From My Sister

For your blog:

First to address a rather glaring issue- the timing of this blog post. Here it is mid-December and I've just finished putting my thoughts down. Being a left-brained, organized, motivated person, it may come as a confusing surprise to many of you that it took me 4 months to write an account of visiting with my sister.

Slowly but surely after my arrival back in Spokane, I began to realize I was seeing the world a little bit differently. I am much less worried about my housekeeping, returning phone calls (sorry, by the way...), working crazy hours, and generally having anxiety about anything that does not seem immediately life threatening. I have noticed that I feel much more relaxed about life, about my role in life, and my role in other people's lives. This is not to say that I've developed apathy towards life or my relationships, but rather a more persistent "What's the big deal?" mentality.

I have no idea if this will stick, but what I am coming to realize now, months after returning home, that I did not realize while on my trip is the magnitude of what I experienced. During quiet and still moments of my day, with almost no exception my mind turns to my brief Africa-adventure. I think back to the smiles, the food, the dozens of marriage proposals, the look of astonishment on many faces at my behavior, my look of astonishment at the behavior of others. I believe it has taken me this long to write this account because, truthfully, I am not done gathering my own thoughts about it. When I describe my trip to my friends, I often feel at a loss for words. My fancy-pants left brain that so dutifully served me in the past isn't sure what to do with a culture so focused on right brain territory- the here and now. To describe my trip is, in many ways, to fracture it. How does one apply language to an experience so... well, experiential?

At any rate, please understand the lengthy musing below in no way encompasses what it was like to briefly exist in Africa. I did my best to make it coherent but fully encourage all of you to go over there and try it out. I bet you'll like it.

But before we dive into the recounting of the adventure that was Mom and Karin Visit Katie in Niger 2010, I'd like to ask you something. Do you know how to carry a bucket of water on your head? Have you ever filled a bucket to its very brim so that the only thing keeping it from overflowing is water tension, then bent down and heaved this bucket onto your crown for ease of carrying?

Or are you more likely to grasp the handle of said bucket with one or both hands, leaning way over to the side and using your hip joint to provide the momentum to shove the bucket forward? Does the very prospect of carrying a large bucket full of water leave you with an immediate assumption that you will be wearing most of the water before you get to your destination?

Maybe you're wondering why this is even an issue since, oh by the way, we have garden hoses now?

Then here's another question: Do you know how to wash your feet? If you use soap and water, you're on the right path, but how do you scrub? Do you sit or stand? Do you pour the water first and then lather on up or or you soap and pour at the same time?

These questions, and several hundred others, are things that I grappled with from the moment Mom and I landed at Niamey Airport in early July. Preparing for the trip, I was careful not to form any expectations. None. Zip. How does one even come to imagine how life will be for three weeks in Niger? This would be like imagining how life will be when we colonize Mars. It's a different world entirely. I nurtured this mindset, or lack of mindset, in the weeks before our trip- I focused on the 2 1/2 day trip to get from Spokane to Niamey. I thought about what I would pack. I thought about which medications to take. I thought about which legs of our journey we'd be asleep for. I thought about health insurance 'just in case'. Truly, my main concern was arriving at Katie's doorstep in one piece, then going from there.

Needless to say, diving into Africa headfirst without expectations on where, who, what, why, when, and how, is still setting yourself up for surprise. Everything I know about the way the world works, from gender roles, to thunderstorms, to the way you wash your feet, does not apply in Africa. My name didn't even apply in Africa- for three weeks, I trained my head to look up at the name "Wassila".

Which begs another question- on a trip where the rules of the world do not apply, how does one blog about it?

In the lines that follow, please forgive any confusing or erroneous messages. Please forgive the sheer magnitude of this report. And certainly please forgive any lack of thorough explanation- that's kind of how it goes.

Our Arrival:

Mom and I landed without much ado, or rather no more ado than one can expect from traveling for 60+ hours straight. We were hungry, sleepy, cramping, and more than a little dazed. The Niamey airport is a small one, comprised of little more than a gate, baggage claim, and main lobby with customs. Oh, and it was really hot. Suddenly, we were in Niger.

The ride into Niamey was informative. Trash lined the streets and most travelers were pedestrians walking the dirt paths into the city in the early morning hours. We passed dozens of shacks made from tin, palm leaves, or mud. After a few days in Niger, this scenery became typical, but Katie and I had a conversation about the shock most Westerners feel during that first drive from the airport to the Peace Corps Hostel. The sheer level of poverty is almost inconceivable. Then you look down at your Western clothes, the camera in your hand, the shoes that cost you $30.00 and think to yourself, "What exactly do I have to complain about?"

