Helping the Women and Children of Niger

September 12, 2010

Yesh. It’s been a while. Sorry. Here’s what you missed. In June I visited Zinder for a three-day all volunteer conference, which included “prom” and “open mic night,” at which I convinced my training class to perform “Season of Sun,” a parody of the Broadway classic “Seasons of Love.” (Lyrics available upon request.)

In July my mother and sister came to Niger to visit. I’ll let their account of the trip speak for itself (they may or may not have promised to write a little blurb for the blog…), but I will say through all the delays, lost baggage, mosquitoes, heat, mystery rashes, squat toilets, potholed-bus rides, snakes, marriage proposals and breakdowns (both mechanical and emotional) they were both total troopers.

My Mom and Sister Waiting for a Car to my Village
(we only waited three or four hours)

I’m not really sure what happened in August, but it’s September now…almost October…

As for village life, you haven’t missed much…and by much, I mean anything at all. Rainy season is the MOST BORING SEASON for an anasara in Niger. Besides the nice weather, rainy season is totally lame. All my villagers are busy subsisting, a.k.a. working in the fields. Consequently, the actual village is abandon during the day, leaving me the choice of going to the fields or entertaining myself.

Other reasons why rainy season is lame: With the storms, the chances of your house/latrine/shade hanger collapsing increase by a million percent. Roof leaks are as inevitable as they are destructive. Also there are infinitely more bugs (one of which I pulled out of my nose the other day…Lord only knows how long that’s been up there). So, except for the additional element of excitement a downpour can bring to traveling in an open-back truck with things like your laptop and ipod, rainy season = my second least favorite of Niger’s three seasons. (Hot season is my least favorite and cold season—my third least favorite.)

I managed to keep myself busy, in spite of the rain by reading smutty novels and painting maps for the local primary school. See pictures…


I also seized this rare moment of downtime to reflect on my service in Niger—I’ve been here a year after all. I ask myself, why did I come here? Was it for the food or the weather? Oh yes, to help the women and children of Niger! (In my opinion, most men can help themselves. And they do…usually to more tea.) But the women and children…that’s where the real development potential is! (I’m narrating this paragraph sarcastically in my head, but I really believe that last sentence.) Anyway, it’s true. At least part of the reason I joined the Peace Corps was to help out the global community. Since coming here…I have definitely gained some insight on this subject and so I decided to write a whole blog entry re: the women and children of Niger.


The Women of Niger

Not a day goes by I don’t thank Allah I wasn’t born a Nigerien woman. I’m a tough, sassy lady, but I honestly don’t think I could hack it. Before I describe the average Nigerien woman’s day for you, I would like to highlight the different manifestations of her lower social status.

My Sister with Her New Friends

First of all, (and most concerning in my mind because it keeps things from getting better) girls are often skipped over when it comes to enrolling kids in school. Mariama, one of the women I live with, was the only child in her family not to attend school—she is also the only girl. This is a pretty common story.

Other disadvantages: Unless women are old or widowed they generally are not allowed to go to the market. (This may sound like a small thing, but going to market is a big deal. It’s the only time entire communities are brought together and able to social on a regular basis. Thus it serves as the venue for a lot of political and social discourse.) Young, married women also aren’t allowed to go to parties or other community events, unless they have their husbands’ permission. Actually, aside from going to the well, the fields, and occasionally the town’s shop—women are expected to be home all the time. It is considered disreputable for a woman to wander about town chatting with people/visiting her friends. Usually, only very educated or unmarried women work outside of the home. This means that, unless a woman finds a way to earn her own money by selling things, her husband controls all of the family finances. In general, women are 100% dependent on their fathers and husbands—who are legally allowed to beat them, as long as it’s not in the face. If a woman should ask for a divorce, the man automatically gets custody of the children. (Divorce is possible for a woman, though more difficult for women than men to arrange.) The smaller things bother me more, for example, women eat only after their husbands and kids are fed, and usually a less-delicious version of the meal, aren’t allowed to interact with men outside their family, can’t shake hands with men (even as working professionals), are expected to stay at home, have babies, take care of the children, cook, and serve their husbands. And Nigerien men wonder why I won’t marry them…

My Sister and Me in my Village, Pulling Water at the Well

Young marriage is another huge problem for women in Niger. The law says no one under the age of 18 can be married, but in the rural villages it’s very common for 15-year-olds (often younger) to be married to men three times their age. Besides the whole creepster element of this kind of arrangement, it can pose serious health risks to the girl if she should become pregnant (which she almost certainly will). While adolescent girls do menstruate, their bodies are not strong enough to support a pregnancy. Thus these young girls often develop obstetric fistula, which (according to Wikipedia) is: “a severe medical condition in which a fistula (hole) develops between either the rectum and vagina or between the bladder and vagina after severe or failed childbirth. The fistula usually develops when a prolonged labor presses the unborn child so tightly in the birth canal that blood flow is cut off to the surrounding tissues, which necrotise and eventually rot away. The resulting disorders typically include incontinence, severe infections and ulcerations of the vaginal tract, and often paralysis caused by nerve damage. Sufferers from this disorder are usually also subject to severe social stigma due to odor, perceptions of un-cleanliness, a mistaken assumption of venereal disease and, in some cases, the inability to have children.” I know—so gross. Even worse, people do not generally understand the cause of the fistula (early marriage) and usually blame the girls for their condition. She is most often divorced, forced to move back in with her parents, never married again, and more or less shunned.

Women Going to the Well

The condition is most often correctable with surgery, and there are centers in Niger that will perform the operation for free if the woman is able to travel there. But most women to not know about these centers or that their condition is fixable. Money can present another barrier. More often than seeking help, the woman is shut away.

As for older women who can sustain a pregnancy, they still face a gambit of other medical risks that women in developed countries usually don’t worry about. First of all, most women give birth at home, in their mud huts over a plastic tarp. It’s very dangerous, and Niger has the highest maternal mortality rate in the world. Most villages do have a mid-wife, but these old women are rarely formally trained, and most often just show up to cut the umbilical cord. Also, women have very little control over how many kids they do have. First of all, it is not possible for a man to rape his wife, which is to say that a woman legally cannot say no to her husband. The pill is available at the clinic in my village (so I assume most places), but it is not really socially acceptable for women to take it (and trust me, everyone in the village will know that you are, no matter how you try to hide it.) Plus, as kids serve as a kind of status symbol in Niger, the way parking spaces in your garage do in America—the more you have the better you are doing. Thus, a lot of women do want to have a lot of kids. But, I swear, most first-time mothers I talk to are terrified to give birth, and fear is not something any Nigerien normally expresses.

Nigerien women are also at high risk for contracting HIV and other STDs. During cold season, most men travel to the coast to find work. While they do bring back money and presents, they also often bring back venereal disease. Like birth control, condoms have a social stigma attached to them. And, if you are using them, the whole village will know—mostly because there is no waste disposal system, trash just lies around until the kids play with it or it decomposes. Consequently, most men refuse to wear them…and women do not have the right/ability to insist upon it.

I know, this is all very depressing, and I don’t have much to say to brighten the entry. One thing that is clear, however, is I make myself more miserable than the women thinking about how miserable Nigerien women are. They still laugh and have fun, and I really don’t think they comprehend what a disadvantage they have…

So, what do women do all day? It changes for each season, but here is a rough, average schedule:

Early Morning: Wake up at dawn. Begin pounding millet for the day. Sweep concession. Wake children. Go to the well to carry water for the day. (For an average family, this may entail five or six trips.) Prepare breakfast. Serve children/men. Eat breakfast.

Mid-Morning: Pound more millet. During rainy season, go to work in the fields. During cold season, go to cultivate the garden. Weave mats for sale. Collect ingredients for sauce. Do laundry.

