Welcome to April! Well, now it’s May…oops. The other day while watching a Christmas episode of “30 Rock” I though for a moment it was still December. All this to say: the months are flying by.
I apologize there is so much blog all at once, and that it's been almost two months since my last post, but that's just how it happened. Also, just to warn you, I express a lot of opinions in my entry about Spain. Please, refer to the disclaimer if you are offended by them.
Before I launch into various commentaries of village life and descriptions of my bodily functions, let me tell you a bit about my vacation….
April 14, 2010
Spaindelirious.
Spain is a magical land full of beautiful people, delicious treats, and acceptable weather. From the beginning, (for those who don’t already know) I may or may not have arrived two whole days early to Niamey, thinking my flight was on a Monday, not a Wednesday. I would have gotten all the way to the airport Monday night (which would have been a real tragedy considering my flight left at two a.m.), if it were not for my dear friend Susannah. Susannah (who was graciously letting me visit her in Spain) pointed out to me mere hours before I would have departed for the airport my flight was not for another two days.
TAPAS!
I felt very silly; especially since there is so much ado these days about PCVs coming to Niamey in wake of the security situation. My father, however, reminded me of the time he confused the dates of an event causing my entire family to show up to a destination two weeks early while vacationing in Italy. “It’s in your genes,” he counseled.
Once I did actually depart for the trip, I was both excited and nervous. Travel to and from Niger can be very complicated and things seem to go wrong more often than not. (Hence my panicked call to the Royal Air Moroc office in Niamey four hours before my flight to confirm I had a ticket. This was after the website told me “our records show no reservation under that name.”)
A third-world airport was also a new experience. From the time I entered the building until I was seated on the plane, various agents checked my passport five times (Once at the door of the airport, once when I checked in, once at customs, once at the security checkpoint, and once more at the door to the airplane.) Also, I would like to note my flight was accommodating an entire Nigerien athletic team of some kind, most of which (I’m guessing) had never flown before and clearly did not understand the concept of “assigned seating.”
Here is my flight plan: Niamey to Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou to Casablanca, Casablanca to Madrid, Madrid to Santander. I left the hostel at eleven thirty p.m. on Wednesday and arrived around 8 p.m. the next day. Below is a list of things I found shocking and/or exciting:
1. The airplane food – exciting, delicious and free!
2. The advertisement for vacation spots in Morocco – Shocking and painful that I was not assigned to Peace Corps Morocco.
3. How green Casablanca is!! – exciting.
4. The actual stores in the Casablanca airport – exciting and shocking.
5. The STARBUCKS in the Madrid airport – just exciting.
6. The temperature and precipitation that greeted me in Santander, Spain – EXCITING, but also shocking.
7. My friend Susannah surprise meeting me at the airport – just exciting, not shocking.
8. The Spanish couple making out in front of us on the bus from the airport – just shocking, not exciting.
First of all, for those who don’t know, I met Susannah Rama (as I like to call her) while studying abroad in Argentina three years ago. She was the school chum of Sarah, another girl in my abroad program who still lives in Argentina. Susannah and I immediately bonded over boy troubles and a mutual love for grammar. Susannah is also the one who taught me I can wear whatever I want, including crazy vintage clothes. Susannah currently lives in Spain teaching English with a Spanish government teaching fellowship or something. (Feel free to correct any biographical or grammatical errors Ms. Rama.) Anyway, she invited me to Spain on an all-cheese-expenses-paid vacation. How could I say no?
So what did we do for a whole ten days in the first world? I recall we did some sightseeing (in between meals), but for me, even going to a supermarket was exciting, exotic, and new. I saw a lighthouse, went to a small town left from medieval times, visited a castle, took a bus to the Basque country, saw the Guggenheim designed by Frank Gehry, met Susannah’s Spanish friends, heard her choir practice, was interviewed by her English class, went shopping, played with a pony, and ATE A LOT. It was great…
Guggenheim in Bilbao
Peace Corps Niger volunteers spend a lot of time discussing the first world. Especially, we talk about our rumored “inability to function normally” upon returning home. There are stories of returned volunteers being hassled by customs (because of their suspicious/dirty appearance), freezing in 70-degree weather, accidentally greeting African-Americans in Zarma or Hausa, and even breaking into tears when presented with variety of a first-world grocery store. I recognized reestablishing myself in the first world would have its difficulties, but upon hearing these stories, I discounted much of it as mere banter.