Our time in Niamey was both jam-packed and totally relaxed. There is a saying I learned on my visit; "Americans have watches. Nigerians have time." We did a lot of different things- eating out, going to the market, visiting the Musee- but the way these things came about usually went like this:

"Let's go visit This Thing today!"

"That sounds great!"

"Oh wait, we can't. It's closed/we don't have transportation/it's too hot."

"Okay let's do something else!"

Waiting is a sport in Niger. We would arrive at places with ten or fifteen minutes to spare, then wait for hours for the actual event. Things don't happen at a specific time. They happen when they happen. What time will the bus leave? Soon. When will our passports be ready? Soon. Everything is soon. As in, sooner or later. What's your hurry, Anasara? Do you have other places to be?

As I look back on the number of 'touristy' things we did, we really fit a lot in. But the real adventure was just being there. Walking around on African soil, talking to Africans, smelling African food, watching African lifestyle were all a sight to be had in themselves. As much of our time was, as Katie said, "Hurrying up so we can wait," we had a lot of time to observe how Nigerians live.

Some highlights from our first week:

Giraffes! Real, tall, funny-looking, vegetarian, giraffes. I can honestly say that never in my life, before deciding to go to Africa, did I think I'd go run around with a bunch of giraffes. Katie hired a driver to take her, Mom, and me out to a Giraffe preserve, where the last of the wild Nigerien giraffes live. We drove about an hour out of Niamey to a small, open structure with a little sign that said something like: "Giraffe preserve." We hired an official guide who directed our driver off the highway (and I don't mean onto another road) in search of a giraffe herd. Every now and then, he would order our driver to stop, then would get out of the car, climb a tree, and look around for tall giraffe necks peeking out of the landscape. He'd then get back in the car, point to this direction or that, and off we'd go, bumping over dirt mounds and swerving around bushes and trees. Sure enough, we found them. Upon our arrival, they were being herded away from the highway. There are no fences surrounding the preserve (not that a fence would exactly be effective... I mean, they are giraffes after all...) so in order to prevent these animals from being struck on the busy highway, a man on a small motorcycle spends his day chasing the herd away from the road. I would love this job.

We got out of the car and walked up to the giraffes. They kept a watchful eye on the amount of distance between us and them, but mostly walked around eating tree leaves. Like many things you will read about in this blog, the experience was ineffable. We took pictures and gazed at the lanky, spotted creatures as they walked around the open savanna. They did not run from us, but simply kept their space, studying us with the same intent we studied them. It was magical. These creatures that are unlike any anywhere else in the world were tolerating our presence, giving us the sense for a brief moment that we were more than just white Americans- we belonged to something much greater than nationality. The air about them was prehistoric- they knew things we could never experience. They have wisdom untouchable by human minds.

The Musee-

The Musee is an entirely outdoor combination of natural history, cultural history, zoo, playground, and jungle gym (the only one I saw during our stay). We saw garments from the tribes of Niger, the Zarma, the Touaregs, the Hausa, and the Beeri Beeri. All the garments had a specific style from the other tribes. The Touaregs, the last of the Sahara Nomads, wear indigo garments, turbans that cover their face, and large swords. Every inch of skin is covered for both men and women- a Westerner like me wonders how they don't die of heat stroke. Katie reminds me, though, that in Niger you can get rid of bed bugs by putting your mattress in the afternoon sun. Here, sun is not for basking in. The sun is both a source of life and a threat to it- prolonged exposure is downright dangerous. Your skin heats so fast that you can feel it burn if it's not covered or lathered in sunscreen (something I had the pleasure of experiencing first hand).

After the garments, a Peace Corps Volunteer who works at the zoo showed us the animals. This was pretty heart-wrenching. The cages were only big enough for the animal to move in, they get very little attention by their caregivers and are often teased by the visiting children. As hard as this was for me, it is in keeping with the Nigerien approach to animals. They don't take pets, name their animals, and consider them possessions only. Still, we were graced with the presence of hippos, spotted and stripped hyenas (who, as it turns out, love a good shoulder scratching), chimps, baboons, red monkeys, and lions. The PCV petted many of them trying to give them some affection.