Mid-Day: Prepare lunch. Weave mats. Rest.

Afternoon: Separate the millet from the chaff. Go to the well, again. Sweep the concession. Feed livestock.

Late Afternoon: Pound millet for dinner. Buy ingredients for dinner’s sauce. Begin cooking dinner.

Evening: Serve dinner to kids and husband. Bathe kids. Set up beds. Put children to bed.

Late Evening: Go to sleep.

Men do work very hard during planting season, but most days they get to rest all afternoon/evening. Also, during cold and hot seasons, the men that don’t go on exodus mostly just sit around and drink tea.

Ramadan just made things worse for the ladies. A lot of men postponed projects and just rested through the afternoon, but women can’t deviate from their schedule. In spite of heat and exhaustion, women were still out pounding millet and carrying water. Also, something that can make fasting more difficult for women is the fact they are almost always either breastfeeding or pregnant. Of course, according to the Koran, women who are pregnant or breastfeeding are excused from fasting; it’s not healthy for the mother and certainly not good for the baby. But if the women do not fast during the month of Ramadan, they have to make up the time at a later point. This is an okay idea in theory, but think about the fact that Nigerien women are on average pregnant once a year. This means that if I woman followed the rules and didn’t fast while pregnant or breastfeeding, but the time she was done birthing children she may have as many as ten months of Ramadan debt to make up. Plus, who wants to be the only one fasting?

Men Going to the Mosque in my Village

Fati and Her Baby, Braham

So, the women fast in spite of the impacts it will have on their and their children’s health. Like I said, Nigerien women are some of the toughest on Earth. Nevertheless, I could see how Ramadan worn on the women of my village. At one point one of the women I live with, Mariama, almost collapsed while pounding millet. (I guess maybe you have to see it to understand how physically demanding pound is, but I can only do it for two or three minutes before my arms ach. Nigerien women do it for hours and hours everyday.) Anyway, I was talking to Mariama one day during Ramadan and she started to get really loopy and incoherent. Then, realizing she needed to rest, she started to walk back to her house, but stumbled and nearly fell. It was just another, normal day, but she had tried to do too much without resting. Though it wasn’t serious and Mariama was fine after resting some, seeing her stumble scared me. It was a kind of proof of how hard these ladies push themselves.

Fati, Pounding Millet

The Children of Niger

One element of rural African life I’m reasonably confident holds constant throughout the continent is kids. Wherever you go, whatever you do, there will be a small mob of children shadowing your every step. They stare. They ask questions. They giggle. They yell. They harass. They try to sell things. They throw things. They ask for money. It’s easy enough to understand what causes this phenomenon. First of all, as a stranger and a Caucasian, I am somewhat of a spectacle—that’s understood. Secondly, there are A LOT of effing kids in Africa—especially in Niger, which has the highest birth rate in the world! On average, every woman gives birth to 7.68 children in her life. Also consider: 49.6% of the population is under the age of 14. (Thank you CIA World Fact Book.)

Now, let me preface the follow rant by saying I believe all Allah’s (and God’s) children are beautiful, priceless gifts from Heaven. To be clear, I am pro-the existence of children. That being said, I also think the Nigerien children are little terrorists. No, I don’t mean that they use violence to achieve political aims (nor am I making some sly reference to AQIM). By terrorists, I mean they (sometimes) strike hot, electric, gut-wrenching panic and fear into the hearts of Peace Corps volunteers—not to mention debilitating frustration and unholy anger.

Actually, in my village, the kids are pretty good. They say funny things and make me laugh. They help me carry things. Perhaps most importantly, they are sufficiently afraid of me, and thus I am able to scare them off if the situation calls for it. Though…they do throw rocks and a few nights ago a mob of them woke me up by screaming in my ear… (Warning: do not wake a sleeping Katie).

The Kids in my Village Fixing my Concession so it Will Drain

Other places, the kids are much, much worse. They are impressively loud at all the wrong times of day. Kids will follow you, regardless of where you are going or how much you try to deter them. They are the ones who yell “anasara” the loudest and the most frequently. They mock you and laugh at you. Worst of all, they are oblivious to most social cues, and thus will continue to torment you until you are not so subtly mean to them. (Which, in spite of previous experience, most of us are reluctant to do.) Other volunteers have reported kids stealing from them, throwing stones, bugs, and dead lizards, making heroic efforts to violate the volunteer’s privacy, and even ripping up a volunteer’s garden for no apparent reason.

This kind of treatment is very dehumanizing, and can bring out the worst in a volunteer. For example, a fellow volunteer told me a story about an especially bad experience. One morning, my volunteer friend was having a slow morning and trying to enjoy some quiet time, but the kids kept climbing over the high walls of her concession. In spite of her obvious agitation, they kept peeking over the walls to yell at her, giggling when she told them to go away, throwing things, and yelling insults. She told them to go away. She tried laughing with them, then yelling at them, and finally chasing them with a stick, but they just laughed and kept coming back…until FINALLY, my dear friend totally lost it. She exited her concession, stick in hand, and proceeded unfurl upon these children a mixture of the most profane Hausa and English one could imagine. Her irate verbiage only barely eclipsed her spasms of anger and very clear intent to injure. Now, one would hope under such duress, the kids would have enough respect to show the appropriate amount of fear and run away, but once more they just laughed. This display was so infuriating to my friend that she began to yell louder and swing at the kids with her stick. In laymen speak, she totally lost her shit. Finally, the commotion forced mourners from nearby funeral to come break up the scene…not exactly the brightest moment in my friend’s service.

It actually doesn’t sound so bad as I type it up, but trust me kids know how to bring you down to their level. What is most unfortunate is that since kids are always disciplined with violence, they usually don’t recognize/understand/respect other forms of punishment, like American-favorite time out. This puts volunteers in a bit of a bind when it comes to establishing ourselves as authority figures—unless you are prepared to hit a kid (which most of us are not) they are unlikely to mind you.

In the face of all this frustration, poor behavior and violence, some volunteers rescind on their I-will-never-hit-a-child pledge. (Though I should mention I only know one volunteer who actually hit kids, and I think she did it just once.) Others develop extra-tough skin and divine patience. An even smaller minority may make it though their two years of service and still profess a love for kids—namely, my friend Sara. But I think most of us just walk away from this experience with a lot less sympathy for and a little bit more terrified awe of Nigerien children. Years from now when we see those just-75-cents-a-day-will-buy-this-kid-with-flies-in-his-eyes-shoes commercials, we will think to ourselves, I knew that kid, and he was an asshole.

For those who do suffer breakdowns and lose their patience, please do not judge. I consider myself a pretty dedicated pacifist: I don’t like violent movies, I am anti-war, I don’t kill bugs, I do not intend to ever hit my own children, and don’t like it when other people hit theirs…but even I have been driven to full-on, detailed fantasies about how great it would be to smack a kid with my flip-flop. (Sometimes I don’t even feel guilty after such mental digressions.) I don’t ruminate over these temporary shifts in my disposition. Mostly, I just write it off as a consequence of watching Nigerien parents constantly beat or threaten to beat their kids.

Now, like I said, I am pro-children existing. In general, I like kids. And when you look at the conditions these kids grow up in you begin to see what causes all this outrageous behavior. As I mentioned before, they’ve been hit by the parents their whole lives. It is the same in schools. Though many teachers, administrators and government officials denounce it, corporal punishment essentially ubiquitous in Nigerien public schools. Does violence make them more aggressive and unruly? Perhaps. I’ve seen toddlers chase each other with machetes. What’s more, Nigerien children have a very unstructured childhood, especially compared to children in the West. From day one, American babies face an onslaught of stimulation and structure. This is not the case in Niger. Let me ‘splain:

The old adage, “it takes a village to raise a child,” makes most of us picture an African village. But (ironically) in Niger, it feels more like: “it takes a village to neglect a child.” Besides the times when kids are working in the fields or going to school (however infrequently), they are pretty much on their own. They are safe in the confines of the village (no one lets the kids do anything too dangerous or stupid), but they are only minimally supervised—certainly nothing up to snuff with American baby-sitting standards.