Then I went to Spain…While I did not break down crying in a grocery store, it was harder than I expected it to be. There was nothing specifically wrong. In fact, I had an amazing time eating good food and enjoying good company. Nonetheless, I was anxious for a lot of the trip. I kept waiting for something to go really wrong…
Of course, all the anxiety I felt could be a side effect of my malarial prophylaxis, Mefloquine, which according to Wikipedia, “may have severe and permanent adverse side effects such as severe depression, anxiety, paranoia, aggression, nightmares, insomnia, seizures, birth defects, peripheral motor-sensory neuropathy, vestibular (balance) damage and central nervous system problems.” Since starting Mefloquine, I’ve definitely had moments of anxiety and several “Mefloquine Dreams”—vivid, often-violent nightmares—but before Spain I hadn’t thought the drug was getting the better of me. Now, at my brother’s suggestion, I’m keeping better track of potential side effects to decide if I want to switch to a different drug; but I’m not convinced that’s what caused me to be so nervous in Spain.
Anyway…
On top of this unfounded anxiety, in Spain I was confronted by all the third-world quirks I hadn’t even realized I’d gotten used to. Most of the time it was trivial things, like the thickness of an apple peel (African apples have really tough skins), or that Spaniards understood the concept of waiting in a line. But other times it was bigger.
I was taken by the amount of beauty everywhere in Spain. Not only the people, but every building, every street, every bus stop, everything seemed ornate and intentional. This especially struck me while I was trotting along the stone floors of the brand-new Madrid airport. Just observing details like the clever way speakers were hung from the ceiling or the care with which the mall-worthy stores had been laid out, it was clear people had put an enormous amount of money and energy into creating this space.
Examining that speaker in the Madrid airport sadly ignited in me a bit of frustration towards the first world. I found myself wondering how much more it had cost make it so fancy…not that I’m against visually appealing construction, but it all seemed excessive.
Here was my thought process: We all feel bad about the situation in Africa. I mean, who doesn’t feel a little guilty when we see the just-75-cents-a-day-will-buy-this-kid-with-flies-in-her-eyes-shoes commercials. In fact, when it comes to having third-world sympathy, the members of the first world (especially Europe and the States) seem to be caught in perpetual back-pat-athon. We care so, so much! Haven’t you seen the commercials? Nonetheless, I firmly believe that—more than anything else—the places we focus our time and energy reveals our priorities in life. Talk is cheap.
We first-worldlings have an abundance of time, energy and money. Before you stop me and tell me how busy you are, consider how much of your day you spend actually subsisting. None of us spend 12 hours a day growing our own food or building our own houses. We have the luxury of deciding how we want to spend our time. We get to pick our jobs, afterall. And what do we invest all this time and money in? In engineering fancy speakers, airplanes, putting humans on the moon, shampoo that will make your hair grow, and even the traits of our offspring. If we want something to work, by God, it will happen. So, what does that say about decades of failed development policies?
Next, the way people treated food was a big point of interest for me. In restaurants, I was acutely aware of how diverse the menu was, as well as how much food people left on their plates. I witnessed this casual sense of abundance even more clearly one morning when were eating croissants. Susannah, having finished, brushed the last eighth of her croissant into the trash so she could wash her dish. I had been eyeing it, but held in the annoying “are-you-going-to-eat-that?” query. I figured she would eat it eventually, or offer it to me if she didn’t want it. I honestly never thought she would just throw it away. Nigeriens never throw away even the tiniest morsel of food unless it is actually rotten. If you don’t want it, there is always some hungry kid that will relish whatever you have.
