March 11, 2010

Dear First-World Inhabitants,

Thank you so much for all the positive feedback regarding the I-fell-in-my-latrine-leading-to-new-insight-into-the-nature-of-forgivness story. I was surprised how many people told me they read it/enjoyed it, leading them to examine and subsequently forgive various people and television networks in their life.

There is one person who apparently has not found the time to flip open his laptop, update his twitter, check my ramblings, and find new forgiveness…Hama…my landlord. Yeah, he’s still pretty upset about that ol’ bag of rice. (Seyni the PA/driver for Peace Corps confirmed the entire feud started because the mayor wouldn’t sell Hama some subsidized rice. The mayor wanted to save the cheaper rice for especially poor families. Hama took it personally, and BAM! Feud.)

Two days before I left to come into Dosso, Hama showed up at my house to tell me he had not received the past three months rent and if he did not get it in the next three days, he was going to make the mayor find me a new house. I let the Seyni the Peace Corps driver know, and convinced Hama to wait to throw me out until I got back from Dosso (since I was convinced Seyni would be able to sort everything out before then, and I wouldn’t have to move.) Hama agreed, but showed up the next day to inform me he didn’t even want the money, he just wanted his house back.

This is my house...

For me, this whole situation is a “jam bambata” (an enormous darn). First of all, I really don’t want to move. I don’t like moving. Secondly, preparing a new house will not be a quick thing. Can we all recall how long it took to get my latrine squared away? Thirdly, (and perhaps the most painful aspect of this whole conflict) every time Hama decides he is upset about not getting paid, he spends at least 45 minutes lecturing me about the situation. I’m not sure why, but this always makes me extremely uncomfortable. Part of it may be because he is speaking ill of my boss. Part of it may be that he keeps saying the same things over and over again. The last time he came to talk about the situation, he smacked the six-year-old-girl I was looking at pictures with and told her to go away. (I REALLY don’t like it when people hurt each other.) I guess, mostly, it just brings out a very negative, angry side of Hama, and makes me feel very insecure in my village. No one wants to think about being homeless.

After coming into Dosso and talking to Seyni, the PA, I feel much better about the situation. Seyni says he talked to the mayor and there aren’t any other houses in the community available for rent, thus, I have two options. First, he could have a big meeting with everyone in my village (the mayor, Hama, the chef of the village, the mayor staff, and me), and arrange for Hama to receive a year’s rent in advance. Option two, the mayor has offered to build me a new house. (Keep in mind he was the one responsible for the construction of my faulty latrine. Pause for reaction.) Yes, option one, please.

Allah willing, the situation will work out. I trust Seyni to arrange for me to stay in my current house. As he pointed out, it is in a great location, with good neighbors, and it has a brand-spanking-new latrine. It’s a good place for me.

The Bustling Mayor's Office

Next topic… the coup d’état…

I AM STILL ALIVE. I HAVE NOT BEEN SWEPT UP IN A SURGE OF REVOLUTIONARY VIOLENCE. Whew.

Here’s what it was like for me…Around one o’clock (has anyone ever paused to notice how silly the word o’clock is?) I arrived home after attending a meeting about community cereal/grain banks to discover the following text message on my phone: All PCVs standfasted (we aren’t allowed to leave our village) until further notice due to military action in Niamey. I just shrugged it off and went about my day.

That evening, I was playing my guitar in my yard when Hama’s mother appeared. After greeting me she scowled and stabbed the air with her finger to draw my attention to our neighbor’s radio. I’ve gotten pretty good at tuning out the grating static and Hausa songs, so I hadn’t even notice the marching band music that had been playing.

“Do you hear this music?” she asked me. “This music means there’s been a coup.”

I was very surprised to hear the French word “coup” come out of her mouth, since this old woman doesn’t even know what “merci” means. My second thought was, she can’t possibly know there’s been a coup just because that music is playing. Then it occurred to me, this woman is perhaps sixty years old, which means she’s been around for all five of the coups in the past 50 years. She may not speak French, but she probably does know what music they play on the radio when a dictator’s been overthrown.

Upset by the realization of what was happening a mere 120 km away, I texted my dear friend Will: MY NEIGHBOR SAYS THERE’S BEEN A COUP! Will, in his reply, asked me what else “military action in Niamey” could possibly mean.

After confirming there had in fact been a coup. I decided to walk around my neighborhood to see how people were reacting, but after leaving my yard, not a thing seemed out of place. A bunch of my neighbors were standing around shaking their heads at the situation. Just as, another night, they might stand around and shake their head at so-and-so who fought with his wife or at the price of millet in the market.

For obvious reason, I am not supposed to comment on Nigerien politics to host country nationals. Peace Corps is an apolitical organization that will not withdraw from a country, as other aid organizations might, on the basis of a country’s democratic policies. My villagers could see that I was a little shaken by the whole thing, and one of them asked something along the lines of, “This happens all the time, why are you so worried about it?” I told them this never happens in the United States, leaders always stepped down when they are supposed to. The group blinked at me skeptically, clearly thinking I was making up outrageous stories again…like the time I told them little animals live in their water and make them sick, or that gnawing on sugarcane all day will make their teeth turn black. Crazy old Hamsatou…always good for a laugh.

And that was it. A couple of times I heard teachers or mayoral staff refer to the situation as a cause for uncertainty if X official would come out to visit or if Y meeting would happen.

The most alarming part of the whole situation was the speed at which people in America found out about it. Before going to bed that evening I had calculated it would take two or three days for Tanja’s retirement to appear in first-world news: one day until people would find out about it, one day for them to write the story, and then to print it…if it was ever printed at all—the greater world does not seem to concerned with the political happenings of this landlocked, unpopulated, even-the-chickens-look-poor country.

But no…mere hours later, I was awoken by a call from my father’s ladyfriend, Terry. “YOURDADHEARDTHEIR’SBEENACOUPINNIGER!AREYOUSAFEFROMTHERIOTINGMOBSANDCANNONFIRE?” she asked me. And of course, I received a slew of very concerned emails and facebook comments.

Everything is fine. The average Nigerien is apathetic to politics and way too busy surviving to care who is in power (my opinion). The central government has almost no presence in their day-to-day lives. Also, I’m pretty sure there aren’t enough guns in the country to have any real fighting. Peace Corps has been in Niger for almost 50 years, for all five of the past coups, and has never had to evacuate. We were release from the stand-fast order after a few days, and the whole thing honestly has not at all affected me. The kidnappings last November were much more stressful, scary, threatening, etc. But now I get to say I survived a third-world coup d’état.

Spider in my house eating an entire cricket.

So…what else have I been up to?