Nigerien babies are carried on their mother’s backs while she works, or left to sit around the concession, supervised by older kids (and by older, I mean like seven). When they stop breastfeeding they will follow their mothers when she ventures somewhere as far as the fields, but otherwise are left to entertain themselves. Nigerien mothers obviously love and value their children. They are cared for, but considering the mothers’ schedules, it makes sense that kids are pretty much left to their own devices. until they are old enough to start working and caring for younger kids themselves. One of my friends once commented, “In Niger, there is hardly any time from when a kid is carried on someone’s back to the time when she is expected to carry someone on her back.”

The treatment of Nigerien children is rough, but witnessing it has also made me realize Americans are WAY over protective of their kids. We don’t realize how durable children really are. We baby proof everything, demarcate boundaries for our children to play it, and have millions of safety regulations for anything involving kids. Parenting books regarding child safety are infinite. Kids are constantly supervised, not allowed certain toys, and rushed to the doctor at the slightest hint of an illness. I read an article in a magazine my dad sent me recently shunning the children’s classic Good Night Moon for depicting a fireplace without a protective gate. Yikes.

In constrast…Everyday, I see Nigerien woman do things to their kids that make me think, if this were America that mother would be scolded or reported to social services. For example, mothers often pick their children up by the arm, let their toddlers chew on mirror shards, or leave a baby within ten feet of a cookfire. Kids also fall off of a lot of things here. For example, napping babies off of beds. There are no cribs in my village. (Now also seems like a good time to mention Nigerien children don’t have toys, except the ones they construct for themselves out of trash.)

Obviously, this difference in the way children are treated stems from a divergent view of what children are. American children are prodigies. They have personalities and interests, which are cultivated throughout year and years of education. They are little adults, given responsibility and choices. They are urged from day one to reach their fullest potential. They are little name-bearers, groomed to carry a family tradition into the next generation. In Niger, children are not entitled to fun or even school. Kids are little workers. Girls, especially, almost never get to just play. I’ve had families tell me point blank the reason they have so many kids is to help work. They also serve as a bit of a status symbol—the more you have the wealthier and more stable your family. “If a family has a baby each year, you know they are happy and doing well for themselves,” a woman in my village told me.

I blame neither American nor Nigerien mothers for these two extremes. It’s the culture you live in. An American mother of two once told me, “From the moment you get pregnant all you hear about (in America) are the endless ways you can screw up your kid.” So…we try to mitigate every possible risk.

In Niger, the mother is only raising her kids the way she was raised. The kids may be a bit malnourished, bruised, or ill, but mom’s doing the best she can and most often just trying to get through the day. In rural villages women don’t have the time/resources to be sure her child is always supervise, and therefore not exposed to unnecessary risks. (I met a kid in Gotheye, whose brother, while playing, accidentally pushed him into his mother’s cook fire, giving the child third-degree burns from his hips to his ankles.) Everyone in Niger bears scars from previous, serious injuries. Besides physical threats, women don’t often know about simple sanitation practices could prevent diarrheal disease, which is the number one killer of children in third-world countries.

Unfortunately, it seems to be a self-defeating cycle. An article in X issue of The Economist, publicized new research that shows countries with lighter disease burdens tend to have a higher average IQ. While correlation does not imply causation, it makes sense children who are constantly fighting off various diseases do not develop as quickly or as fully—especially when you hear that 75% of a toddler’s energy goes to maintaining brain function. It was a really interesting article…you should check it out.

In the end, my point is this: Kids may be little assholes from time to time, but when you understand what they are up against, it’s hard not to have sympathy. Not only that, but supporting them seems to be a huge key to development. (Don’t even get me started on middle-school-aged girls going to school and how much that will better her life and the life of her children.) So…I guess I’m back to feeling bad when I see those just-75-cents-a-day-will-buy-this-kid-with-flies-on-her-face-shoes commercials.

Mariama and Her Nephew

Bad News...

Hey Team,

Bad news...I wasn't going to say anything about this until I had the time to write a whole post, but then everyone keeps asking me about him, so I have to tell you....that...Gatsby...has...died...

Here's what happened: I came home after putting my mother and sister on the plane to find my dear little kitty dead in my house. He'd been there for a while, so I'm not going to lie, it was pretty gross...smelly...

My host family was absolutely wonderful and cleaned up everything for me while I stood outside, not looking. They even scrubbed and swept the floor, then instructed me to light my candles to help with the smell. They also told me they had been giving him food regularly but one day, shortly after my mother and sister's visit to my village, he stopping coming out of the house (he could get in and out through a window). They said they think he ate something bad (e.g. a poisoned lizard).

They did their best to comfort me, telling me I could get another, better cat. But I think I'm done with pets in Africa. Only Allah knows how long I will be staying here or if I'll be moving around more. Gatsby and I shared a special bond, short-lived as it was...




It's sad...but as one of my favorite Pop, Uruguayan musicians sings, nada se pierde, todo se transforma. "Nothing is lost, only transformed."

Mwah!

July 1st, 2010

Blog, blog, blog-blog, blog.

Advice for the New Kids

So, in few weeks, a new training class will arrive in Niger and begin their training. I remember it was this time last year I was back in America, preparing to come. And, I started madly searching the Internet to read other volunteers' blogs, trying to learn everything I could. With that in mind, I've decided to post a few words of wisdom for those of you who might be preparing to come (the rest of you can just ignore this):

1. Don't worry about language. You will have plenty of time to learn what you need to know during training. I came in not knowing a word of Zarma/having never studied French and I did fine.

2. If your looking to get more specific advice about packing, etc. check out the facebook group (Peace Corps Niger July 2010) your peers have started. My fellow PCVs and I posted a list of things you may want or not want to bring. You are also more than welcome to send me a message on facebook. For privacy reasons, I don't want to give out my email here or to tell you my full name, but I am a member of the facebook group. I have my head in a bucket in my profile picture.

3. Seriously feel free to send me or any of the other volunteers questions you have. We are all super excited for you to come and really enjoy helping you make the transition into your new life.

4. Don't bring a lot of clothes. You can buy used clothes and Nigerien clothes here. Bring snacks instead. SERIOUSLY BRING SNACKS. Pre-service training is hard because you are living with a homestay family and don't cook for yourself. It is during this period I experienced my most intense food cravings.

5. Enjoy your time in the States before you leave. Don't bother trying to do a bunch of research before you get here. It's better to come in without a ton of expectations. They will teach you everything you need to know during training.

6. Bring one or two outfits that will make you feel really American. Trust me, after months of being hot and sweaty all the time, you will relish the chance to get cleaned up.

7. Remember that training is nothing like your actual service. Some people really hate training and love being in their village. I loved both. So just remember to have patience and if you are having a hard time, really try to stick it out until you've been in your village for a few months to be sure you are getting a real taste of what the Peace Corps is.

8. Remember to be very polite, patient, and kind with yourself when learning new things.

9. Have your parents/your friends send you a package two weeks before you leave. It will get there during the first two weeks of your training, when you most need a pick-me-up.

10. Keep in mind that the first two weeks of training were the longest two in my entire Peace Corps Service. Once you get going, time really flies!

That's the basics... again, check out the facebook group and feel free to contact any of us for advice! Enjoy your time with your family and have a safe trip over!