Once our tour was over, we went to the artisan center. At least 50 men were sitting in their small workspace, usually a small rug or two to sit on, with their wares laid out in front of them. These men live just outside this center, which is nothing more than a large shed with a tin roof. We ran to get inside as we were caught in a sudden downpour of rain. I put my right foot forward and it wasn't raining. By the time my left foot had its turn to hit the ground, it was. It rained so hard the drops pinched my skin and I was nearly soaked within seconds. The rain stayed at this intense pace for at least 30 minutes- Katie says this is a typical African rainstorm.

The artisans mean business. This was our first experience of being in a marketplace here in Niger and it was intense to say the least. Western manners have no place here. As you walk by, they are pressing their beautiful, intricate creations (handmade in that center) into your hand trying to get your attention and money. It becomes overwhelming when six of them are vying for your attention. They offered many works of art- earrings, bracelets, rings, animal statues, necklaces, purses, belts, shoes, and so on. The moment you admire something, it is being pushed at you to try on. Nothing in Niger really has a set price- you must bargain for everything. Katie has become quiet adept at this skill and indulged Mom and I as we tried to find a few things to buy. First, she asks how much and tries to look uninterested. Once they name a price, her eyebrows shoot up with a cry of "Habba?!" ("Really?!? Are you serious?") Then the debate is off in earnest, sometimes ending with her ushering us away to see if the merchant calls us back. Often, she'd accuse them of giving us "Anasara prices" ("Anasara" meaning "Outsiders", something we got very used to responding to.)

Katie's One Year Mark-

Mom and I were blessed and honored to be present with Katie and the rest of the PCV's in her group as they celebrated their one-year anniversary in Niger. Everyone went out to dinner and Mom and I got to see first hand the strength of character and resiliency it takes to live here. Everyone was very friendly and inviting- there was a communal sense of adventure and tolerance, as if to remind each other the world will turn out alright. The jokes were flying but underneath them laid a darker sense of reality- that the world doesn't always work the way we are used to, that buses do not always run on schedule (or run at all) and whether or not you feel you can depend on the external world pulling through, you can look inward and know that you can depend on yourself. This knowledge, this sense of, "Sure, it'll be okay," is few and far between in America where we rely on fear to guide us through our every day actions. Even a sense of running late, so worrisome to us, doesn't really exist here. There is no late. There is only now.

In the time we spent with Katie and her fellow PCV's, we saw their charm and charisma, their stoic courage, and their sense of wonder at the world. We laughed with them, listened to the songs they sing about being in the Peace Corps, chatted with them about their life here in Niger and, naturally, about their home in America.

Oh, and also, I still have a couple of their personally written raps stuck in my head. "I'm in Niger, and... There's lots of sand, and..."

Some highlights from our second week:

Getting to Katie's Village:

Our primary modes of transportation on this trip were buses and our own two feet. Bus tickets have your name written on them and the attendant calls names out for who can get on the bus when. On our first bus ride, we were lucky enough to be at the top of the list, so we were able to pick seats by the window. This was also a chance to practice pushing through crowds as Nigeriens don't really do that whole Orderly Line thing. Instead, they all rush to the front and push each other out of the way. This happens most of the time for most things- Katie says that there is just so much need here that people have to shove to make sure they get the thing they're waiting for.

The bus was very old, as most cars here are. All the seats were packed, including the ones that fold down in the aisle. If a customer pays, they get on the bus (thus the saying, "An African bus is never full," and the joke, "How many Africans can you fit into a car? One more." I've seen cars here so full of people that you can't look in one window and see out the other. This also translates into piles of stuff tied to the roof of cars and buses, sometimes so tall that the vehicle falls over). It took the bus a while to get loaded as there was a lot of re-arranging of people and bags, yelling, and general havoc. I watched an older woman downright kick a girl out of her seat. The girl handed her infant to a stranger, the man sitting next to her, who held the child without a word as if it were perfectly natural that he should be trusted with someone else's baby. The bus began to drive out of the station well before everyone was situated. The drive was fine as it was good highway with not too many potholes. This was our first chance to see the Nigerien countryside. It was flat, in that way that makes you feel you can see forever, lots of green brush and millet growing, and every minute or so, a small group of houses. And everywhere, people- walking, standing, sitting, or biking, but people.

At one connection between buses, we sat for several hours waiting for another car to take us the next leg of our journey. We sat at the Tessum (the place where you wait to get a ride in a car) under a shade hanger on a log. We chatted a bit with some of the other people waiting for a ride. I watched two little boys doing laundry in a cut up canteen, both half-naked. They took turns scrubbing and rinsing before delicately laying out the clothes to dry on a log. I asked them (or rather, Katie did) if I could take their picture and they posed with a blank, awed stare that we Anasaras usually got from small children. Once I shot the photo, though, they grabbed my camera to see the image and erupted in squeals and giggles at seeing an image of themselves. I guess camera shyness exists everywhere.

