a place to poop, and didn’t have a lot of options. (Of course my villagers throughout this whole ordeal, kept insisting to me I go and poop in the field behind the village like a normal person.)
Again, with the hole dug, and the concrete laid, all I needed was for the latrine to be assembled and a wall for privacy. But, as I waited for these final steps to be completed, days became weeks and my little pot got very full. Soon I was going to unusual measures to avoid what Peace Corps types call “splash back.” I grew more and more aggressive about reminding the mayor to finish the work, but each time I called he always promised the work would be done “tomorrow.” Mid-January, I was fed up and ready to pay Hama to do the work for me, but the same morning I told Hama to do it, a representative of the mayor’s office showed up with a millet-stalk mat for a wall.
So there it was—my latrine! It had a hole, and a wall, and a cement cover for me to stand on. The only thing missing now was a door—an actual avenue through which to enter this miraculous depository. The guy from the mayor’s office had done a great job setting up the millet-stalk wall; it was very private. The only trouble was he had not cut a door through the straw, so I could look at the latrine all I wanted, but couldn’t actually use it.
Hama said he would cut the hole for me, but Monday he was gone. Tuesday he forgot. The next day was Wednesday, which is the market day for the next town over. Then Thursday is the market day for Vela, and he had to go and sell a cow. These are legitimate excuses, but it meant waiting nearly another week for a new latrine. Friday, Hama cut an entryway to the latrine, but he did it in a way so that everyone passing by on the street would be able to see me in there. Thrilled to have access to my new toilet, I was happy to hang an old piece of cloth as a door—giving me all the necessary privacy. Though, the project didn’t seem quite finished to me.
Two whole days passed, during which time I was able to use my latrine without trouble. THEN! ON THE THIRD DAY! I was midway through my morning routine when Hama showed up. He was fuming with anger as he told me to pack my things, because that day I was moving out. I was pretty alarmed. I didn’t want to move. I liked my new house and neighbors. More importantly, I had only gotten to use my new latrine twice, and was not excited at the prospect of reliving the past month’s construction issues. Unsure what to do, I called up the regional representative (a PCV who works as a liaison between volunteers and the office), and told him the situation. He immediately contacted my mayor, the village chief, Hama, and the Dosso program assistant (Seyni ), while assuring me I would not have to move.
Everything worked out. I didn’t have to move. The details are still foggy, but I later learned what had happened: The mayor had gone to the village chief and told him he wanted me to move, because he didn’t like me living in Hama’s house. The village chief had then called Hama to come and discuss the matter with the mayor, which led to a big fight, which led to Hama telling me to move out. To further complicate the matter, the mayor hasn’t actually paid Hama any of the rent he owes on my house, giving Hama a legitimate reason for asking me to move.
Of course within ten minutes of the big fight at the village chief’s house, the whole village knew about it and wanted the inside scoop. So, I spent the whole day trying to avoid the conflict and answer questions diplomatically, while at the same time keeping a close eye on my house to be sure Hama didn’t move me out. I also endured a forty-minute lecture from Hama, enlightening me about his merits as a landlord. (Hama is a wonderful landlord.) By the end of the day I was really exhausted.
Then, as evening fell, I paid a visit to my latrine to dispose of a piece of refuse. I paused to reflect on how long it had taken to be completed and how happy it made me, just to have a private place to poop. Gazing (admiringly) at the latrine, I notice the cement had begun to crack. My heart sank. It had been such a struggle to get this latrine built. Was it falling apart already? Perhaps Hama was right (not just begrudged) in calling it cuta. I toed the crack, deciding if I should say anything to Seyni, the program assistant, who was due to visit my site in the next week. But, in an instant, the cement gave way and I fell in.
Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I fell into my latrine.
So, let’s keep this all in perspective. Yes, I fell into a pit of my own feces, which is the worst thing that can happen to anyone ever. BUT, on the bright side, I had only used it twice, and thus escaped WITHOUT GETTING ANY POOP ON ME. Also luckily, the hole wasn’t especially deep, so I was able to climb (bolt, leap, launch myself) right out. I did, however, scrape my arms pretty badly, and was bleeding. I held it together long enough to text the regional representative about what had happened and to bandage my arm, but then I sat down on my floor and bawled with complete abandon. I sobbed out of shock and self-pity for about ten minutes, until an exhausted yawn of acceptance rose up from my chest and it all just stopped.
The next morning all my villagers (who notice every time I get a paper cut) were very alarmed to see my scraped arm. Each one would ask what happened. I would tell them. Then he or she would insist on coming to see the wrecked latrine. But, rather than laughing at me as I expected, each one consistently pointed out how lucky I had been. I hadn’t drowned in my own feces. I did not get stuck in the hole. I didn’t even get hurt that badly. (There was one girl who started calling me her “latrine friend” in Zarma, but I don’t really get that joke.)