Now, let’s pause here. I’m not trying to poo-poo Susannah for reckless wastefulness. I’m sure anyone else in the room would have even thought it strange if she had offered me a scrap of such miniscule proportions. I’m also sure a year ago I would have similarly disposed of the croissant... I wasted a ton of food in the States. Finally, I’m sure that had there been a malnourished Nigerien child next door, Susannah would never have dreamed of denying the child her leftovers. In fact, being the warm, loving person she is, Susannah would probably even cook the child meals on a regular basis.
I really don’t want to become the woman who starts all her conversations with, “Do you realize in Africa, people don’t even have (insert first-world convenience here)?” I don’t think guilt is a productive or pleasant state-of-mind. I would much rather people feel excited by or engaged in third-world development than have them feeling guilty about it. In my mind, it’s guilt that makes us hand beggars a few coins on the street and interested compassion that inspires us search out ways to genuinely them. The point is simply this: after living in Africa for nearly a year now, I just have a different (clearer?) perspective on life. Especially, I have a deeper sense of the luxuries I enjoyed at home and what they cost.
My last day in Spain, I even had a moment of grieving this loss of ignorance. I was sitting at lunch with Susannah and two of her gorgeous, extremely well-dressed Spanish friends. We were in a nice café, enjoying a slow lunch and good weather. (Side note: I will never forget the complete lack of recognition and bafflement that shone in these ladies’ eyes when Susannah told them I live in a mud hut.) Anyway, while these girls were chatting away about something in Spanish, I allowed myself to wonder (as I had frequently over the past ten days), what would my villagers think of all this? This café? This food? The weather? The sidewalks? All the shops? The way people were dressed? And, in that moment I realized, this was how it is going to be for the rest of my life. The struggling masses of Africa are no longer faceless or hypothetical. They are my neighbors and my friends, and no matter where I end up, I will never forget them.
April 24th, 2010
Village Life
After all the cheese, juice, hot showers and cool weather, I was nervous to return to my village. What if I got back and just couldn’t stand all the bugs, sand, heat and poop? While I knew I wasn’t going to call it quits, I wasn’t expecting it to be an easy adjustment either. To my surprise, upon returning to my site, I felt immediately (immediately) at ease. All the anxiety that had been swelling in my chest since I arrived in Spain evaporated. I am vaguely concerned by the fact that I feel so much more at ease in a mud hut in the middle of the Sahel than in a nice restaurant in Spain…but I will wait to deal with that potential panic attack until I’m on the plane back to America.
Doing dishes at my house.
Guh! This one was like 4" long.
One thing that really helped ease me back into my village was Gatsby…my new boyfriend, and by boyfriend, I mean cat. I really like having a kitty to come home to. Not only does he provide me with hours of entertainment and something to cuddle with, he’s also become an expert bug/lizard catcher. He is, however, a bit clingy. He follows me EVERYWHERE, including when I go to use the latrine. (Once, while I was mid-squat, he trotted in and dug himself a little hole to do the same. My friend Katy LOVED this story and said, “I wish there was some way you could have taken a picture of that without it being gross.”)
Aside from the occasional lizard, I’ve been feeding him kuli-kuli, which is baked peanut meal with the oil drained out. It looks a lot like cat food and is high in protein, so it seems to be working well. Gatsby also really loves Kraft macaroni and cheese, which my father has been sending me at regular intervals.
My villagers are a little weirded out by the whole pet thing. They understand the concept of keeping animals (many even have cats). But the fact that I’ve named my kitty, let him sleep on my bed and give him lots of food and kisses is clearly BAB (bizarre anasara behavior). Even the idea of petting a cat is foreign to them. When my neighbor saw me petting Gatsby, she asked by I was doing it. Many neighbors have even started calling me the cat-keeper and cat-mother.
Gatsby, who sleeps at least 20 hours a day, also has helped me overcome a lot of the guilt I feel for not being more productive…which leads us to…
Gatsby "settling in." This was take about ten minutes after we arrived in my village.
Work.