Katie's Village-

There is no way I will be able to adequately describe this experience. It was like walking into a novel, a world described by the author where details exist that even the writer doesn't see. When we arrived, Katie showed us the return-home chores she has to do. We watched in confused amusement as she took a stick and banged it repeatedly against her ceiling to loosen all the termite damage to her roof. Pieces of her ceiling fell down around her and she promptly swept this up with a hand broom that is really no more than a handful of straw. She continued sweeping under her tanda (shade hanger) and tossed the collection over her wall, an interesting afterthought after so much effort.

Next, we had the task of collecting water. Remember, garden hoses don't exist here. There are two ways to get water in Katie's village- go to the well or pay for it at the pump. Katie only drinks and cooks with pump water as it is much cleaner, but bathing water, dish water, and buta water must all be collected from the well. We crossed the short walk from Katie's house to the large water well after Katie gave Mom strict instructions not to help because she is the Mom and should not be working lest Katie be shamed by the villagers. You can imagine how well this sat with my independent mother. Katie and I used a rubber bucket made out of old car tire called a logo that is attached to a rope to toss into the well. Then we both pulled the rope up in a rhythm, taking turns grabbing it with both hands and pulling it up over our heads (and you thought upright shoulder rows were a tough workout!). When we had the logo at the top of the well, we poured the water into large buckets and repeated the process until the buckets were full. Katie did give Mom a turn to see what it was like (and give my poor shoulders a rest!)

We got a lot of attention at the well and everyone wanted to meet us and shake our hands. Zarma meetings are extensive and each person greets the other with a long list of scripted questions. Imagine what your life would be like if every person you see in your day stopped to ask how you, your family, your health, etc. has been.

Once we had our buckets full, Katie and I each put a bucket on our heads to walk back to her house. In the same fashion that I'd giggle at someone who didn't know how to shovel snow, I got a lot of laughs for not having any idea how to carry a bucket on my head, although I have to brag that I had only minimal spillage walking back to Katie's house.

A quick rest later, we gathered our bearings and headed out our the proper skirts and head wraps to meet the villagers. Had we not made these rounds during the first day of our arrival, Katie would have had many people knocking on her door to shame her for not bringing us by. We didn't make it to everyone as Katie's village hosts about a thousand or so people, but met several important households including the village chief. He was an old man with grey hair who walked with a cane but seemed downright jovial. He asked us how everyone in America is doing (they generally perceive America as one giant village and don't really have a concept of the sheer magnitude of the country.) We said everyone is fine. I hope that was a truthful answer.

Heading back to Katie's concession became a race against the sun as it began to grow dark. Growing dark is probably a northern and southern term, now that I think about it. When you're near the equator, the sun rises and falls very quickly, so it doesn't grow dark, it just is dark.

The wives of Katie's concession were pounding millet, which is their main food staple and quite a process. The women use a long, think, smooth pole that is five or so feet tall and, lifting it in one hand, thrust it full force into a wooden bucket with a deep cavern and stable bottom. Then they lift it up and repeat. This creates a rhythmic drumming sound that adds to the magic of the evening (there is no magic about it at sunrise, however. You think you're alarm clock is a pain in the butt, wait until you are sound asleep and someone decides to pound millet 10 feet from your head.) Pounding millet can take up 90% of a woman's day.

Our evening meal, prepared by the wives, was a delicious squash sauce over rice, fish, and millet. We sat on the ground with the women (the men having already been served) and ate with our right hand. The food was different- different in taste, smell, and texture (texture is largely affected by the amount of sand in everything). I enjoyed the fish and squash very much. Katie has learned to like much of the food there, but Mom and I struggled with the strange taste of the millet- yuck. It has the consistency of a flour gelatin and feels like wet cement in your mouth. I mostly tried to put a little bit in my mouth and swallow it without tasting it. No one ever gets to call my sister a picky eater. Ever.

Mealtime conversation was minimal, a struggle for my polite mealtime mind that is used to talking straight through my food. I tried to make pleasing sounds as I ate to convey at least some appreciation for their efforts. I also tried not to feel terribly guilty for eating while all the children of the concession who struggle with being malnourished stood behind us and stared with a plain, unmasked hunger in their eyes. During the day, they stared at us. During dinner, they stared at the food.