I’ve started taking French lessons. The director of the primary school said he could teach me everything in three months, and has generously been tutoring me for an hour almost six nights a week. (I’m a little concerned because someone told me, in spite of the fact he already has two wives, he would like to marry me.) The lessons are going very well. The whole idea of studying makes me feel like I’m being productive. I REALLY enjoy learning new languages, though the difference between American and Nigerien teaching styles is painfully obvious.

Seydou, the director, writes sentences on the board and has me read them over and over. When I try and string the words together to forge my own comments and questions, he blinks in confusion and then asks me to repeat the phrase he’s written on the board again. Anytime I lower my eyes to take notes he sighs with exasperation, “Hamsatou! Hamsatou! Regarde!” He also spend a lot of time trying to explain things to me in English, which leads to grammatical treasures like, “This word wants you are saying when you feel very, very fine, when there is a lot, a lot of happy.” (Please note, Microsoft Word has no qualms with that sentence.)

My big, amazing project idea—to fix the fence around the community garden—has had some interesting developments. A community garden is a can be a wonderful impetus for development. First of all, women are usually the gardeners, so building a garden helps them to develop agricultural skills. It also helps the women to generate income, because they often sell their produce. Which in turn, helps the village’s market develop, as there are more products for sale. Also, a community garden affects the overall health of the village, because it introduces some variety to their diet.

A fence, however, is key. Without a good fence, animals and children will come through and eat everything. My village has a garden with TWELVE wells and a HUGE mango grove, but unfortunately the NGO-provided fence fell over some year ago and no one has fixed it. THUS, I had the brilliant idea of organizing the community to FIX the FENCE. If I do one thing in the next two year (I told myself), I’m going to fix that fence!

So after much conversation with various village authorities, I met with the man in charge of the garden, Hassan. Hassan listened to my proposal and told me he loved the idea. He also invited me to a meeting next week, when the NGO planning to replace the fence and buy the town a motorized water pump would be in town. So…my work here is done…

Other news:

I have gone almost four weeks without getting severe diarrhea!!

I adopted a kitten, which I have named “Gatsby.” I’m going to think of a Nigerien name for him too, because I want my villagers to be able to say his name. Maybe Habibou. I get two names, after all, why shouldn’t he…




When I go back to village, I am going to start work with the director of the middle school to start English tutoring sessions. I’m super excited…

And FINALLY, I am going to Spain in a few weeks! It is a last minute trip, but everything just fell into place. My friend Susannah, who I met while studying abroad in Argentina, is living in Santander, Spain, teaching English. She invited me to come visit during her April break. When I found cheap-ish ticket, I said to myself, “Hamsatou, ni ma koy.” Also my dad wrote me an all caps email in red font reminding me to carpe diem. So, I’m going! I leave in three weeks!!

I’ve woken up every morning since I bought the ticket thinking about the various foods I will eat when I get there. Here are some highlights: cheese, apples, cheese, coffee, yogurt, cake.

So, that is all for now. I will try and update you upon my return from Spain. Be well, everyone!

Irkoy ma cabe cere, may Allah show us each other,

Katie,

Tour of My House



Me, after I took the braids out.

Photos!!

Here are some fun photos from IST that I took with my AMAZING WATERPROOF, SANDPROOF, KATIE-PROOF CAMERA!!

My Friend Nicholas, a Refugee Volunteer from Guinea


Learning to make earthen cookstoves...

My Training Class, MCD/CYE 2009
Celebratory, closing dinner, at which at least six of us got horrible food poisoning...

Let's see how many I can put up before the Internet craps out...there are more on facebook...

From Christmas to Mid-Feb

January 26th, 2010

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

January 4, 2010

Hey, it’s 2010. Crazy. Even crazier, in a few days I will hit my six-month anniversary of arriving in Niger. Time has flown by at such a rapid pace I hardly noticed its passing. I am a fly suspended in amber. Things outside this golden desert change as they may, but my immediate surroundings and I lay untouched. Obviously the sun rises and sets often enough, but in Africa the cycle of the day seems completely divorced from time. After all, Nigeriens work continuously, without regard for such things as weekends. On Fridays everyone puts on his or her one special outfit to go and pray, but the routine continues without respite.

Even more disorienting, I have been trapped in a perpetual summer since I left. There may be snow in America, but it still feels very much like July, or perhaps August. Similarly, when I was in Argentina during the southern hemisphere’s winter months, I was convinced it was summertime in spite of the cold temperatures, rain, and snow. It took ages for it to sink in that “July = tank top weather” is not always correct.

I think, however, this chronologic disorder is due large in part to the fact I haven’t done much since I arrived. Now, wait. I can hear my parents both erupting with protests at this statement—listing all the brave things I’ve done since arrive, such as learning a language, getting peed on by babies, battling scorpions, eating grasshoppers, and learning how to “snot-rocket” the contents of my sinuses.

Yes, the scenery of my life has change a bit since leaving America, but my days spent chatting, cooking, and doing arts and crafts slip by without my notice. My new life is so unlike the one I left, in which one day held an eternity of tasks and I hammered every second into fruition. I used to try and figure out how to make the few minutes I would spend waiting for a bus productive. I am aware of the fact I am a chronic over-achiever, but as I’d hoped, Africa seems to be curing me of that. If I can run one errand or complete one task within daylight hours, it has been a very productive day. Everything in my schedule is subject to Allah’s will.

January 9, 2010

So, disruptions in the space-time continuum aside, things in Niger are good. I have been at my post for three weeks now, and I’m settling in quite well.

My landlord, Hama, and his family have essentially adopted me as their strange-looking and bizarre relative. Every morning, each member of the family (which is rather small by Nigerien standards) comes to ask me how I slept. Hama’s elderly mother, with whom I share a concession, also takes this opportunity to tell me to sweep my concession. I have also taken to eating meals with Hama’s aunt and cousin (my closest neighbor) almost every night. The aunt, Lamissi (Lam-e-see) has graciously taken over the job of mothering me since (she told me) my real mother is so far away. Aside from feeding me dinner every night, as part of this motherly duty Lamissi regularly:

1. Reminds me not to go too far or get lost when I go out into the village to see people.

· As a seasoned traveler, I find this especially endearing considering the village could easily fit inside the liberal arts section of the UW campus.

2. Discourages me from making trips into the bush with the other unmarried girls to collect firewood, berries, and other delicious treats.

· “What will you put on your feet to protect them from all the thorns?!,” she asks me in horror, “Will you tie a piece of cloth around them?” I, of course, have shoes, but in spite of the fact that most girls go barefoot…the thick leather soles of my very expensive American flip-flops seem inadequate for my delicate anasara feet.