Before I left for Spain, I was still “working” at the mayors office, which is to say I would stop by there to chat with people and write birth certificates. Upon my return, however, I learned the military junta currently governing the Niger dismissed all the mayors. This might sound terrible and undemocratic, but it’s really a good, kind thing. This last group of mayors was elected five years ago and supposed to have finished with their mandate in December; but with all the Tanja drama and postponing of elections, they were forced to continue working. It seemed to me most mayors were really ready to be done, but until the junta released them, they had a legal obligation to continue working. Soon enough, the government will organize another round of elections, but until that time mayoral staff is supposed to tend to the day-to-day needs of their commune without a mayor.
For many communes, this isn’t a problem—they have the staff and resources to carry on. In my case, however, the mayor’s office is even more abandoned than it was before. For a while, Seyni the Etat-Civil would sit in front of the building for a few hours in the morning, but not actually do any work. As the weeks passed, however, he eventually just stopped showing up. (Before you judge, it’s important to note Seyni hasn’t been paid for eight months.) Thus, any project I want to do with the mayor’s office is completely on hold.
The Peace Corps staff in Niamey is vaguely concerned about the productivity of the entire Municipal and Community Development Sector, considering our main point of contact within host communities is gone. Personally, I’m daring to hope the next mayor will be a super-motivated individual, who wants nothing more than to help a Peace Corps volunteer plan projects. In the end, it’s impossible to know how (and how long) this change will affect my ability to carry out sector-specific projects…but as they say in Zarma, boorey kulu si bey kala irkoy—no one but Allah knows.
I’ve have had a couple more conversations with the NGO planning to replace the village’s garden fence, and they seem excited to include me in their work. Also, I did manage the tree planting with the elementary school, and I have lots of ideas for projects I would like to do with the schools. Since the school year is almost done, however, I’m planning on holding off on those until next October. In the meantime, I’m focusing on projects in other sectors: agriculture, health and education.
Helping babies.
Upon her request, I spent a couple afternoons helping the doctor in my village weigh and vaccinate babies. (She’s not an actual M.D., but besides the village’s two midwives she is the only healthcare professional in the area. Also, in a previous blog post, I called her Zeelah, but her name is actually Zougou (ZOO-goo).)
I was a little nervous the day Zougou sent a villager to my house to retrieve me. I had promised her I would help her with some work, but I am not a trained health professional. I was afraid I may be getting in over my head. Thank Allah, Zougou did not ask me to give any shots. Instead she had me fill out vaccination records the mothers had, and later, she taught me how to weigh the babies. She also had me write several birth certificates for new mothers, which I am a pro at, after working at the mayor’s office.
The one-room clinic in my village is a pretty stressful place on days when Zougou is working. There is no waiting room, so all the mothers crowd into the tiny space to get out of the sun. There is also no filing cabinet, so medical records are just spread over Zougou’s desk, forcing me to have to shuffle through the mess to retrieve a record every time a new person showed up.
On top of all the chatter, the babies (of course) bawl uncontrollably upon receiving a shot. Also, Zougou isn’t exactly gentle… The pregnant mothers, in contrast, don’t even flinch when they get their tetanus and vitamin shots. (As I mentioned before, crying is not a thing adults do here.)
I was impressed to learn vaccinations are free. And if the child is registered with the state and is under the age of five, his or her mother only has to pay 100 FCFA (about 22 U.S. cents) for any other medicine, such as antibiotics. (Registered with the state = has a birth certificate.) If not mother may have to pay up to few dollars for medicine, which can be prohibitively expensive. Even when the mothers didn’t have actual money, Zougou was determined to treat them. I saw her accept everything from soap to mangoes as payment. Of course, Zougou can’t give the state mangoes. She accepts the mangoes as payment and then passes her own money on to the government. (She seems like a hard ass but is actually very compassionate.)
The first morning I went to help her, I was a little annoyed with Zougou. She kept disappearing for long periods of time, leaving me alone in the clinic. I was tired and kept worrying a mother would show up and demand I give her baby a vaccination or something, but Zougou always came back before a new crowd of “customers” arrived. It wasn’t until later I realized Zougou disappeared because she was going out into the village to remind mothers to come get their shots.