Be well,

Katie

Life in May and June

June 8, 2010

Well folks, it’s been a busy month since my return from Spain and third move. Work is starting to pick up, and I’ve been so busy I had to cut back on my napping by nearly 30%. More importantly, I have begun to feel deeply happy with my life here. The truth is, since last November when I was moved from Gotheye, I haven’t really managed to get my footing until now.

Looking over my past entries, I realize it may seem like I haven’t had more than a handful of bad days since leaving the United States. Unfortunately, this constant optimism is all a product of what I call my cheerleader syndrome: I refuse to label anything in my life as a problem until it is in the past, leading me to overlook, not mention, ignore, repress, minimize, reframe, euphonize, or flat out deny all the less-fun details of my life.

Over the past months, moving sites has presented me with lots of challenges. More recently, my housing situation and the closing of the mayor’s office (until they hold elections next March) brought my frustrations with my site to an almost intolerable level. I haven’t had any true I-want-to-go-back-to-America-drink-mochas-and-forget-Africa-exists moments, but I have had a lot of hard days—days during which I have felt completely useless. And, feelings of uselessness are like kryptonite to my ego; they absolutely undo me.

But things are looking up! Not only am I healthy and busy with work, I also have managed to renounce all my site-envy—a terrible affliction that caused me to sigh longingly whenever I heard about all the great projects my peers were doing. It also caused me to lie awake many nights questioning the wisdom of the Peace Corps staff in placing me in my current village. (When I moved, my boss told me in so many words, this was the only site available for my sector and language group.) Amidst the whole housing fiasco, it even occurred to me to lobby for a site change—something that should not be done lightly. I’m not going to go into detail about my site complaints, mostly because they are complex and not fun for me to write about. Let me just say that in general, as a Masters International student, I don’t feel like my current village offers enough technical development work, which I spent a year training for in Seattle.

That feeling I’m not using all my skills/training hasn’t changed, but I realized recently I am satisfied with my site. I know everyone in the community and have carved out a little niche in its daily activities. More importantly, I love the people and want to help them anyway I can. I may not be able to conduct award-winning research while here, but (for now) it really feels like home.

On the other hand, I’ve also notice my sudden upswing coincides perfectly with the beginning of rainy season and the end of 110+ degree weather…perhaps these things are related… Anyway, enough of all my psychobabble, let me tell you about what I’ve been doing.


History Lessons and Global Youth Service Week

I mentioned in my last entry I was awarded funding for my first project, a tree-planting at my village’s primary school. I’d had the idea of planting trees at the school for a while, ever since the director told me he was interested in forestry. When I heard money was available for Global Youth Service week, I was able to slap together a proposal in time to get a chunk of the money. (The whole project only required about six USD, which is funny to me, because the proposal I wrote was three pages long…two dollars a page I guess.)

I planned the whole thing out, got the director’s promise of cooperation, and (after a disproportionate amount of trouble) was able to arrange the transport of 30 seedlings from Dosso to my village.

The day of the planting, I arrived at the school to discover the students mid-lesson. I offered to wait in the schoolyard for the session to finish, but the primary school director who was teaching the class (also my French tutor) graciously offered to let me sit in on the rest of the lesson. After directing me to a chair in the back of the room, he resumed his lecture about the history of Niger.


The lesson was in French, so I didn’t immediately understand what they were talking about. But, (as a credit to the director’s language instruction) I was able to pick out the words, “l’esclavage et le travail forcé” (slavery and forced labor). Uh, oh… I know how this story goes…

To help the children understand the topic, the director frequently translated a phrase or two into Zarma. Needless to say, the word “anasara” came up often enough.

I, of course, was the only white person in a 37-kilometer radius. The kids, incredulous at what they were hearing, began whipping around in their seats too look at me. “Hamsatou did WHAT?!” I imagined them asking themselves. And, as the lecture continued they kept sneaking glances as if they might catch me trying to load up one of their classmates and cart him away. The director himself, aware of what was causing the disruption, kept looking at me too.

Thoroughly embarrassed and uncomfortable, I attempted clarify the situation. Yes, I am white. No, I did not participate in the decades of human trafficking that befell West Africa. I wanted to explain to the kids this was all a long time ago and (in my mind) morally indefensible. Instead, my mouth just flapped open and closed a couple times.

The worst part: I was there for the tree planting! After the lesson finished, I marched the kids outside and told them to start digging holes. I almost died when the director brought me a chair to oversee (forgive my diction) the project and did not allow me to help.



Honestly, I’m sure the kids forgot their history lesson amidst the excitement and chaos that accompanies any break from routine. More importantly, the tree planting was successful. As of four days ago, all thirty trees were still alive…


Home Life

It’s all good news: I have moved into my new house AND have a latrine AND have a shade hanger. I am living with the guy who sells tea and coffee, his two wives, and their eight children (almost all of which are between the ages of three and seven). Needless to say, the place is a bit noisy. BUT, for the first time, I really feel like I am a part of a family. We eat every meal together (which means I am eating millet porridge and sauce three meals a day). I am also becoming good friends with both of the landlord’s wives. Best of all, I don’t have to deal with Hama’s mother any more, who (among other offenses) once made me drink a bowl of soapy water to cure my stomach ache.

Speaking of Hama, things have been slightly awkward since I moved out. I didn’t realize how intense small town politics could be. Turns out the almost the entire town has taken sides in the feud. Most people, after hearing I had moved out, wanted every dirty detail of what happened. No matter how diplomatic I tried to be, the conversation inevitable devolved into, “Hama is a bad person” or “Hama has ruined his name.” A few others have scolded me for not behaving better while living there, as if the entire situation was my fault. My strategy has been to minimize the drama and downplay the trouble I had while living there. I’ve even visited Hama and his mother a couple times to make it clear I wasn’t holding a grudge. (One of my friends in the village told me everyone was really shocked I did this. “A Zarma would never have gone back there,” she told me.)

Anyway, I am happy with my new house, and am so much a part of the family, I’ve even become a bit of a baby-sitter.




Projects

Work is good. In fact, for the first time I really feel like I’m actually doing work. This was surprising because, after joining Peace Corps, I had begun to feel like a bit of a grown infant. What I mean to say is, upon my arrival in Niger, I was asked to relearn everything I thought I knew. As a PCV in a country like Niger—one that is so different from the United States—you essentially have to start from scratch. I had to learn to eat, poop, talk, dress, bathe, launder, socialize, cook and maintain my personal hygiene all over again. I have been so stunted in my ability to communicate, function, and just exist for so long, I was very surprised to discover I am actually capable of doing real work here.

My big moment of success came when I was able to organize and conduct two separate meetings for my villagers. (I held two meetings one for the men and one for the women in the community because women won’t talk openly when men are around.) I wanted to discuss what they think the needs, challenges, and resources of the community are. I got the support of the village chief, got permission to use the community center, told people when and where it was, AND PEOPLE ACTUALLY CAME. A lot of people actually came. What’s more, I was able to conduct the meeting IN ZARMA. Granted, my counterpart had to re-explain a few points, but I still left feeling very empowered.

At the meetings, the number-one concern my villagers expressed was the need for a new clinic. As I mentioned, the clinic my villagers are using now is rather small. It’s really just an extra room in the community center. Thus, there is no place for a person to rest if they fall seriously ill or need to give birth, unless they take the seven-kilometer trip to the next village via donkey cart.

Near the primary school there is a half-finished building, which was supposed to be made into a new clinic, but the contractor either stole or lost (I’m not clear on this point) the money to finish the project. So, it’s been sitting there for at least half a decade, not being use. Well, that’s a lie. In an ironic twist, my villagers have been using the structure as a pubic toilet, rather than using the actual latrines built by an NGO (which are mere yards away). There was a very exciting week, during which time I thought I would be able to find funding to finish the clinic for my villages before the Nigerien government refused to grant me permission to fix it. I was, however, more than welcome to build a completely new clinic, if I felt so inclined.