3. Forbids me to climb trees.

· I would never…

4. Tells me I am not allow to learn how to make the woven palm mats, pound millet, or do any work that may cause my hands to become callused.

5. Explains regularly how fat I should be before returning to America, so that when I arrive everyone will be impressed. (She makes sound effect to portray the sound of me deplaning.)

6. Encourages me on an hourly basis to bring my cot inside to sleep on, rather than continuing to sleep on my mattress on my frigid concrete floor.

· While has been rather cold at night (getting down to the high 40s), Lamissi doesn’t see how I could possibly be warm enough sleeping inside my house…in flannel pants and a sweater…with a North Face sleeping bag (rated to 30 degrees)…on top of a foam pad…with the door closed.

7. Comes to check on me frequently whenever I should fall ill.

· I actually spent a day in bed due to a terrible cold I contracted. It wasn’t that bad, but I figured I might as well rest for a day to make a quicker recovery.

Lamissi was very concerned when I told her I was sick. At first, she tried to convince me to go to the village doctor. (Third-world medical treatment? No, thank you.) When I told her Peace Corps would bring me medicine if I needed it, she started asking me every 20 minutes if I’d called them yet. In response, I told I was pretty sure I had a virus, and there wasn’t really any medicine that could help me beyond rest. She didn’t know what a virus was, but was apparently unconvinced the anasaras I worked for didn’t have a cure for the common cold. She also took the time to point out I probably caught this cold because I had been sleeping on my floor and also because I never ate enough. “Are you hungry now?” she asked me.

Lamissi may boarder on overprotective, but always concedes when I insist I am able to do something. Thus, for all that she doubts my durability, I am rarely irritated by her loving concern.

Speaking of irritation…in the entry I posted for Christmas I mentioned some of the differences I had discovered between my new post and my old. I was learning to get by with no electricity, limited transportation, and having to walk to the next town’s market for food. The remarks I made previously certainly hold true, but the biggest difference between my two posts is just beginning to emerge.

First let me say that I am unendingly pleased with my new post. Smaller communities certainly have numerous benefits to larger ones. For one, I am significantly less worried about instances of theft in this small town. Small town folks are known for much more protective of their volunteers. One PCV told me the villagers of her isolated post would not show a visiting NGO worker where she lived, and instead insisted he go to the chief of the village to get permission/make an appointment to talk to her. The village chief asked the NGO worker to write a letter of intent and return another day. In addition to have an entire village looking out for me, I have found it much easier to make friends and become involved with my villagers’ lives here. The problem is they are able to do the same with me.

In Gotheye, the clash between my Americanism and Nigerien culture arose from time to time, but it was always at moments when I expected it. For example, I expected to disagree with the gender roles in Niger, and to have to tell people when I needed to be alone, and to see goats every morning. The pre-service training more than adequately prepared me for life in Gotheye, and after a few weeks there I was able to exist in my own little sphere without too much cultural angst. At my new post, things are very different. While my new villagers are generally respectful of my privacy, from the moment I step out of my house I am constantly bombarded with salutations and invitations and questions, which often leave me bristled or frustrated. In a word, my new villagers are all up in my bidz-niz[1]. And, in contrast to my old post, it is my Americanism that seems to lie at the center of each cultural scuffle.

I think the best story to illustrate this new cultural education involves me and my house…

When I came back from Christmas in Dosso, as planned, some of my villagers had put in the concrete floor of my house. It wasn’t dry enough for me to move in yet, so, I had to stay a few more days in my landlord’s mother’s house, which she was so kindly letting me occupy while she slept at his house. I decided to take advantage of my house’s vacancy to make a few more minor improvements.

To be certain, my new house is very nice. It is on the edge of town. It has a cute little triangular window. Its thick walls insolate it enough so that during the day, it stays nice and cool. It is also rather…small. The entire construction is just one eight-by-sixteen-foot room. I didn’t mind the size downgrade from my two-room luxury apartment in Gotheye. I didn’t even mind that as I lay awake at night I could hear the steady crunch of termites slowly devouring my roof. There was, however, one thing about this new house that REALLY bothered me. It seemed the walls were put together rather quickly and never finished on the inside. Consequently, the mud and brick had hardened into an abrasive facade, full of crevasses and rough outcroppings. While the millions of crickets who had taken up residence in the walls found the construction more than adequate, I felt some improvements could be made.

Having been forewarned dozens of times home improvements were likely to suffer enormous delay (because we are in Niger), I decided to embrace that Can-Do American Spirit and see if I could fix up the walls myself. Rather than covering them up with fabric or trying to paint the mud, I decided the best thing would be to get more mud to fill in all the little cracks and smooth things out a bit.

I thought I may get in trouble for just digging a hole somewhere near the village, and the sand outside in my concession didn’t seem like the right thing. Then it struck me! Why not break off all the extra mud sticking out to fill in the other areas where it was missing? Not having any real tools beyond my pocketknife, I decided to sacrifice some of my kitchenware to the project. (Resourcefulness and thrift are both core, American values.)

After all this thoughtful planning, I woke early the next morning to start, thinking the project might take a few hours. And so I began, fork in hand, hammering away at walls. (Yes, I was using a fork.) Soon, dirt was flying everywhere. The air was thick with dust, eventually settling to cover the floor and me. When I would knock off enough material, I would pound the chunks into dirt and then add water, making a nice, smooth mud-putty, which I would then carefully smooth over choice cracks.

In spite of my enthusiasm, the work wasn’t going as easily as I would have hoped. My hand was scraped and bruised from all the pounding and my nose was glued shut with dust-boogers. Moreover, I soon saw I would not have enough putty to fill in every crack/make the walls as smooth as I would like. Nevertheless, looking at my work, I had to admit the result was a considerable upgrade from what the walls had been before. And so I went, faithfully chipping away at my walls, pounding, sweeping, adding water, and deciding which cracks to fill. I felt quite industrious at the end of the day—even if I barely finished filling in half of the walls. Nevertheless, I had come this far and was committed to the project.

The second day was much like the first. I kept up the same rigorous pace and (of course) had many curious neighbors stop by to see what on earth I was doing. They would stand in the doorway, stunned into silence by the mess I was making, especially since household repairs are the men’s responsibility. Thus, most of my visitors were high skeptical that I would be able to complete the task at hand. In spite of this, I got a few of them to concede the walls did look better after I had patched them. Toward the end of the second day, I was determined to finish and started working at an accelerated pace. Just as I was pushing my last batch of mud into the final cracks, my landlord, Hama, arrived from his two-day stay at the neighboring village.