“A government agent will come at the end of the day and take back all the supplies we don’t use,” she explained to me.
The second time I came in to help, I was surprised to learn the babies also find the scale terrifying. It is an old, rickety thing, so it’s difficult to weigh babies quickly. While I am madly trying to force the sand-logged counter weight into place, the baby wails at his or her mother in horror—not only because there is a scary anasara making crazy faces, but also because the moms aren’t allowed to touch their babies while they are being weighed. It almost heartbreaking to see the child, who is sure his mom is abandoning him for good, reach his chubby little arms forward to grab her.
Zougou then instructed me to record the weight and age of the baby on an NGO-donated medical record. The forms were pretty fancy, and even had a graph allowing you to plot the babies’ age and weight. As chubby as they may have looked every single one of the babies I weighed that day were below the “average weight line” and most were below the “malnourished line.” At first I thought I was measuring things wrong, but no. Some of the babies had even lost weight since their visit a month ago. Who has ever heard of a baby losing weight?
Haoua.
Another way I’ve been filling my time is with Haoua (HOW-ah). Haoua is a thirteen-year-old girl who showed up at my house mere hours after I first moved in and asked me to tutor her in English. (After a few successful lessons, I thought about creating an entire English club for the youth in my village; but as I said, the school year is almost over so I’m going to hold off until next year.)
Student in Niger grow up speaking Zarma, Hausa, Fufulde, Tamajeq, or some combination of native languages in the home. From the moment they enter kindergarten, however, teachers instruct almost entirely in French. This is problematic because (obviously) the children do not speak French and therefore have essentially no idea what the teacher is saying. I realized just how little French the primary school children speak after I started taking French lessons. Granted, a big anasara greeting them with a weird accent might diminish the students’ understanding, but every time I try to talk to a kid I French, they reply only with blank (terrified) stares. By middle school (Haoua’s age) the students usually have a reasonable grasp on French. They can’t really converse in the language, but they can read, write, and understand it when spoken.
It is also in middle school children start learning English. The biggest problem with learning English is most (but not all) Nigerien English teachers don’t actually speak English. (Peace Corps education volunteers used to fill this position, but in the late nineties, the government decided this it was taking jobs away from Nigeriens.) Thus, as Haoua read me a short story in her textbook at our first lesson, I was surprised to discover she had no idea what any of the words she was reading meant.
“Don’t you stop and discuss what the stories mean?” I asked her in Zarma.
“No,” she replied, “our teacher just has us read aloud.”
This constitutes their entire English lesson. Haoua, who at age thirteen has taken two years of English, didn’t even understand basic greetings. So, it wasn’t long before I told her to stop bringing her way-too-advanced textbook and started from scratch. We play games, draw pictures, and look at books of America. Haoua especially loves it when we use American beauty magazines as the basis for a lesson. Though I have a hard time explaining what bird-shaped purses or Paris Hilton mermaids are. After looking though an Elle magazine my sister had sent, Haoua informed me, “America has a lot of stuff.” I just shrugged.
Haoua learns at an incredible pace. I can tell she practices the things I teach her at home, because whenever we review she always has the previous lesson down pat. She is so eager to learn I often have to send her home because I am too tired or unprepared for a lesson. For a while, she was showing up at my house every afternoon. Other times she would go an entire week without coming. I asked her about this one day and she told me she is often too busy with chores to be able to get away. Also, I learned her parents live in another town outside of my village, so on the weekends she has to walk all the way home.
My village boasts the only middle school in the area. To be able to go to school, Haoua stays with her older sister, whose husband is from our village. This situation is really lucky for Haoua, since if she didn’t have family friends to stay with, middle school wouldn’t be an option. Other children walk up to ten kilometers to and from school every day, but many children live too far away to be able to walk. Haoua will face this challenge if she continues on after middle school, as the nearest high school is much farther away.
I’m also good friend with Haoua’s older sister, Oumou (OUH-moo). One day when she came to visit me, I realized Oumou, who is a little older than me, was completely illiterate. This surprised me, since Haoua seemed so dedicated to studying.