The next morning, we woke to the melodic sounds of chanting prayer and shortly thereafter the effective pounding of millet. We spent much of the morning playing with the 6 month old baby in Katie's concession, a joyful, alert, and downright squeezable boy. He entertained himself for a good 20 minutes playing with Mom's skirt. Katie is clearly fond of this ball of fun and often plays with him. His mom, however, has gotten in the habit of leaving Baby in Katie's tanda unattended. Katie believes the mom expects Katie to be doing the childcare- in Niger, a child begins caring for their younger siblings once they turn 7. It is not unusual to see a small child tied to the back of a slightly bigger child.

An interesting piece of our second day in Katie's village was meeting a mentally handicap young girl who was maybe 10 years old. When someone develops these handicaps or developmental delays in Niger, they stay with their family for life. They are allowed to wander around and everyone kind of pitches in to take care of them. They wander around the village with few expectations of participating in the work of village life unless they become a danger to themselves or others at which point they are sent to jail. Really, though, a life spent playing and being fed is pretty good for someone with mental handicaps.

We did more meet and greets around Katie's village. I was often asked if I am married, if I'd like to get married, and why I am not married already. Katie told them about my partner Dan and everyone decided to come to our wedding when (not if) we have one. They were also amused to find out that I am older but shorter than Katie. This amuses many Westerners too, so there's a piece of culture we share. Katie gave a lot of advice on hygiene and caring for infants, which was cool to hear. I learned a lot about the struggles kiddos face when growing up in village.

Later, we went for a walk into the bush. We followed a dirt road made by donkey carts and foot traffic and were led quickly into a rolling field of green millet. Millet is planted in every free square foot of dirt outside the walls of the village concessions and the feeling of being very much so in the country comes upon you quickly as you enter the rows of green. There were no human structures other than the occasional grain hut made out of grass. The land felt at once untrodden and ancient. The farmers have lived there for hundreds of years, farming the same land, living in the same place. Yet even for all this history, the land has not changed. It has not seen social evolution, development, chemicals, smog, irrigation, tractors, mining, or even a solid building since most houses have to be remade every year or so as the mud melts in the rain. The land isn't the enemy of these people, it is not something to be conquered or taken advantage of. It is something to exist with as a team, something that provides when left just by itself. It needs no coaxing, no instruction, to grow the food that sustains the village. Odd to think that the land is doing what it is meant to do without the farmers telling it how.

It was fun walking in the bush, waving at men hoeing the ground and women breaking up the soil for planting while their hampa'd babies snoozed on their backs. Getting each family enough food for the year seems to be the main task of most citizens of Niger. Not only is there a hot/dry and wet/cold season, there is a hungry season. This is where food stores are running out, food gets more expensive, and it is not yet time to harvest more food. Mom and I visited during hungry season, which Katie says is one of the reasons merchants are so pushy with getting tourists to buy things. In Katie's village, they stretch food out as far as possible, even to the point of 'recycling' dishes- if a dish is not fully eaten one night, the sauce is rinsed off and the grain is eaten at the next meal. This is trickier than the western "leftovers" idea since there is no refrigeration to keep food from spoiling.

One of Katie's villagers told her that he needs to make sure his family of 7 has at least two 50 pounds bags of millet per month. The culture revolves around food in a big way- it demonstrates status, beauty is seen in large people who have a lot to eat, celebrations involve feasting, and a family's "savings account" is in food stores. This makes me wonder how having such an abundance of food has affected the West. We don't have to focus most of our time and energy on food so we can develop our culture and lives in other ways. On the other hand, our scope is so large that we don't have nearly the same kind of friendly, leisurely companionship or camaraderie that I felt in Niger. We feel entitled to what we want when we want it and curse what stands in our way to get it. We are angry at each other, in a big hurry, full of fear, and generally dissatisfied. We have all the material we could ever need plus a plethora of luxury, yet we strive for the simplicity found in belonging to a community. We want it all and we want everyone else to want it our way. How does this attitude really stand up next to a place like Niger?

Some highlights from our third week:

Our drive from Katie's village-

Now, I've had my share of car trouble in the past. I've called AAA at least a dozen times, been towed half as many, and generally feel comfortable negotiating how my vehicles are repaired. When the car arrived in Katie's village to take us back, our first sight of the driver was of him pouring water into the radiator. We all exchanged foreboding glances and Katie asked the driver if the car (a picture-perfect POS) would run. He assured Katie that it was fine and we piled in.

Needless to say, another Western expectation of mine was challenged. We have this idea that if something exists, it should run right. If there are buses, they should come on time. If there are telephones, they should connect to other telephones. If there is a car waiting to drive you somewhere, it should... well, drive!