When he came into my house, Hama gaped with an open mouth at the floor, walls, and anasara—all covered in mud. Then he informed me of the following: He wasn’t angry with me for trying to fix things up, but was hurt I hadn’t asked him to fix the walls for me. Fixing the walls myself made him feel like I had little faith in him as a landlord. He told me he was responsible for the property and my comfort, and while he appreciated my work, I was overstepping my license as a tenet. Finally, he said he still valued me as a person and neighbor and hoped we could continue to have a warm, honest relationship. Or at least, that’s what he would have said if he spoke English, had grown up in Montana, attended UW, and had a therapist for a sister. Nigerien culture is much more direct than that. It is also narrated with a language that does not allow a speaker to wrestle with shades of meaning and make subtle distinctions, such as the difference between words like angry/upset or like/love/want. So, what Hama really told me was something like, “What are you doing?! I never said you could do this. This is not good. You are not good! I swear to Allah, I am angry! Put down your bucket! Go wash your hands!”

I had expected Hama to give my work a half-interested nod or laugh at me, but I never thought he would be angry. In truth, it hadn’t even occurred to me my landlord might be bothered by my little project, so I hadn’t even thought to ask his permission. After all, it was my house, the changes I was making were minor, and his mother hadn’t stopped me when she first saw what I was doing.

What I didn’t realize was by fixing the walls myself, I ignored the layers of protocol that dictate all interactions in Niger. A person must ask permission from the proper authorities to do ANYTHING. In retrospect I see I was even insulting Hama by taking on the work myself, and not allowing him to fulfill his landlordly duties. I could have gotten angry at Hama for his reaction, or sulked, or decided I didn’t like him anymore, but standing there, covered in mud, it was painfully clear to me I was the one at fault. I should have asked, but just like the mayor in Gotheye said after discovering I had moved in without allowing him to officially install me, “Americans don’t ask, they just go.”

Hama’s response to my cultural insensitivity also surprised me and lay in stark contrast to American culture. I expected him to harbor a grudge for weeks or leave me to take care of myself (as I so obviously didn’t want his help), but instead Hama repaid my mistake by offering to extract in dirt from a nearby field, haul water to mix it into mud, and then spend a day (properly) covering ALL OF THE WALLS, making them smooth as drywall. What a gentleman.

Another example of how my American attitude doesn’t translate into Zarma:

One unremarkable morning, I finished my little routine and headed out to work. Nothing in particular had happened to ruin my morning, but as I began the trek through the village, from my house to the mayor’s office I felt my patience and good humor evaporating under the morning sun. As per usual, each one of my villagers wanted to greet me, and ask me at least seven questions about where I was going and what I was wearing. AND THEN, my landlord stopped me to have a long, fruitless conversation about the fact the mayor still hadn’t paid him for my rent (more on that later). He kept talking and talking, explaining the situation several times, all of which left me wanting to ask, “And what do you want me to do about it?” By the time I reached the final stretch to the mayor’s office I was so preoccupied and grumpy I didn’t want to talk to anyone. So, I passed a young man without greeting him.

Walking around campus as a student at UW I would often pretend not to see people I knew or not stop to say hello, lest I be delayed to class. I was also on the receiving end of many greeting avoidances. But that kind of self-centered rush doesn’t fly here. Nigeriens always have time to say hello.

Since I didn’t recognize this guy and I was cranky, I figured it wasn’t a big deal if I didn’t stop to chat. As I walked by him, I pretended to look at something on the distant, left horizon, making it seem like I just didn’t see him. Of course, he immediately called me out on the non-greeting.

“HEY! You didn’t greet me, Anasara, come here!” he yelled at me.

I recognized I had been busted, and trotted over to say hi.

“You didn’t greet me,” He informed me. “You walked right by my house and didn’t even ask how I slept.”

“Oh,” I said, “In America, we don’t always say hi to everyone we see. So, sometimes I forget to greet people here.”

He gave me a stern look, unmoved by my excuse, and said, “This is Niger not America. A person must always greet everyone they see here.”

He forgave me, but immediately sucked me into a conversation. He wanted to know what I was doing in the village, where I was going, why I was wearing a head wrap, what kind of work I was doing at the mayor’s, where my house was, if I would take him to America, if I recognized the name of his village…and the list goes on. At this point, it was hot, it was windy, I was tired and just wanted to go sit in the mayor’s office (which is always cool and abandon) and fill out birth certificates in peace. Thus, as soon as I could, I told the man I was on my way to work, and had to leave “right now.” “Right now” doesn’t exactly translate into Zarma or Nigerien culture, so even as I turned to go the man kept talking.

I have two goals when talking to my villagers. The first is to be as kind and patient as possible. The second is to always be honest. Though lying would make a lot of situations a lot less painful (for example, telling them I don’t have x item, rather than explaining why I have it and won’t give it to them), I don’t want dishonesty to become a reflex. Thus, rather than making up a reason to leave, I told this young man the truth. Translated into Zarma I said something like, “I’m sorry. Today I am not feeling happy and do not have patience. I want to go to work now. We should chat later.” The man seemed very alarmed (but not mad) at this and immediately excused me from the conversation.

Luckily for me, the only person who ever comes to the mayor’s office is Seyni (SAY-nee), the Etat-Civil, and he is not a big chatterbox. So I was able to spend the next two hours silently writing birth certificates in the cool sanctuary of the mayor’s office. That respite from the village, combined with a delicious lunch and nap eased my mood, and by the afternoon I was chipper as ever.

Walking around to greet people that afternoon, I ran into that young man again. (As it turns out he is the son of one of my neighbors.) After greeting each other thoroughly, he looked at me very gravely and asked me if I “te dama,” which translates as regained my health. I had only ever heard this saying used in the context of health issues. Confused, I told him I wasn’t sick. He then reminded me of what I had said that morning, and realized he was equating my impatience with an illness, and (judging by the look on his face) a severe one at that.

I told him I was very well and had definitely “regained my health.” Walking away, I couldn’t help but smile at the idea a Nigerien would think of impatience as an illness. After a moment though, I realized this was more or less accurate. With all the delays and uncertainty in this country, impatience could be lethal.

[1] For those born before 1975, “bidz-nez” is a vernacular term related to the conventional term “business.” It is used to describe one’s everyday affairs/personal life and does not necessarily relate to commerce or employment.

My New Site

December 22, 2009

I’ve only been in my new site for a week, but it’s everything I could have ever wanted from a rural, African village and more. It comes fully stocked with an array of poultry and livestock. The inhabitants are welcoming and excited to host. I have wonderful neighbors who have all but adopted me. The village chief comes and greets me every morning. I’ve been offered more food than I could ever eat. Not to mention, the kids are even generally well behaved. (A herd of at least twenty children follow my every step, but when I turn around and stare them down with my “crazy anasara eye,” they disburse. I made on little girl cry, just by looking at her.)