“Didn’t your parents send you to school?” I asked Oumou.
“I would have liked to study, but there wasn’t a primary school in our village when I was of age,” she told me. “Haoua’s class was only the second class to enroll. I wouldn’t have been able to come to middle school either,” she continued. “Before I married Abdou, our family didn’t have any contacts here.”
This conversation bummed me out, but also gave me the idea of organizing an adult literacy class for my villagers.
In spite of all the obstacles, Haoua seems pretty determined to be in school. Luckily, Peace Corps Niger’s Gender and Development program offers a scholarship for middle-school-aged girls. Since the program is almost entirely funded by returned Peace Corps Niger volunteers, there are a limited number of scholarships available, but I’m hopeful for Haoua. A scholarship winner will receive her own set of textbooks (rather than having to share with three other students), a backpack, other school supplies (Haoua didn’t even have a pen), and money to pay a tutor. What’s more, as long as a scholarship winner continues to pass her classes, she will continue to receive the money until she reaches high school.
I know merely “passing classes” doesn’t mean much and certainly wouldn’t win you a scholarship in America. In Niger, however, it is something to reward, especially considering the language barriers the students face. A lot of students don’t pass. The attrition rate in primary and middle schools is appalling, and if a student fails to pass a grade twice, they are not allowed to reenroll.
Why, you may ask, is girls’ education so important that they would be singled out? Why not offer the scholarship to all students? The answer is this: “Girls reap enormous benefits from post-primary education, including skills that translate into employment and empowerment. In addition, there is a correlation between education beyond primary school and having healthier families and lower fertility rates. Yet despite the multiple benefits of secondary education, four out of every five girls in Africa go without it.” (http://www.unicef.org/girlseducation/index_bigpicture.html)
Researchers have actually discovered all kinds of wonderful correlations between girls’ education and development. People have theorized this relationship is gender specific because an educated man will leave his village in search of economic opportunity. Women, in contrast, tend to stick around. Anyone who has read the incredibly popular Three Cups of Tea or Stones into Schools by Greg Mortenson (if you haven’t read it, you need to), is familiar with the adage: “If you educate a boy you educate an individual. If you educate a girl, you educate a community.”
There are hundreds and hundreds of studies linking girls’ education to development. To see just a few of these studies check out: http://www.womendeliver.org/knowledge-center/facts-figures/girls-education/. On a personal level, I am really able to see the effects of a middle school education in my village. The mothers who have gone to school really do have fewer, healthier kids (who are in turn also going to school). I’m not sure how to describe it, but the middle school graduates are just more aware of the world as adults. Many of these women also have figured out how to earn their own money. While they are still supported by their husbands, these women have gained a kind of independence in having their own spending money (which they usually used to by medicine and such for their children). If there ever were a silver bullet for international development, I deeply believe it is girls’ education.
Now, before I descend from my soapbox, I would like to offer you the opportunity to donate to Peace Corps Niger’s Young Girl Scholarship Program. I understand that you are not an anasara vending machine, and (as we talked about in the Spain stuff) I don’t want you to give money out of guilt. My hope is that after hearing how effective girls’ education is as a development tool you are EXCITED and INSPIRED and would like to help.
Unfortunately, there is no easy way to donate online—you have to mail in a form. But, before you get all I-can’t-be-bothered-to-print-a-form-and-write-a-check on me, recall all the obstacles these young girls have to overcome. I think you can handle filling out one form. Here are the steps:
1. Go to this link: http://www.friendsofniger.org/aboutfon/joinfon.html.
2. Print the document.
3. Fill out your personal information.
4. In the next section of the form, you have to “become a member.” But the money you send in for membership fees goes toward programs.
5. In the next section of the form, to support the Young Girls’ Scholarship program, check the third item on the list that reads: “I want to support FON's Young Girls' Scholarship Program activities.”