Besides the meeting and the tree planting, I’ve also organized a demonstration to show women how to build more fuel-efficient cookstoves out of mud, started an English club to help the middle school students practice their language over the summer, found two girls to apply for the Young Girls’ Scholarship, and have plans for many other in the works. I also got the chance to go to Zinder for a three-day, All-Volunteer Conference, where I got to see my peers showcase the projects they’ve done. It was very inspiring.



The only other thing worth mentioning is, with the beginning of the rain, hungry season is now in full swing. The harvest from last year is dwindling and my villagers have only just started planting. It will be at least a few months before they will be able to harvest again. The effects of this annual food shortage are noticeable in my village, but not as clearly as it is for my peers out east. I have seen the kids in my concession plead with their mothers for more food (even after meals). I have watched the kids fight over the food they do get. I have noticed the two women in my concession skipping meals, or barely eating at dinner. (In spite of all this, they still insist on including me in at least two meals a day, so I have started buying groceries to keep from being a burden.)

But like I said, comparatively, this isn’t that bad. Another member of my training class told me everyday someone in her village dies. I’m pretty sure this is not all straight up starvation, but rather just sick people being made sicker by malnutrition.

The country director rightly warned me to keep an eye on my friends and myself during this time of year. “Watching others struggle to feed themselves, while you receive a generous monthly allowance is probably the hardest part of your service,” she advised.

Dear Friends,

Welcome to April! Well, now it’s May…oops. The other day while watching a Christmas episode of “30 Rock” I though for a moment it was still December. All this to say: the months are flying by.

I apologize there is so much blog all at once, and that it's been almost two months since my last post, but that's just how it happened. Also, just to warn you, I express a lot of opinions in my entry about Spain. Please, refer to the disclaimer if you are offended by them.

Before I launch into various commentaries of village life and descriptions of my bodily functions, let me tell you a bit about my vacation….




April 14, 2010


Spaindelirious.

Spain is a magical land full of beautiful people, delicious treats, and acceptable weather. From the beginning, (for those who don’t already know) I may or may not have arrived two whole days early to Niamey, thinking my flight was on a Monday, not a Wednesday. I would have gotten all the way to the airport Monday night (which would have been a real tragedy considering my flight left at two a.m.), if it were not for my dear friend Susannah. Susannah (who was graciously letting me visit her in Spain) pointed out to me mere hours before I would have departed for the airport my flight was not for another two days.

TAPAS!

I felt very silly; especially since there is so much ado these days about PCVs coming to Niamey in wake of the security situation. My father, however, reminded me of the time he confused the dates of an event causing my entire family to show up to a destination two weeks early while vacationing in Italy. “It’s in your genes,” he counseled.

Once I did actually depart for the trip, I was both excited and nervous. Travel to and from Niger can be very complicated and things seem to go wrong more often than not. (Hence my panicked call to the Royal Air Moroc office in Niamey four hours before my flight to confirm I had a ticket. This was after the website told me “our records show no reservation under that name.”)

A third-world airport was also a new experience. From the time I entered the building until I was seated on the plane, various agents checked my passport five times (Once at the door of the airport, once when I checked in, once at customs, once at the security checkpoint, and once more at the door to the airplane.) Also, I would like to note my flight was accommodating an entire Nigerien athletic team of some kind, most of which (I’m guessing) had never flown before and clearly did not understand the concept of “assigned seating.”

Here is my flight plan: Niamey to Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou to Casablanca, Casablanca to Madrid, Madrid to Santander. I left the hostel at eleven thirty p.m. on Wednesday and arrived around 8 p.m. the next day. Below is a list of things I found shocking and/or exciting:

1. The airplane food – exciting, delicious and free!
2. The advertisement for vacation spots in Morocco – Shocking and painful that I was not assigned to Peace Corps Morocco.
3. How green Casablanca is!! – exciting.
4. The actual stores in the Casablanca airport – exciting and shocking.
5. The STARBUCKS in the Madrid airport – just exciting.
6. The temperature and precipitation that greeted me in Santander, Spain – EXCITING, but also shocking.
7. My friend Susannah surprise meeting me at the airport – just exciting, not shocking.
8. The Spanish couple making out in front of us on the bus from the airport – just shocking, not exciting.

First of all, for those who don’t know, I met Susannah Rama (as I like to call her) while studying abroad in Argentina three years ago. She was the school chum of Sarah, another girl in my abroad program who still lives in Argentina. Susannah and I immediately bonded over boy troubles and a mutual love for grammar. Susannah is also the one who taught me I can wear whatever I want, including crazy vintage clothes. Susannah currently lives in Spain teaching English with a Spanish government teaching fellowship or something. (Feel free to correct any biographical or grammatical errors Ms. Rama.) Anyway, she invited me to Spain on an all-cheese-expenses-paid vacation. How could I say no?

So what did we do for a whole ten days in the first world? I recall we did some sightseeing (in between meals), but for me, even going to a supermarket was exciting, exotic, and new. I saw a lighthouse, went to a small town left from medieval times, visited a castle, took a bus to the Basque country, saw the Guggenheim designed by Frank Gehry, met Susannah’s Spanish friends, heard her choir practice, was interviewed by her English class, went shopping, played with a pony, and ATE A LOT. It was great…

Guggenheim in Bilbao

The question everyone asks now is some derivative of: how did it feel to be back in the first world?

Peace Corps Niger volunteers spend a lot of time discussing the first world. Especially, we talk about our rumored “inability to function normally” upon returning home. There are stories of returned volunteers being hassled by customs (because of their suspicious/dirty appearance), freezing in 70-degree weather, accidentally greeting African-Americans in Zarma or Hausa, and even breaking into tears when presented with variety of a first-world grocery store. I recognized reestablishing myself in the first world would have its difficulties, but upon hearing these stories, I discounted much of it as mere banter.

Then I went to Spain…While I did not break down crying in a grocery store, it was harder than I expected it to be. There was nothing specifically wrong. In fact, I had an amazing time eating good food and enjoying good company. Nonetheless, I was anxious for a lot of the trip. I kept waiting for something to go really wrong…

Of course, all the anxiety I felt could be a side effect of my malarial prophylaxis, Mefloquine, which according to Wikipedia, “may have severe and permanent adverse side effects such as severe depression, anxiety, paranoia, aggression, nightmares, insomnia, seizures, birth defects, peripheral motor-sensory neuropathy, vestibular (balance) damage and central nervous system problems.” Since starting Mefloquine, I’ve definitely had moments of anxiety and several “Mefloquine Dreams”—vivid, often-violent nightmares—but before Spain I hadn’t thought the drug was getting the better of me. Now, at my brother’s suggestion, I’m keeping better track of potential side effects to decide if I want to switch to a different drug; but I’m not convinced that’s what caused me to be so nervous in Spain.

Anyway…

On top of this unfounded anxiety, in Spain I was confronted by all the third-world quirks I hadn’t even realized I’d gotten used to. Most of the time it was trivial things, like the thickness of an apple peel (African apples have really tough skins), or that Spaniards understood the concept of waiting in a line. But other times it was bigger.

I was taken by the amount of beauty everywhere in Spain. Not only the people, but every building, every street, every bus stop, everything seemed ornate and intentional. This especially struck me while I was trotting along the stone floors of the brand-new Madrid airport. Just observing details like the clever way speakers were hung from the ceiling or the care with which the mall-worthy stores had been laid out, it was clear people had put an enormous amount of money and energy into creating this space.