This new post, to be sure, is far more “bush” than my old one. Gotheye (my old post) had more than 7,000 people living, while my new village barely reaches 1,000. With the larger population came a number of luxuries I never fully appreciated before. First, electricity. Electricity vastly improves one’s quality of life. Consider the following: electric fans, cell phone charging, lights (being able to see which bugs are in your house at night), refrigeration, cold water, dairy products, cold soda, unlimited laptop time (including my weekly movie night).

Second, commerce… In Gotheye I could get just about anything I need any day of the week. There was always some kind of produce for sale, and I could buy dinner from street vendors every night. Gotheye’s weekly market was huge, taking up an area of roughly four football fields. My new town…has a market…at which…things are sold…but beyond fried dough and old nails, there isn’t much there. The whole affair could easily fit inside my father’s living room—which I admit is a big living room, but the comparison holds. When it’s not market day, there is essentially nothing for sale. I couldn’t even buy phone credit until I walked the four kilometers to the neighboring town’s market. Some women sell things (like fried dough) out of the houses, but this new post has only two real shops—which are usually closed.

Third, transportation. I now have a bike! But my regional capital is 37 kilometers away, so I’m not bold enough to try and bike there yet. Cars do go from my town into the big city, but they only leave on certain days, early in the morning. Otherwise, only motorcycles are available, which I’m not allowed to ride. (After seeing some accidents here, I think that’s a good rule. Thank you Peace Corps.)

Forth…a functioning mayors office? Similar to Gotheye, at my new post I am supposed to work with the mayor’s to develop the municipality. However, after my first visit to the mayor’s office here, I can see there is going to be very little similar about my work. Yes, it’s true the staff at the Gotheye office spent a great deal of time making coffee and playing solitaire. But they came to work! There were (two) computers and a broken photocopier and functional chairs and desks and a filing cabinet and tables and electricity and people. My new mayor’s office has a much more…abandon feel to it. Now, this is no one’s fault. The new commune I am working for just doesn’t have the money to pay office staff—so many positions are unfilled and the work goes undone. Needless to say, however, the kinds of projects I was envisioning have changed a great deal.

Fifth, a large social scene—not that I expect to go out dancing a lot, but in a month or so, I expect I will know everyone in my village. They all already know me. The tricky part about living in a small village is collectively they all vividly remember the past volunteers. Really, they just remember one volunteer, Nadia. Nadia was an agriculture volunteer who was here years and years ago, but my villagers still confuse me with her. Even after establishing the fact I am in fact a different person, everyone gets really confused when I deviate from the path Nadia beat. They want to know if I’m going to plant peanuts and a garden. They want to know why I don’t go running every morning, why I don’t wear pants, why my boyfriend hasn’t come to visit, why I don’t have a cat, why I don’t ride my bike to Dosso, why I don’t know how to make the millet porridge they eat every night—all because Nadia knew it or did it or said it. Of course the next volunteer will have to deal with an endless stream of questions about Hamsatou (me). It’s just the nature of the beast.

But, even without all the luxury (as I said before) I couldn’t be happier with my new post. My days are always busy and filled with laughter. My days in Gotheye were always busy, but with such a big town, there was no way I would ever get to know everyone. Here, I feel like I am really becoming a part of something. Here are some of my favorite things about my new post:

1. The little neighbor kid who does a face plant before eating a mouthful of dirt.
2. The chorus of donkeys that howl like dogs every morning.
3. They mayor’s eight-year-old kid who has taken it upon himself to be my personal tour guide.
4. My huge, super fancy shade hanger.
5. The fact that I am always invited to someone’s house for dinner.
6. The fact that my villagers love my guitar, and love to hear me play it.
7. The old woman who scares the children away from my concession every time they try and spy on me.
8. The water pump less than 100 yards from my house (I get to carry my own water now).
9. The plethora of shrubbery and trees.
10. The ten old women who insist I call them, “Mom.”

Even better, my villagers give me all sorts of treats as I wander from house to house to chat.

The extra three months of language practice I got while in Gotheye have made it noticeable easier to communicate. I have only been accused of not speaking Zarma once or twice and am able to understand what’s going on around me. One thing I have discovered in my discussions is that most people have no idea why I am here. They remember Nadia vividly, but when I ask if they remember the work she did…things get foggy. “Oh yes, she planted a garden,” is a response I get a lot. Consequently, I’ve devoted a lot of conversation to self-promotion. I make lots of awkward, long-winded speeches try to emphasize I have come to work for the village, but I will need their help to accomplish anything. People nod faithfully and tell me they understand, but the next day I will hear them tell their friends I’ve come to learn Zarma or plant a garden.

At the very least, the next two years will be interesting.

Right now I am sitting in the Dosso hostel, listening to Christmas music and eating cookie for lunch. Considering it’s about 100 degrees out, it doesn’t really feel like Christmas. Nevertheless, it seems some holiday spirit has even managed to reach the desert. After leaving my phone in a cab, the driver brought it back to me rather than selling it. It sounds small, but for Niger it was pretty remarkable. So…I wish you all a happy Soliti-Christma-Hana-Kwanzaka. May your days be as jolly as a well fed eight-year-old and as bright as the African sun.

Pictures of Gotheye

If you didn't already know:

On Saturday, November 14, heavily armed individuals attempted to kidnap American Embassy employees in Tahoua. The Embassy once again strongly urges U.S. citizens to exercise caution and remain vigilant. The Embassy restrictions on the travel of U.S. Government employees and official visitors have been amended to prohibit official travel outside of Niamey until further notice.

So it figures that as I got around to posting pictures of my house, I would be asked to move sites for security reasons. I thought I would put these up anyway.

And these are some shots of millet for sale at the market/ the boats people take to market.

November 14, 2009


Ramatou’s Baby

So, it’s been a while since I’ve taken the time to sit down and write—more than a month, but wow, it seems like that poop shower was just yesterday…time is really flying. I posted my last blog entry the end of October, when I was in Niamey for my first team meeting. During this visit, I also had the chance to gorge myself on pizza, milkshakes, and Internet time. For those who don’t already know, the American Recreation Center just got wireless, which (when it’s working) is fast enough to allow me to Skype people and EVEN video chat. I swam, I napped, I snacked, I did laundry. There was also a Halloween party for volunteers. I was really excited at the prospect of costumes, but, in true Katie form, I ended up going to bed early and slept through it. Then, before I knew it, I was back in village.