6. Write a check to “Friends of Niger.”
7. Send check and form to: P. O. Box 5823, Washington, D. C. 20016-9998
8. Feel good about yourself.
May 1, 2010
Hama, Hama, Hama!
When I got back from Spain, I was delighted to see my landlord had replaced the rickety fence around the concession with a beautiful mud wall, adding to my privacy. He even constructed it in such a way that passersby could no longer see me making use of my latrine. As if I needed more reason to feel warm and fuzzy about my site, all my villagers were especially welcoming and excited to see me back. I can see my villagers have started to accept my presence more as well. I’ve been surprised recently by how many people know my name, and how many personal conversations I’ve been included in.
I was even more pumped by the fact that I completed my first real project. As part of global youth service week, I had organized a tree planting with the primary school director. I wrote the proposal, got the funding, and before I new it I was standing in front of the all the primary school students, telling them about the importance of planting trees. Things were finally starting to fall into place.
So, what call all this mean? –It’s about time for something to go wrong again…
I swear, I’m not being pessimistic so much as paying heed to the law of the land. In the face of disappointment, we Americans often cite the old maxim, “nothing lasts forever.” (Brett Dennen even wrote a song about it.) In Africa, however, I think the phrase is better revised to say, “nothing lasts for very long and definitely not as long as you need it to.” (This isn’t just about my latrine incident either…) I’ve only managed to maintain my health for a month or two at a time before I’m sure to contract another case of severe diarrhea. I’ve watched in frustration as termites have steadily devoured the support beams of my shade hanger. I sweat out water almost as fast as I can drink it. Food sours overnight. Mud houses are washed away by seasonal rains and constantly having to be rebuilt. Plans rarely go accordingly. Politicians rise and fall almost as fast as the governing systems they conceive. NGO projects arrive and fail at an astounding rate. The Sahara is slowly creeping southward. People even live closer to death, easily falling victim to illness or injury.
There are of course things that never seem to change, like the temperature or practice of farming millet. But the save the few exceptions, things, ideas, and people decay at such a rate to throw the entire population of Niger into a state of constant flux and uncertainty.
Thus, when I noticed how I was finally feeling settled, I figured it couldn’t be long before some issue would come up. Sure enough I wasn’t in village for more than two weeks before Hama, my landlord, decided he’d had enough and wanted his house back.
Previously, I’ve sympathized with Hama’s situation. He is an ambitious guy—constantly working on something project to fix up his house or land (also he told me he wants to buy a motorcycle, a major status symbol.) He was always willing to help me when I asked him. (For example, he was more than happy to club the snake I found sleeping in my house when I returned from Spain.) In the feud between him and the mayor, it really did seem like he was getting ripped off. Not to mention, his wife unceremoniously packed up her house and son, and moved back in with her parents. Finally, as I am an American, it seemed only fair that he should be paid the rent in a timely manner (in spite of the fact most teachers and other civil servants are not asked to pay rent in smaller communities.)
However, something has changed since the last time Hama threw a fit over the rent: the current military junta released all the local mayors from their mandate. As I mentioned, currently, my commune has no mayor. Since the mayor has officially completed his service, Seyni the Etat-Civil is in charge of things like paying my rent until (whoever??) organizes another local election. Seyni has no beef with Hama, has no reason to withhold payment and create problems for himself. Thus, I believe him 100% when he says the commune simply does not have the money to pay my rent. Soon enough, the commune will hold elections, elect a new mayor, at which time the mayoral staff will be able to collect taxes and finally pay my rent. It may be a few months, but HAMA WILL GET HIS MONEY. (It’s worth noting the last time the entire mayoral staff promised he would get his money, he did.)
Seyni (the Etat-Civil) and Seyni (the Peace Corps Program Assistant and Driver) have explained the situation to Hama numerous times in Zarma so simple, even I understood. Hama, unfortunately, just isn’t the brightest crayon in the box, and can’t seem to understand…anything. He is instead convinced everyone in the village is a liar, trying to take advantage of him, and he will not get his money (or motorcycle.)