Examining that speaker in the Madrid airport sadly ignited in me a bit of frustration towards the first world. I found myself wondering how much more it had cost make it so fancy…not that I’m against visually appealing construction, but it all seemed excessive.

Here was my thought process: We all feel bad about the situation in Africa. I mean, who doesn’t feel a little guilty when we see the just-75-cents-a-day-will-buy-this-kid-with-flies-in-her-eyes-shoes commercials. In fact, when it comes to having third-world sympathy, the members of the first world (especially Europe and the States) seem to be caught in perpetual back-pat-athon. We care so, so much! Haven’t you seen the commercials? Nonetheless, I firmly believe that—more than anything else—the places we focus our time and energy reveals our priorities in life. Talk is cheap.

We first-worldlings have an abundance of time, energy and money. Before you stop me and tell me how busy you are, consider how much of your day you spend actually subsisting. None of us spend 12 hours a day growing our own food or building our own houses. We have the luxury of deciding how we want to spend our time. We get to pick our jobs, afterall. And what do we invest all this time and money in? In engineering fancy speakers, airplanes, putting humans on the moon, shampoo that will make your hair grow, and even the traits of our offspring. If we want something to work, by God, it will happen. So, what does that say about decades of failed development policies?

Next, the way people treated food was a big point of interest for me. In restaurants, I was acutely aware of how diverse the menu was, as well as how much food people left on their plates. I witnessed this casual sense of abundance even more clearly one morning when were eating croissants. Susannah, having finished, brushed the last eighth of her croissant into the trash so she could wash her dish. I had been eyeing it, but held in the annoying “are-you-going-to-eat-that?” query. I figured she would eat it eventually, or offer it to me if she didn’t want it. I honestly never thought she would just throw it away. Nigeriens never throw away even the tiniest morsel of food unless it is actually rotten. If you don’t want it, there is always some hungry kid that will relish whatever you have.

Now, let’s pause here. I’m not trying to poo-poo Susannah for reckless wastefulness. I’m sure anyone else in the room would have even thought it strange if she had offered me a scrap of such miniscule proportions. I’m also sure a year ago I would have similarly disposed of the croissant... I wasted a ton of food in the States. Finally, I’m sure that had there been a malnourished Nigerien child next door, Susannah would never have dreamed of denying the child her leftovers. In fact, being the warm, loving person she is, Susannah would probably even cook the child meals on a regular basis.

I really don’t want to become the woman who starts all her conversations with, “Do you realize in Africa, people don’t even have (insert first-world convenience here)?” I don’t think guilt is a productive or pleasant state-of-mind. I would much rather people feel excited by or engaged in third-world development than have them feeling guilty about it. In my mind, it’s guilt that makes us hand beggars a few coins on the street and interested compassion that inspires us search out ways to genuinely them. The point is simply this: after living in Africa for nearly a year now, I just have a different (clearer?) perspective on life. Especially, I have a deeper sense of the luxuries I enjoyed at home and what they cost.

My last day in Spain, I even had a moment of grieving this loss of ignorance. I was sitting at lunch with Susannah and two of her gorgeous, extremely well-dressed Spanish friends. We were in a nice café, enjoying a slow lunch and good weather. (Side note: I will never forget the complete lack of recognition and bafflement that shone in these ladies’ eyes when Susannah told them I live in a mud hut.) Anyway, while these girls were chatting away about something in Spanish, I allowed myself to wonder (as I had frequently over the past ten days), what would my villagers think of all this? This café? This food? The weather? The sidewalks? All the shops? The way people were dressed? And, in that moment I realized, this was how it is going to be for the rest of my life. The struggling masses of Africa are no longer faceless or hypothetical. They are my neighbors and my friends, and no matter where I end up, I will never forget them.




April 24th, 2010


Village Life

After all the cheese, juice, hot showers and cool weather, I was nervous to return to my village. What if I got back and just couldn’t stand all the bugs, sand, heat and poop? While I knew I wasn’t going to call it quits, I wasn’t expecting it to be an easy adjustment either. To my surprise, upon returning to my site, I felt immediately (immediately) at ease. All the anxiety that had been swelling in my chest since I arrived in Spain evaporated. I am vaguely concerned by the fact that I feel so much more at ease in a mud hut in the middle of the Sahel than in a nice restaurant in Spain…but I will wait to deal with that potential panic attack until I’m on the plane back to America.

Doing dishes at my house.

Guh! This one was like 4" long.

One thing that really helped ease me back into my village was Gatsby…my new boyfriend, and by boyfriend, I mean cat. I really like having a kitty to come home to. Not only does he provide me with hours of entertainment and something to cuddle with, he’s also become an expert bug/lizard catcher. He is, however, a bit clingy. He follows me EVERYWHERE, including when I go to use the latrine. (Once, while I was mid-squat, he trotted in and dug himself a little hole to do the same. My friend Katy LOVED this story and said, “I wish there was some way you could have taken a picture of that without it being gross.”)

Aside from the occasional lizard, I’ve been feeding him kuli-kuli, which is baked peanut meal with the oil drained out. It looks a lot like cat food and is high in protein, so it seems to be working well. Gatsby also really loves Kraft macaroni and cheese, which my father has been sending me at regular intervals.

My villagers are a little weirded out by the whole pet thing. They understand the concept of keeping animals (many even have cats). But the fact that I’ve named my kitty, let him sleep on my bed and give him lots of food and kisses is clearly BAB (bizarre anasara behavior). Even the idea of petting a cat is foreign to them. When my neighbor saw me petting Gatsby, she asked by I was doing it. Many neighbors have even started calling me the cat-keeper and cat-mother.

Gatsby, who sleeps at least 20 hours a day, also has helped me overcome a lot of the guilt I feel for not being more productive…which leads us to…

Gatsby "settling in." This was take about ten minutes after we arrived in my village.

Work.

Before I left for Spain, I was still “working” at the mayors office, which is to say I would stop by there to chat with people and write birth certificates. Upon my return, however, I learned the military junta currently governing the Niger dismissed all the mayors. This might sound terrible and undemocratic, but it’s really a good, kind thing. This last group of mayors was elected five years ago and supposed to have finished with their mandate in December; but with all the Tanja drama and postponing of elections, they were forced to continue working. It seemed to me most mayors were really ready to be done, but until the junta released them, they had a legal obligation to continue working. Soon enough, the government will organize another round of elections, but until that time mayoral staff is supposed to tend to the day-to-day needs of their commune without a mayor.

For many communes, this isn’t a problem—they have the staff and resources to carry on. In my case, however, the mayor’s office is even more abandoned than it was before. For a while, Seyni the Etat-Civil would sit in front of the building for a few hours in the morning, but not actually do any work. As the weeks passed, however, he eventually just stopped showing up. (Before you judge, it’s important to note Seyni hasn’t been paid for eight months.) Thus, any project I want to do with the mayor’s office is completely on hold.

The Peace Corps staff in Niamey is vaguely concerned about the productivity of the entire Municipal and Community Development Sector, considering our main point of contact within host communities is gone. Personally, I’m daring to hope the next mayor will be a super-motivated individual, who wants nothing more than to help a Peace Corps volunteer plan projects. In the end, it’s impossible to know how (and how long) this change will affect my ability to carry out sector-specific projects…but as they say in Zarma, boorey kulu si bey kala irkoy—no one but Allah knows.

I’ve have had a couple more conversations with the NGO planning to replace the village’s garden fence, and they seem excited to include me in their work. Also, I did manage the tree planting with the elementary school, and I have lots of ideas for projects I would like to do with the schools. Since the school year is almost done, however, I’m planning on holding off on those until next October. In the meantime, I’m focusing on projects in other sectors: agriculture, health and education.