A few days before my trip to Niamey, my neighbor, Ramatou, gave birth to her first child. Ramatou works at the local school with her husband, and is one of my favorite people in the village. She’s a very pretty, petite, seemingly quiet woman, but underneath all that class she is wonderfully sassy. Like most schoolteachers in Niger, she and her husband were forced to move to find work, so they live away from the rest of their family. Like me, they are renting a mud house from my new adoptive father, Cemogo.

Ramatou is unlike a lot of Nigeriens in that she is very educated, speaks perfect French and a little English. I’m not clear about what her father does for work, but I know he went to school in Germany. As a consequence of this privileged upbringing, Ramatou developed a unique perspective on life in Niger. For example, she told me that she does not support polygamy and that she would never let her husband become her boss. (Did I ever mention that men are legally able to have up to four wives in Niger?) Ramatou was also the first person in my concession to invite me to dinner and really make an effort to make me feel welcome. She’s absolutely fantastic. Her only flaw is—for some unknown reason—she likes to inform me when I am perspiring. I’m not sure why she feels compelled to report this fact to me, but sure enough, every time she sees me it’s: “Greetings Hamsatou, how was your sleep? (pause) You are sweating.” But, Ramatou wins back all lost “cool points” for putting up with being two-and-a-half-weeks overdue during a month of 110-degree heat in a land where there is no AC.

Watching Ramatou haul her big pregnant belly around made me realize giving birth in a rural, third-world village is not something I ever want to do. While there is a maternity ward at the loktoro kwaara (doctor’s hut), my village does not have a lot of emergency care available should something go wrong. Really, Ramatou was lucky even to have the maternity ward available considering more than 70% of Nigerien women give birth at home. I was impressed to learn most women here continue to pound millet, scrub pots, sweep, etc. through the early stages of labor. Not only does this distract the women from the discomfort, but they claim it also helps the labor progress. In the final stages of delivery, a woman will go into her hut and give birth while squatting or standing up. This position actually makes for an easier delivery considering a woman’s anatomy. And, to top it all off, Nigerien women make every effort not to cry out or show the pain she is feeling during delivery. No one cries here, except children and anasara volunteers.

Ramatou ended up going into labor in the middle of the night, so I missed all the action. Thanks be to Allah, there were no difficulties with her pregnancy and a healthy baby boy was brought into the world. I went to visit her at the maternity ward the next day. The room where she had given birth had a floor, a window and two beds, but was really not much more than the mud house I live in. Ramatou looked worn out, but relieved not to be pregnant anymore. The baby, who would receive his name five days later during a “showing ceremony,” was in the arms of another older woman who was spooning broth into his mouth. I learned during PST feeding a baby anything but breast milk during the first months (or something) of life is bad, so red flags shot up the minute I saw the baby eating broth.

Misinformation, superstition, and unhealthy traditions are an unfortunate part of pregnancy and childcare in Niger. For example, many women believe that breast milk isn’t as good for their babies as formula or regular food. As a consequence, mothers sometimes give their children water instead of milk, which—of course—is rarely clean. Many Nigeriens also believe that the first breast milk a woman produces after giving birth contains bad juju, so often a mother won’t feed her baby the colostrum—breast milk that contains vital antibodies. Then, remember one in four Nigerien children die before they turn five.

I wanted to ask Ramatou why she wasn’t nursing the baby, but something stopped me. I think I didn’t want to seem like a know-it-all anasara—especially because I know so little about pregnancy. Peace Corps staff emphasized many times during our training that we, as Americans, have a large body of knowledge in so many subjects where we do not consider ourselves to be informed. In other words, a lot of the time, we don’t recognize the basic knowledge we hold as valuable because everyone we know, knows it too. For example, unless I got an MBA, I would not feel competent enough to educate people about business strategy. But, after going to public high school and even just having a job in the U.S. I really do have more business knowledge than a lot of business owners here. Now, I’m not saying that I could do a better job selling camels than a Tuareg camel herder; but I do understand the concepts of supply and demand, cost, markup, revenue, and profit whereas they may not. (Less than 20% of Nigeriens are even literate.) The same goes for basic healthcare. I’m not a doctor, but I do know it is not a good idea to let a newborn baby drink Niger River water. Unfortunately, many mothers here do not know that. Ramatou, because of her economic means, represents a special case…and I think that may be why I hesitated to correct her childcare practices. I figured she knows what she was doing. Perhaps I should have said something, but either way, her child is still in good health.

I was in Niamey when Ramatou and her husband hosted the baby-naming/showing ceremony, but since women give birth rather often here, I have already been to quite a few. Here’s how it happens. The family slaughters either a goat or a sheep to make a fancy stew. Everyone shows up in the morning and give their congratulations to the parents. Most people bring soap or money as a gift. All the men sit outside, drink tea, and eat dates. All the women sit inside with the baby and gossip, while preparing biblical amounts of rice for lunch (or koranical amounts, I guess). At some point the maribou, a Muslim holy man, arrives to bless and name the baby. In the old days, the maribou would actually pick the name, but nowadays the father usually makes a “suggestion.” Then everyone eats lunch. In my personal experience lunch is usually a big shitshow. Either there isn’t enough, or people fight over the leftovers. All the women bicker about the cooking of the rice and the most strategic way to serve it. In my opinion, these ceremonies are actually kind of intense. The women are always fired up and yelling over one another. And, when it comes to the cooking, I have seen women get violent with each other more than once. Before the party is over, everyone gets a plastic bag of punch to take home (WARNING: THIS PUNCH IS MADE WITH RIVER WATER). All in all—it’s a fun day.

I was really sad to have missed Ramatou’s baby’s ceremony, especially since it was her first child, but Allah did not will me to be there. When I got back, she (among others) was upset with me, but I won her back over with some fancy soap and a bib I bought for Ousman—her baby had a name now. She’s doing great as a new mom too. Granted, she does have a hired nurse to help her out, but I wouldn’t feel ready to raise a child even with an army of Mary Poppinses.


My Own, Personal Magic Potion

The first week I was back from Niamey, I was very busy with visiting all my friends, etc. It was also that week another volunteer’s parents came to visit, so the entire cluster of volunteers got together at the hostel in my village to cook dinner. Her parents were having a surprisingly pleasant visit, in spite of the 110-degree heat and squat toilets. To celebrate their arrival, the volunteer’s village had a big party and killed a sheep. Her father’s short stay in my town (they just spent one night at the hostel) caused quite a stir. For at least three days afterwards, my villagers kept asking me who the anasara bambata (enormous white person) was. Keeping in mind Nigeriens equate largeness with both wealth and importance, it’s no wonder everyone was so excited by the visit of this obviously very important gentleman.