Our ride was exciting, to say the least, as we flew down the dirt roads of rural Niger. Our driver stopped no less than 5 times in the 30 km distance to fill the over-heated radiator with water. It spurted up like a geyser as he filled it and I cannot imagine how he didn't burn himself on that water. He ran out of water, though, after the first stop and subsequent stops involved hoping the car made it to the next village. In order to do this, there was definitely a speed-to-engine ratio where we had to go fast enough to make it to the next village before the engine overheated but also not so fast that the engine overheated too quickly. It was about this time I began having the thought, "What do I know about what makes car engines explode?" Once we made it to a village, our driver asked whoever was around for water from the well. Again, we drew quite a crowd of people at each village who wanted to stare at the Anasaras, but now they also wanted to put in their two cents on how to keep the car running. Nigeriens get around mainly by small motorcycles, buses, and old cars from the 1980's. While in America, we would send these vehicles off to that big junk yard in the sky, Nigeriens have developed amazing mechanical skills and keep things running. While it took some doing, we made it back to Dosso in one piece.

Making it to Benin-

Making it from Dosso to Benin took the better part of 2 days on and off of buses, a nice stay in a small motel in Malanville (just across the Niger/Benin border) and several doses of Dramamine. The roads are literal minefields of potholes, leaving the passengers hot, sweaty, and subject to the constant careening as the bus tires navigate the difference between road and absence of road. Between the sounds of the driver grinding gears and swerving even as the tires didn't seem to be touching the ground, conversation was nearly impossible. I spent most of the ride staring out the window and willing my body to keep enduring the heat, sweat, noise, and bumps of the bus ride. Katie, bless her heart, had the added task of maintaining composure next to a woman who was transporting on her lap a whole cow head and four cows feet.

Looking out the window, it was hard not to notice how much more developed the world seemed just miles away from Niger. Buildings were made of cement, stores had storefronts, the cars are newer, they have trash cans on the street, and there were even outdoor stadiums for playing sports. Katie made the remark that even remote Benin is more developed than Niger's capital city, Niamey.

Once in Natitingou, we found a place to stay. Our hotel, Hotel De Bourgonge, was another lovely, exotic African hotel with beautiful flowers blooming everywhere, tile floors, spacious patios, and beds with mosquito nets strung over them. The rooms had two beds, which we shared, and a bathroom with a sink and shower. We had our first shower in four days and settled in with a delicious dinner, air heavy with tropical perfume, and a feeling of quite and leisure.

Kota Falls-

Our first day in Natitingou took us out to a water fall just outside of town. We walked a quarter of a mile down a rocky path into a picture my imagination couldn't create. There were two cascading waterfalls that fell into a pool surrounded by tall, smooth rock walls. There was a tiny rock bench, smoothed from so many bare feet trespassing it and everywhere you looked something green and lush was growing. The air seemed like pure oxygen that gave a euphoric high upon inhalation. We swam for nearly an hour in the warm water under the falls. We played, stood within the waterfall, and laughed and laughed. We ate a picnic lunch and resumed our swim until Katie off-handedly remarked, "Hey, guys, I think I see a snake in the water..." at which point we immediately evacuated and didn't look back.

Park Pendjari-

The next morning, we woke up early to make our way to the nearby wild animal refuge park. Park Pendjari (pronounced pen jar ee) is a part of a trio of wildlife refuge parks that all connect with each other but in different countries. Together they make one big park, with part in Benin, part in Niger, and part in Burkina Faso. These parks are home to many animals that once dominated Africa, but after Europe showed up and people began to flood onto the continent, there was much less space for the animals to exists in and thus fewer animals are left. Our ride took us into the park at least 50 miles to the Hotel Pendjari where tourists can stay and have a better chance of seeing the wildlife. On the drive in, Mom spotted a large baboon sitting in a tree and getting some sun. It was incredible. I have seen baboons before, even up close, but never in the wild. It was as though this baboon was more real, more so a baboon than any other I've encountered.

We made it to a waterhole that had a man-made lookout where you could observe the animals from a distance. There, we saw hippopotamus swimming, waterbuck, antelope, and large, black, stork-like birds with brightly colorful heads. The quiet of the place had a majesty about it as though this space was permitting you to witness it.