Helping babies.

Upon her request, I spent a couple afternoons helping the doctor in my village weigh and vaccinate babies. (She’s not an actual M.D., but besides the village’s two midwives she is the only healthcare professional in the area. Also, in a previous blog post, I called her Zeelah, but her name is actually Zougou (ZOO-goo).)

I was a little nervous the day Zougou sent a villager to my house to retrieve me. I had promised her I would help her with some work, but I am not a trained health professional. I was afraid I may be getting in over my head. Thank Allah, Zougou did not ask me to give any shots. Instead she had me fill out vaccination records the mothers had, and later, she taught me how to weigh the babies. She also had me write several birth certificates for new mothers, which I am a pro at, after working at the mayor’s office.

The one-room clinic in my village is a pretty stressful place on days when Zougou is working. There is no waiting room, so all the mothers crowd into the tiny space to get out of the sun. There is also no filing cabinet, so medical records are just spread over Zougou’s desk, forcing me to have to shuffle through the mess to retrieve a record every time a new person showed up.

On top of all the chatter, the babies (of course) bawl uncontrollably upon receiving a shot. Also, Zougou isn’t exactly gentle… The pregnant mothers, in contrast, don’t even flinch when they get their tetanus and vitamin shots. (As I mentioned before, crying is not a thing adults do here.)

I was impressed to learn vaccinations are free. And if the child is registered with the state and is under the age of five, his or her mother only has to pay 100 FCFA (about 22 U.S. cents) for any other medicine, such as antibiotics. (Registered with the state = has a birth certificate.) If not mother may have to pay up to few dollars for medicine, which can be prohibitively expensive. Even when the mothers didn’t have actual money, Zougou was determined to treat them. I saw her accept everything from soap to mangoes as payment. Of course, Zougou can’t give the state mangoes. She accepts the mangoes as payment and then passes her own money on to the government. (She seems like a hard ass but is actually very compassionate.)

The first morning I went to help her, I was a little annoyed with Zougou. She kept disappearing for long periods of time, leaving me alone in the clinic. I was tired and kept worrying a mother would show up and demand I give her baby a vaccination or something, but Zougou always came back before a new crowd of “customers” arrived. It wasn’t until later I realized Zougou disappeared because she was going out into the village to remind mothers to come get their shots.

“A government agent will come at the end of the day and take back all the supplies we don’t use,” she explained to me.

The second time I came in to help, I was surprised to learn the babies also find the scale terrifying. It is an old, rickety thing, so it’s difficult to weigh babies quickly. While I am madly trying to force the sand-logged counter weight into place, the baby wails at his or her mother in horror—not only because there is a scary anasara making crazy faces, but also because the moms aren’t allowed to touch their babies while they are being weighed. It almost heartbreaking to see the child, who is sure his mom is abandoning him for good, reach his chubby little arms forward to grab her.

Zougou then instructed me to record the weight and age of the baby on an NGO-donated medical record. The forms were pretty fancy, and even had a graph allowing you to plot the babies’ age and weight. As chubby as they may have looked every single one of the babies I weighed that day were below the “average weight line” and most were below the “malnourished line.” At first I thought I was measuring things wrong, but no. Some of the babies had even lost weight since their visit a month ago. Who has ever heard of a baby losing weight?


Haoua.

Another way I’ve been filling my time is with Haoua (HOW-ah). Haoua is a thirteen-year-old girl who showed up at my house mere hours after I first moved in and asked me to tutor her in English. (After a few successful lessons, I thought about creating an entire English club for the youth in my village; but as I said, the school year is almost over so I’m going to hold off until next year.)

Student in Niger grow up speaking Zarma, Hausa, Fufulde, Tamajeq, or some combination of native languages in the home. From the moment they enter kindergarten, however, teachers instruct almost entirely in French. This is problematic because (obviously) the children do not speak French and therefore have essentially no idea what the teacher is saying. I realized just how little French the primary school children speak after I started taking French lessons. Granted, a big anasara greeting them with a weird accent might diminish the students’ understanding, but every time I try to talk to a kid I French, they reply only with blank (terrified) stares. By middle school (Haoua’s age) the students usually have a reasonable grasp on French. They can’t really converse in the language, but they can read, write, and understand it when spoken.

It is also in middle school children start learning English. The biggest problem with learning English is most (but not all) Nigerien English teachers don’t actually speak English. (Peace Corps education volunteers used to fill this position, but in the late nineties, the government decided this it was taking jobs away from Nigeriens.) Thus, as Haoua read me a short story in her textbook at our first lesson, I was surprised to discover she had no idea what any of the words she was reading meant.

“Don’t you stop and discuss what the stories mean?” I asked her in Zarma.

“No,” she replied, “our teacher just has us read aloud.”

This constitutes their entire English lesson. Haoua, who at age thirteen has taken two years of English, didn’t even understand basic greetings. So, it wasn’t long before I told her to stop bringing her way-too-advanced textbook and started from scratch. We play games, draw pictures, and look at books of America. Haoua especially loves it when we use American beauty magazines as the basis for a lesson. Though I have a hard time explaining what bird-shaped purses or Paris Hilton mermaids are. After looking though an Elle magazine my sister had sent, Haoua informed me, “America has a lot of stuff.” I just shrugged.

Haoua learns at an incredible pace. I can tell she practices the things I teach her at home, because whenever we review she always has the previous lesson down pat. She is so eager to learn I often have to send her home because I am too tired or unprepared for a lesson. For a while, she was showing up at my house every afternoon. Other times she would go an entire week without coming. I asked her about this one day and she told me she is often too busy with chores to be able to get away. Also, I learned her parents live in another town outside of my village, so on the weekends she has to walk all the way home.

My village boasts the only middle school in the area. To be able to go to school, Haoua stays with her older sister, whose husband is from our village. This situation is really lucky for Haoua, since if she didn’t have family friends to stay with, middle school wouldn’t be an option. Other children walk up to ten kilometers to and from school every day, but many children live too far away to be able to walk. Haoua will face this challenge if she continues on after middle school, as the nearest high school is much farther away.

I’m also good friend with Haoua’s older sister, Oumou (OUH-moo). One day when she came to visit me, I realized Oumou, who is a little older than me, was completely illiterate. This surprised me, since Haoua seemed so dedicated to studying.

“Didn’t your parents send you to school?” I asked Oumou.

“I would have liked to study, but there wasn’t a primary school in our village when I was of age,” she told me. “Haoua’s class was only the second class to enroll. I wouldn’t have been able to come to middle school either,” she continued. “Before I married Abdou, our family didn’t have any contacts here.”

This conversation bummed me out, but also gave me the idea of organizing an adult literacy class for my villagers.

In spite of all the obstacles, Haoua seems pretty determined to be in school. Luckily, Peace Corps Niger’s Gender and Development program offers a scholarship for middle-school-aged girls. Since the program is almost entirely funded by returned Peace Corps Niger volunteers, there are a limited number of scholarships available, but I’m hopeful for Haoua. A scholarship winner will receive her own set of textbooks (rather than having to share with three other students), a backpack, other school supplies (Haoua didn’t even have a pen), and money to pay a tutor. What’s more, as long as a scholarship winner continues to pass her classes, she will continue to receive the money until she reaches high school.

I know merely “passing classes” doesn’t mean much and certainly wouldn’t win you a scholarship in America. In Niger, however, it is something to reward, especially considering the language barriers the students face. A lot of students don’t pass. The attrition rate in primary and middle schools is appalling, and if a student fails to pass a grade twice, they are not allowed to reenroll.