The Seyni (the program assistant) showed up a couple days later and within the span of a few hours had: talked to the village chief, the mayor, and my landlord; located all the necessary materials, including a new block of cement; settled the question of the unpaid rent; and gotten my landlord to dig me a new latrine. (When it was finished, several grown men in the village jumped up and down on top of the new piece of concrete to demonstrate its strength.) Basically, he settled four weeks of trouble in one afternoon.
(Side note: That day, as the men put the finishing touches on my latrine, one of the men had a seizure in my yard. This was perhaps the scariest moment of my Peace Corps career. Having been trained in first aid and possessing a knowledge of first-world medicine, I felt obligated to do something, but was frozen by doubt. In America, I would have probably called for an ambulance or at least been relatively sure the man had received medical care for his condition. Standing in the middle of the desert, the only thing I was sure of was how far away a hospital was and how inaccessible medical care is.)
Now, in the days before IST, I seemed to be on the homestretch with this whole latrine business. Yet, in the days following Seyni’s rescue, I grew more and more angry with the mayor and my landlord. How silly were they for, after all these years, not giving in on some feud over rice? Here’s the story I told myself: I could not be certain, but was am fairly confident if my mayor and landlord weren’t still clinging to this tiff that occurred years ago I would have been built a proper toilet. Rather than hiring someone the mayor might have done the work himself, or at least come to see it, rather than avoiding my (Hama’s) house. Hama might have been more willing to help the mayor, rather than just pointing out what a poor job he did. They might have even built the latrine together while singing Cat Stevens songs. Without doubt, I wouldn’t have spent a whole day wondering whether or not I would be forced to move. What could they be fighting about that is SO important, so injurious they couldn’t forgive each other after all these years, I asked myself.
Just then…all the grudges I have gnawing on for years flashed before me…
Whenever I have a hard time working up the maturity to forgive someone, I always remember a story I heard once about a couple living in South Africa during all the radicalized, apartheid violence. I do not recall the details, but this couple lost their son to a particularly brutal and tragic murder. When the police caught the perpetrator, the parents shocked the world when they refused to press charges. “Another execution will not bring peace to South Africa,” they said, “only forgiveness will.” And they forgive the man.
So if two people, living in a veritable war zone, can forgive the brutal murder of their child, surely I can forgive so-and-so for breaking up with me, or you-know-who for lying to me that one time. Really, we are all doing out best to be happy, bumping into each other from time to time. So I ask you now, consider: from whom in your life you are withholding forgiveness? Anger is like an acid, it eventually destroys the container. (I read that on a billboard once.) Better let go, lest an unsuspecting bystander fall into a latrine because of your grudge.
February 16th, 2010
The following is a quote written on the blackboard in Hamdallaye, the Peace Corps Niger Training site. I liked it a lot, and thought you all might as well.
“The magic of travel is that you leave your home secure in your own knowledge and identity, but as you travel, the world in all its richness intervenes. You meet people you could not invent; you see scenes you could not imagine. Your own world, which was so large as to consume your whole life, becomes smaller and smaller until it is only one tiny dot in space and time. You return a different person.
Many people don’t want to be travelers. They would rather be tourists, flitting over the surface of other people’s lives while never really leaving their own. They try to bring their world with them wherever they go, or try to recreate the world they left. They do not want to risk the security of their own understanding and see how small and limited their experiences really are. If we don’t offer ourselves to the world, our senses dull. Our world becomes small and we lose our sense of wonder. Our eyes don’t life to the horizon; we don’t hear the sounds around us. The edge is off our experience and we pass our days in a routine that is both comfortable and limiting. We wake up one day and find that we have lost our dreams in order to protect our days.
Travel, no matter how humble, will etch new elements into your character. You will know the cutting moments of life where fear meets adventure and loneliness meets exhilaration. You will know what it means to push forward when you want to turn back. And when you have tragedies or great changes in your life, you will understand that there are a thousand—a million way to live and that your life, and that your life will go on to something new and different and every bit as worthy as the life you are leaving behind.”
February 17th, 2010
The following is an email my friend and fellow Evans School student sent me. As a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, I think she gave me some really solid advice in response to my panicked I-don’t-know-how-to-save-all-of-Africa-all-by-myself email:
Katie,
You should not do too much. Calm down. :) You have two years in which to do things. Many will fail. Some will look promising. At least one will be a big success. Take your time to select/work on a project that you enjoy and brings value to the people you are working with. Enthusiasm will take you far, but will not make a project, especially if the people you are serving do not want it/do not take ownership of it. Be patient, and foster your relationships. Don't forget to have fun and enjoy your life. Life is amazing right now. It won’t get any better...strange as it may seem living in a mud hut with no running water or electricity.
Take a deep breath...and relax. You will be great.
I heart you!
Mary
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