Our guide, a gruff, uncouth man who spoke in hasty French, chain smoked, was missing several prominent teeth, but who proved to be a gold-mine of information on the park, the animals, and Benin, set up a bench on top of the Toyota Four-runner we were driving. The rest of the way, Katie, Mom and I took turns sitting on top of the car keeping a lookout for animals (as well as hanging on for dear life and ducking from tree branches as we whipped down the dirt road). It was using this system of lookouts who kicked the roof of the car when seeing an animal that we spotted more antelope, waterbuck, a mom hippo with her baby running for cover, and a family of warthogs. The park holds many other animals like lions and elephants, but given the wet, cool season, they were all well-hidden in the grass and trees. We did see work of the elephants who can push over a large tree and passed several palm trees that were fallen by elephants, split in the middle with brute force.

The park itself is not fenced and several villages, centuries old, still live in it with the animals. We wondered aloud about the relations between the natives, the animals, and the park caretakers. Our guide informed us that the park was seriously underfunded, making it all the more incredible that it exists.

On our way home, our guide took us briefly to a waterfall hidden behind a village. A small group of local boys guided us up the stream (literally, in the water and uphill) and while we swayed and slipped up the rocky stream bed, they were barefoot and solid in their stance. The waterfall we came upon was at least 60 feet high and fell out of a rock face concave around a pool of water. Once again, we felt the ancient energy of a place with more wisdom than any human could know. One of our guides informed us the water was over 100 feet deep. To demonstrate this, he climbed the rock face to the top of the waterfall, gave a brief wave, and leaped off the cliff to plunge into the water below. He arrived back at our shore unharmed, but Mom's eyebrows were raised in motherly skepticism.

Parakou-

The next morning, we hurried to check out and make the 7:30 a.m. bus from Natitingou to Parakou. We made it to the station just in time, but ended up beating the bus there and waiting for a bit. While we enjoyed the morning, I watched two very young children, no older than two or three, a boy and a slightly older girl, walking around hand in hand, dressed in formal African cloth. The boy clearly felt it was his duty to attend to the girl and assisted her as she stepped over rocks and tree branches littering the ground. Once they walked very near me and the boy, looking with confidence into my eyes, flashed me a knowing, lopsided grin.

The ride was what we had come to expect from buses in West Africa and everyone pushed and shoved to get on the bus first. Some sat in the aisle as the seats ran out and near me, a dad knelt on the ground with two small children. The children, while surely crammed and uncomfortable, did not complain once in the three hour trip. A little into the ride, a few Hadjas got into an argument over whether to have a certain window open. ("Hadja, literally means a woman who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca, but in Nigerien slang is used to refer to any large, rich woman.) One Hadja wanted the air blowing near her but not too much, thus kept opening this window. Several others wanted the window closed, saying the breeze was too strong for the children. They yelled at each other in French and told each other to shut up. The whole ordeal was like a tornado- fascinating to watch but not something you want to be in the middle of.

We made it to Parakou around one. Our hotel, the Auberge, was in keeping with the exotic tropical theme. There were large shaded porches, flowers everywhere, and a small lawn, which struck me as impressive when I wondered about the last time I'd seen a lawn. We were able to meet up with a friend of Katie's who was in the Peace Corps in Parakou and he showed us an authentic Voodoo fetish market. This was like nothing I've ever seen. Each booth had piles of dried animals, whole and in parts. There were lizards, frogs, birds, snakes, squirrels, dog heads, hooves, skins, indistinguishable horns, all smelling distinctly dead. There were piles of bark, shells, seed pods, clay pots, and dried gourds. Katie's friend told us how prevalent voodoo culture is here. Parakou, one of the most diverse cities in West Africa, is the northern hub of Benin's voodoo culture. There is even a 2 week long celebration in the fall where Christians, Muslims, and outsiders are advised not to leave their house because anyone seen on the street who is not totally associated with voodoo is outright killed.

As I fell asleep that night, my body reminding me of the jarring bus and car rides, my 20 + mosquito bites itching like mad, and the ceiling fan making a constant whirrrr, it occurred to me how we only had a few days left in Africa. The magic of the trip kept me in a trance and it seemed like the states had melted away. I felt uncomfortable physically, but my spirit was relaxing in a place where all one needs to worry about is where to sleep and what to eat.

We made it to the bus station the next day around noon for our 2 p.m. bus back to Malanville. Katie and I bought some meat rolls from a nearby bakery and oranges (which, in their authentic form, have a bright green peel) and waited for our bus. Most bus stations, comprising of a large dirt lot, some benches, and a tanda, are pretty laissez-faire. The schedules are more estimations and buses tend to come when they come. Still, when 5 rolled around and there was still no bus, we were pretty antsy about our traveling situation. Each time we asked the staff about when the bus would arrive, they would simply say, "It's coming." Finally, around 6:30 we were on our way for the 6 hour ride to Malanville.