He explained these facts to me at length, upon numerous occasions. I told him, “Hama, obviously everyone can’t be lying about this. If the entire village is telling you you will get your money, can’t you just have a little patience??”
Nope. He cannot. His behavior has been so unreasonable and frustratingly illogical that I have diagnosed him as being, what the medical world terms, “Crazy Pants.” Seriously (she waves her arms in frustration) this is why people need to go to school, so at the least they can understand simple logic.
It has been suggested by several highly reputable community members Hama is abusing drugs. This makes a lot of sense to me. Besides his paranoid, illogical mindset, there have been a few times when I have wondered if Hama was drunk when he was talking to me. But, I have no real evidence or conviction this is the case. I will never know for sure, and for now I am satisfied just thinking he is crazy pants and slow.
So, I’m moving. Blerg! I hate moving. But Seyni the Etat-Civil found a very nice, newly constructed house in a great location. It is essentially the same size as the house I am living it, and has a smaller yard, but like I said, great location (out-of-town a bit, but still centrally located, not too far from a well and a big shady tree). I also really liked the people. I met the new landlord, who declared upon introductions I could live in his house for five years and he wouldn’t care if they paid him rent. His two wives immediately fed me and made me feel right at home. There are however, a rather daunting number of small children in the concession, which may be an issue for privacy.
When am I moving? As soon as Allah wills it. I told the Peace Corps Bureau I am not willing to move into the new house until the latrine and shade hanger are finished. The memory of my temporary latrine is still all-too-vivid. The first go-round was kind of funny to me, but I’ve had my fill of pooping in clay pots for weeks at a time. Unfortunately, Hama told me today I can’t stay in his house while I wait. So I may be stuck at the Dosso Hostel while I wait, which I’m not thrilled about, but there are worse alternatives…I’ve experienced them.
At this point, I am looking forward to the move. I will be relieved to be free from Hama’s daily lectures and paranoia. Also, (I haven’t really had the chance to elaborate on it but,) if you think Hama’s bad, you should see his mom, whom I share a concession with. Let’s just say I got scolded a lot.
Things have been set into motion, and with the full support of the Niamey Bureau I’m sure I will be back in business in no time. Allah will it that this be my last Peace Corps move…
May 8, 2010
And now my monthly complaint about weather:
No Joke.
Not only have I developed a full-body heat rash, but most mornings I wake up feeling hung over. No, I haven’t been sneaking wine coolers while in my village. There have been several nights when I’m pretty sure I never stopped sweating. And, since I have not yet developed the ability to drink water while sleeping, I get dehydrated. No matter how much water I drink, entire days go by without me needing to pee.
The mornings I wake up sweating are the worst. I hate looking at the thermometer my dad sent at eight a.m. and knowing I’m not going to be able to stop sweating for the rest of the day. Because hot mornings follow hot nights, I’m usually deprived of sleep and suffering from a heat rash outbreak at this point. Thus, these are the times (if I weren’t so dehydrated) I would probably cry about how effing hot it is. BUT, thank Allah, this has only happened two are three times…I was expecting months and months of this kind of weather.
Even though it wasn’t as bad as I expected, I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to the year’s first rain. Not only does this signify the end of my least favorite season, it also marks the completion of my first year in Niger. What’s more, the rains transform the dry, sparse Sahel into…well, not a paradise, but it’s much greener… It’s a feeling I would compare to the beginning of summer in the United States…
For weeks I kept my eyes turned toward the east, waiting for the east-to-west wind that signals the arrival of a storm. A couple of times we had what my villagers call the “Mango Rains,” which are very light, brief showers. (Mangoes are by far the best part of hot season. I eat several mangoes a day in village. Mangoes, mangoes, mangoes!)
Rain!
When the first storm finally did come, I was on the phone with my sister and was so excited I had to end the conversation early. I then sat and watched front approach for almost two hours. When the rain finally did start to fall, I did what any normal anasara would do—I ran out and danced in it. In ten minutes, the storm dropped the temperature 20 degrees. It was pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me. I learned later, hot season may linger for another few weeks, but I’m optimistic that the worst of it is over…