After her parents left, I began to get back into my routine; I was tragically behind on visiting people, so that was my first priority. One of the people I was most eager to see was my new friend, Haoua (How-wa). (I realize that I’ve mentioned many Haouas and Ramatous before. I will do my best to make it clear whom I am referring to, but Nigeriens generally recycle the same 30 names[1] for boys and 30 more for girls[2].) Anyway, this particular Haoua is the younger sister of my adoptive father. She lives in another house, not far from mine, with her husband, Hassan. When I first wandered in to her concession (yard), I actually had no idea she was “related” to me. I was just exploring a new part of town and saw friendly-looking group of people. Haoua, however, recognized me immediately and was disappointed I didn’t know who she was. I launched into my usual routine about how I have a terrible memory and have trouble remembering peoples’ names, especially Nigerien names—because they are so strange. I then asked if I could sit and chat. At this, Haoua forgave me, and set about the business of trying to get me to eat something.

Haoua’s husband Hassan was also delighted by my visit and started chatting me up. As a young solider, Hassan had traveled all over Niger. He knew all about the rebels up north, and the bandits out west. He had also spent time in Nigeria and Ghana, and so spoke some (very broken) English.

There was another gentleman, Moussa, sitting with the group who was excited I had come to chat. I had seen him around town and got the sense from the way Haoua and Hassan talked to him, he was the annoying friend, who isn’t actually your friend, always talks, and never leaves. True to his nature, Moussa cut off my conversation with Hassan to inform me he had an anasara friend. I must not have given him enough of a reaction, because he immediately got up to retrieve photographic evidence of this friendship. When he came back he handed two or three pictures to me to inspect. I was surprised to see the photos were of a Christian priest baptizing Moussa in the Niger River—especially considering that Niger is 99% Muslim. I asked Moussa how long he had been a Christian, but he didn’t answer in apparent confusion. I explained to him the priest had baptized him to wash away all his sins, something most devout Christians do as a kind of rite of passage. Moussa shook his head and said that the priest in the photo had just wanted to give him a bath (as a gesture of friendship?). I didn’t see the need to clarify the matter as I’m sure both the priest and Moussa were perfectly happy believing their version of what happened. I, however, took a moment to appreciate how this incident contributed to the bizarreness of anasaras in the eyes of my villagers.

Haoua, who was obviously irritated Moussa was hogging the anasara’s attention, started telling me about Hassan’s work. I was little skeptical when she told me he worked as a doctor, since I hadn’t seen him around the loktoro kwaara. I asked where he studied medicine, and it became obvious I was missing some key point in the conversation. To help me understand, Hassan said he would show me, then led me into the extra house next door to their house. Inside it was dark and the air was thick with incense, but I could still see there were two rooms. The first was empty except for a couple mats on the dirt floor. The back room, however, was overwhelmed with a collection of bottles and strange skins, hats, and robes hanging on the walls. Seeing this, I understood—Hassan was a traditional healer, or “black doctor” in Zarma.

Hassan started unwrapping various pouches and showing me what was inside. Each powder he showed me was completely undistinguishable from the next in my eyes, but he assured me they all had different purposes. This one is for a headache, the next for stomach issues, the next to aid conception, or to help a person who had be possessed by a ganji (evil spirit). I was mesmerized by the scene in front of me, but Hassan drew my attention seven cockleshells in his hand. He told me, with these shells, he could read Allah’s will. He then began to demonstrate for me by tossing the shells into the sand and interpreting their placement. After a few throws, he asked his wife, Haoua, to take over.

I was a little skeptical of my future, according to Hassan and Haoua. During Hassan’s first throw he had predicted things that were not exactly radical. For example, he told me I would get a call from America and that one of my Peace Corps friends would get sick—both of which happen fairly often for a PCV. Hassan also predicted I would teach him English, which seemed an interesting thing for Allah to will.

Haoua’s spent more time with me, but her predictions were much more vague. She told me I should sacrifice sugar and dates by giving them to children around town. If I did this, she told me, I would ma kaani gumo gumo, which literally translates as “feel happy a lot.” In the midst of many other predictions, the shells also revealed to Haoua that Allah willed me to participate in another ceremony in order to feel even happier. She explained the ceremony to me and asked if I would be willing come back the next day to do it.

As I mentioned mere paragraphs ago, Niger is officially 99% Muslim. There are, however, certain areas of the country where some continue to practice the same animist ceremonies as their ancestors. My village is in one of these areas. Of course, all remnants of traditional culture exist only under the guise of having a Koranic origin. Since more than 80% of Nigeriens are illiterate, very few people have ever actually read the Koran. Consequently a great deal of “Muslimism” in this country isn’t actually Muslim, but rather tradition, superstition, or rumor. Some do recognize animist traditions as blasphemy, creating tension between various members of the community. For this reason, I was a little apprehensive to participate in the ceremony. I didn’t want to align myself with a controversial group or have my villagers label me as anti-Muslim. I was even more apprehensive when Haoua instructed me not to tell anyone about the ceremony. It is your secret, she told me. (She didn’t say anything about blog posts.)

But how could I pass up such an experience? How many times in my life was I going to have the chance to participate in a traditional African ceremony? After hearing what the ceremony entailed, I decided it seemed private enough and I agreed. Not to mention Haoua promised participating would endow me with strength, make everyone like me, and make all my dreams come true. How can you turn down an offer like that?

An afternoon later that week, I walked back to Haoua’s with a bucket with a lid and small coins as an offering—things she had told me I would need. When I arrived only Hassan and Haoua were home. They brought me into the hut where Hassan works and told me to sit with my bucket in front of me. Hassan and Haoua sat too, so that the three of us formed a triangle. Hassan began by pouring a few liters of river water into my bucket while chanting “in the name of Allah” in Arabic, bismilla. He then added pinches and dashes of four or five different colored powders, while chanting something in Songhai. He finished the potion by spraying a generous amount of cheap perfume.

When the potion was ready, both Hassan and Haoua chanted for two or three minutes while making several synchronized gestures. I tried to follow along, but really had no idea what was happening. Haoua, then, instructed me to place the pointer finger of my right hand on the rim of the bucket, and they both did the same. There was more chanting, then Hassan turned to me and told me to tell the bucket what I wanted. I was so flustered, I couldn’t thing of anything to say. I hadn’t understood I was actually going to have to do something for the ceremony. Plus, I had no idea how to explain all my hopes and dreams in Zarma.