Niamey Part Two-

Two days later, we pulled into the Peace Corps hostel in Niamey. After a refreshing and necessary shower and change of clothes, we decided to go out and see some of the markets. First, we went out for cloth. Most Africans, both men and women, wear tailored clothes made out of bright cloth with large block prints of everything from flowers to livestock to computers. The cloth mostly comes from Nigera, the Ivory Coast, and India. We started by going stand to stand to look at all the different prints, colors, and fabrics. It felt impossible to narrow down to a few picks when there were so many cloths to choose from. One shop we went in had easily 200 prints to display. Even looking at a cloth would grab the attention of the shop-keeper who would whisk it off the hanger and thrust it into your hands before you realized you'd admired it. Cries of "Anasara" rang in our ears as we tried to take in the market. One shopkeeper even started cutting a panya (about 3 yards) for me before I had decided to buy his fabric. Katie pointed this out to him in Zarma and he just replied, "I know she will buy, I know." He even tried to stuff it in Mom's purse before we finished bargaining.

We also spent some time in a Touareg market called Chateau Un. Here, artisans sell jewelry, baskets, leather goods, and so on. Everything was beautiful, handmade from old customs and styles. The only difficulty was the hoard of sellers that surrounded us, shoving their goods in our faces and demanding we follow them to their shop to buy their things. At first we could ignore them but every time we turned around, there were two more. They were very pushy, putting things in our hands and talking over one another in broken English. Then they followed us as we went from one stand to another so it became impossible to escape from them. I kept saying "No" but finally started ignoring them completely. Katie speculated that they were being such vultures because it was hungry season. This was hard to process. Here I am, an Anasara, with enough money to buy presents and these men are just trying to feed their families. It was a similar feeling at seeing the kids begging on the street. The level of human suffering here is such that my brain almost can't understand it. It leaves me with an intense feeling of guilt at being born where I was and having what I have. Katie gave us strict instructions not to hand out money to the beggars because it perpetuates an expectation that Anasaras give free money and thus a culture of dependency. While I understand the logic , there is something core within me that believes somehow I could be changing their lives. While I feel the apathy many Nigeriens show, I cannot comprehend how we can have developed, first world countries and not have addressed this suffering.

As part of exploring feminine beauty in Niger, I was fortunate that Katie found a way for me to visit a woman in Niamey who could put henna on my feet. I was excited to bring this piece of culture back with me to the States. Here, henna on your feet and hands is like getting a mani/pedi; it is such a part of presenting oneself well that the women who hosted us were confused that I didn't think henna on my hands would be presentable at work. The henna was in Chadyen style with swirls and flowers. Our hostess, Ramatou, was a large woman who was very welcoming and talkative. She kept feeding Katie and telling us about her children (4 of 7 survived their childhood) and her life in Niger. She was amazing. She raised her children, farmed, and tried to help other woman. She talked about how isolated and alone women here can feel. Their husbands have freedom to leave, lead their lives, and pursue happiness, but women have to be homemakers. They have almost no power, which means the only way to solve their problems is to wait and hope things get better. Women become depressed easily since most problems don't go away. Ramatou also asked if she could come to my (not yet happening) wedding and had us sing Happy Birthday to her.

The henna was intricate and beautiful. The girl who did it was very patient as she drew on my feet and ankles. Behind her, her toddler sat and played with a pair of broken sunglasses tied to a string. We had discussed getting my niece Ava a present from Africa, but Katie points out that African kids play with trash. Kids find treasures in the litter that is everywhere and use their imaginations to make toys out of trash. Thus, Katie offered to find Ava a bag of trash to play with if we wanted authentic Nigerien toys... needless to say, we passed.

And thus our trip came to a close. We spent our last evening waiting in the thick evening breeze, passing the time in the same fashion we had during most of the trip. When it came time for our midnight ride to the airport, I was surprised that I felt a deep sadness. I had been here only three weeks, and did not want to say goodbye to my little sister who, really, is not little in any way. I know her path is much longer than mine and travels to many more corners of the Earth as she explores who she is and what makes the world turn. There is also no evidence whatsoever that this will change. I don't want it do. She seems happiest when following her heart to places most people don't know they can dream about. But she is my sister and a part of my soul, leaving me both celebrating her choices and missing her presence. I love her like I love to live and I am proud to call her sister.