Luckily, Hassan gave me the okay to do this step in English—so I wasn’t limited by my Zarma vocabulary and didn’t have to censor myself . I leaned forward and told my magic potion exactly what I wanted out of life. And what did I ask for? I guess that’s between me and Allah. When I was done, Hassan said a few more words conclude the ceremony, then put the lid on my bucket. He and Haoua were both beaming at me. I got the sense they were both excited I had agree to participate, actually shown up, and that the ceremony had been such a success. I gave Hassan a 500 CFA as a gift, while thanking him profusely for taking the time to make all my dreams come true. Then, Haoua led me outside and instructed me to go home and bathe in the potion.

And I did.

The experience was totally unreal to me. The whole time I kept thinking, I chose such a strange life, how lucky am I? I found out later that I was suppose to repeat the process four times, but I only managed to go back once more before all parties forgot the undertaking. So my dreams will at least half come true.


The Rest of My Life in Village

Besides going to naming ceremonies and brewing magic potions, I have been continuing with my little routine.

Work at the mayor’s office is still not really work at all. I am teaching the Etat-Civil how to use Excel and learning an impressive vocabulary of swear words thanks to Ramatou the secretary at the mayor’s (not the same Ramatou as my neighbor who gave birth or my homestay mother). One morning at the mayor’s, I had a young, educated gentleman approach me and asked me all about Peace Corps and what I wanted to do for the next two years. After I got done explaining why I had been sent to work her, he asked if I would want to help create a library in my village. I love the idea of acting as a support to project villagers already want, rather than coming up with projects and trying to get them involved. Thus, I was really excited this man had sought me out to tell me about this idea. I wanted to help and perhaps I will have the chance. However I still won’t begin doing projects until February. And even when I do start, building a library would be an enormous undertaking. This thought made me hesitant to commit to anything. I told him I would help him as much as I could, if Allah agreed. A few days later, I found out this guy was wrong when he told me there was no library nearby. My village already has a library—so my work here is done.

This same gentleman—a schoolteacher—also asked me to teach him and some of his colleagues English (as so many Nigeriens do). This guy was different though; he was clearly very educated and spoke pretty good English already. So, I told him that if he got a group together, and picked a meeting time, I would come and facilitate a conversation. Nothing has started yet, but I think an English club would be a great non-project to occupy me until February. My new friend (who’s name I can’t remember) also promised to help me with my Zarma, so all in all, I was very glad to have met him.

I’ve actually met a lot of interesting, helpful people while just sitting around the mayor’s. There are tons of NGO workers, village chiefs, businessmen, commune council members, farmers, travelers, and just straight up big shots rolling through. I even met a reporter for the UN, but he disappeared before we got the chance to talk. Another morning, mid-nose pick, a young blonde woman came in the door of my “office.”

Like all Nigeriens, I am now a shameless nose-picker. Even though I do it in front of my villagers without restraint, I was rather embarrassed to have this stylish young woman see me with my finger up my nose. Also, after I spend more a week in my village, I am no longer able to interact normally with non-villagers—I find it overwhelming. City folk/my American peers do not tolerate certain behaviors that are normal in the bush, nose-picking being one of them, not washing my hair or blaming my flakiness on Allah’s will are others. ANYWAY, in light of all this, I was very flustered at the arrival of this new visitor and was unable to interact normally. I hid in my book. In spite of my awkwardness, my supervisor insisted I accompany Claude (from Lichtenstein, but working for German aid) as she visited one of the women’s groups the German government was funding.

Claude’s chauffer drove the two of use, plus Claude’s translator, to a field outside of town. As we approached, I recognized several of the women waiting as members of the main women’s group in town, and was delighted they remembered me. There were only four of five members there. Claude seemed disappointed by the turn out, but her translator assured her more people would show up. She was also a bit disheartened that there didn’t seem to be much growing in the fields, but her translator explained to her we were in between growing seasons. This was all an overly optimistic translation of the situation. One of the women had told me there were actually sweet potatoes growing in the field in front of us, but no one was working because it was too hot. Even so, I didn’t correct the translator.

Claude sat down to ask the women’s group some questions about their work, while her translator relayed everything back and forth between Zarma and French. I could understand most of the Zarma, but only a little of the French, so I asked Claude (who speaks English) for the Reader’s Digest version after everything was done. She told me she was just trying to see if the group had adopted any of the innovative farming practices the German funding had paid to teach these women—of course they hadn’t. I’m not sure why third-world farmers are so unwilling to change habits, but during the meeting I did hear a woman say they didn’t make compost as they had been taught because it was too hard. While walking back to the car, Claude told me the German government had done the math and (even excluding the funding the group was given as an expense) the women lose money every year on their cold season garden. It is a negative investment. Considering that all ten of the women’s group in my village plant a cold season garden and that it is their principal motivation for them to form a group, this was a little upsetting. I wonder if all of the groups are losing money…or if they even know it.

Claude and her driver took me back to the mayor’s office, but before she continued on her way to the next big town she asked for my phone number. I think she had picked up on the optimism of her translator, because she told me that she would be working in the area for a while and would love the help of someone who spoke the local language. I also think she might just be looking for a friend nearby. I haven’t heard anything yet, but of course would love to have the ear of a major aid source.

Other than that, I really have not done much besides sit around and chat with people. After two months in my village I have a whole laundry list of things I would like to do, but for some reason, nothing gets done in this country. I would like to: build a Dutch oven, plant a garden, visit all ten of the women’s groups, teach other members of the mayor’s staff to use Excel, get to know the people at the local NGO/help out with some of their projects, visit the schools, learn where on the river women go to wash clothes, buy a clay jug, and find someone to be my counterpart for the next two years. Unfortunately, I need someone’s help to do a lot of these things, so (as I said) nothing gets done. Surprisingly, I also feel like there just aren’t enough hours in the day. I seem to have made too many friends and am constantly apologizing for not visiting so-and-so often enough. I have also adopted a pretty intense regiment of hot yoga and arts and crafts…


Buying bananas is the most exciting part of my week...


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[1] Hassan, Hama, Jzbrilla, Moussa, Mahamadou, Neuhou, Hamani, Issa, Ousman, Amadou, Abdoulay, Moustafa, Adrisa, Moktar, Salisoum, Shaibou, Harou, Kabiro, Hadaire, Abdou + Something else, Sofiani, Rafidi, Jafar, Kassam, Rolli, Souleman, Seydou, Boubacar, Aysaka, Abraham, Mahman, Mumadi
[2] Hamsatou, Ramatou, Haoua, Jamilla, Mariama, Zuera, Oumu, Hasia, Raikia, Zainabou, Fatouma, Biba, Saharatou, Sadie, Amina, Halima, Shaima, Haijeria, Samseyia, Salamatou, Rashida, Maimouna, Adama, Kalima, Fouzia, Aishatou, Sameria, Nafisa, Wasia, Sharifia, Huhray