Why, you may ask, is girls’ education so important that they would be singled out? Why not offer the scholarship to all students? The answer is this: “Girls reap enormous benefits from post-primary education, including skills that translate into employment and empowerment. In addition, there is a correlation between education beyond primary school and having healthier families and lower fertility rates. Yet despite the multiple benefits of secondary education, four out of every five girls in Africa go without it.” (http://www.unicef.org/girlseducation/index_bigpicture.html)

Researchers have actually discovered all kinds of wonderful correlations between girls’ education and development. People have theorized this relationship is gender specific because an educated man will leave his village in search of economic opportunity. Women, in contrast, tend to stick around. Anyone who has read the incredibly popular Three Cups of Tea or Stones into Schools by Greg Mortenson (if you haven’t read it, you need to), is familiar with the adage: “If you educate a boy you educate an individual. If you educate a girl, you educate a community.”

There are hundreds and hundreds of studies linking girls’ education to development. To see just a few of these studies check out: http://www.womendeliver.org/knowledge-center/facts-figures/girls-education/. On a personal level, I am really able to see the effects of a middle school education in my village. The mothers who have gone to school really do have fewer, healthier kids (who are in turn also going to school). I’m not sure how to describe it, but the middle school graduates are just more aware of the world as adults. Many of these women also have figured out how to earn their own money. While they are still supported by their husbands, these women have gained a kind of independence in having their own spending money (which they usually used to by medicine and such for their children). If there ever were a silver bullet for international development, I deeply believe it is girls’ education.

Now, before I descend from my soapbox, I would like to offer you the opportunity to donate to Peace Corps Niger’s Young Girl Scholarship Program. I understand that you are not an anasara vending machine, and (as we talked about in the Spain stuff) I don’t want you to give money out of guilt. My hope is that after hearing how effective girls’ education is as a development tool you are EXCITED and INSPIRED and would like to help.

Unfortunately, there is no easy way to donate online—you have to mail in a form. But, before you get all I-can’t-be-bothered-to-print-a-form-and-write-a-check on me, recall all the obstacles these young girls have to overcome. I think you can handle filling out one form. Here are the steps:

1. Go to this link: http://www.friendsofniger.org/aboutfon/joinfon.html.
2. Print the document.
3. Fill out your personal information.
4. In the next section of the form, you have to “become a member.” But the money you send in for membership fees goes toward programs.
5. In the next section of the form, to support the Young Girls’ Scholarship program, check the third item on the list that reads: “I want to support FON's Young Girls' Scholarship Program activities.”
6. Write a check to “Friends of Niger.”
7. Send check and form to: P. O. Box 5823, Washington, D. C. 20016-9998
8. Feel good about yourself.



May 1, 2010


Hama, Hama, Hama!

When I got back from Spain, I was delighted to see my landlord had replaced the rickety fence around the concession with a beautiful mud wall, adding to my privacy. He even constructed it in such a way that passersby could no longer see me making use of my latrine. As if I needed more reason to feel warm and fuzzy about my site, all my villagers were especially welcoming and excited to see me back. I can see my villagers have started to accept my presence more as well. I’ve been surprised recently by how many people know my name, and how many personal conversations I’ve been included in.

I was even more pumped by the fact that I completed my first real project. As part of global youth service week, I had organized a tree planting with the primary school director. I wrote the proposal, got the funding, and before I new it I was standing in front of the all the primary school students, telling them about the importance of planting trees. Things were finally starting to fall into place.

So, what call all this mean? –It’s about time for something to go wrong again…

I swear, I’m not being pessimistic so much as paying heed to the law of the land. In the face of disappointment, we Americans often cite the old maxim, “nothing lasts forever.” (Brett Dennen even wrote a song about it.) In Africa, however, I think the phrase is better revised to say, “nothing lasts for very long and definitely not as long as you need it to.” (This isn’t just about my latrine incident either…) I’ve only managed to maintain my health for a month or two at a time before I’m sure to contract another case of severe diarrhea. I’ve watched in frustration as termites have steadily devoured the support beams of my shade hanger. I sweat out water almost as fast as I can drink it. Food sours overnight. Mud houses are washed away by seasonal rains and constantly having to be rebuilt. Plans rarely go accordingly. Politicians rise and fall almost as fast as the governing systems they conceive. NGO projects arrive and fail at an astounding rate. The Sahara is slowly creeping southward. People even live closer to death, easily falling victim to illness or injury.

There are of course things that never seem to change, like the temperature or practice of farming millet. But the save the few exceptions, things, ideas, and people decay at such a rate to throw the entire population of Niger into a state of constant flux and uncertainty.

Thus, when I noticed how I was finally feeling settled, I figured it couldn’t be long before some issue would come up. Sure enough I wasn’t in village for more than two weeks before Hama, my landlord, decided he’d had enough and wanted his house back.

Previously, I’ve sympathized with Hama’s situation. He is an ambitious guy—constantly working on something project to fix up his house or land (also he told me he wants to buy a motorcycle, a major status symbol.) He was always willing to help me when I asked him. (For example, he was more than happy to club the snake I found sleeping in my house when I returned from Spain.) In the feud between him and the mayor, it really did seem like he was getting ripped off. Not to mention, his wife unceremoniously packed up her house and son, and moved back in with her parents. Finally, as I am an American, it seemed only fair that he should be paid the rent in a timely manner (in spite of the fact most teachers and other civil servants are not asked to pay rent in smaller communities.)

However, something has changed since the last time Hama threw a fit over the rent: the current military junta released all the local mayors from their mandate. As I mentioned, currently, my commune has no mayor. Since the mayor has officially completed his service, Seyni the Etat-Civil is in charge of things like paying my rent until (whoever??) organizes another local election. Seyni has no beef with Hama, has no reason to withhold payment and create problems for himself. Thus, I believe him 100% when he says the commune simply does not have the money to pay my rent. Soon enough, the commune will hold elections, elect a new mayor, at which time the mayoral staff will be able to collect taxes and finally pay my rent. It may be a few months, but HAMA WILL GET HIS MONEY. (It’s worth noting the last time the entire mayoral staff promised he would get his money, he did.)

Seyni (the Etat-Civil) and Seyni (the Peace Corps Program Assistant and Driver) have explained the situation to Hama numerous times in Zarma so simple, even I understood. Hama, unfortunately, just isn’t the brightest crayon in the box, and can’t seem to understand…anything. He is instead convinced everyone in the village is a liar, trying to take advantage of him, and he will not get his money (or motorcycle.)

He explained these facts to me at length, upon numerous occasions. I told him, “Hama, obviously everyone can’t be lying about this. If the entire village is telling you you will get your money, can’t you just have a little patience??”

Nope. He cannot. His behavior has been so unreasonable and frustratingly illogical that I have diagnosed him as being, what the medical world terms, “Crazy Pants.” Seriously (she waves her arms in frustration) this is why people need to go to school, so at the least they can understand simple logic.

It has been suggested by several highly reputable community members Hama is abusing drugs. This makes a lot of sense to me. Besides his paranoid, illogical mindset, there have been a few times when I have wondered if Hama was drunk when he was talking to me. But, I have no real evidence or conviction this is the case. I will never know for sure, and for now I am satisfied just thinking he is crazy pants and slow.

So, I’m moving. Blerg! I hate moving. But Seyni the Etat-Civil found a very nice, newly constructed house in a great location. It is essentially the same size as the house I am living it, and has a smaller yard, but like I said, great location (out-of-town a bit, but still centrally located, not too far from a well and a big shady tree). I also really liked the people. I met the new landlord, who declared upon introductions I could live in his house for five years and he wouldn’t care if they paid him rent. His two wives immediately fed me and made me feel right at home. There are however, a rather daunting number of small children in the concession, which may be an issue for privacy.

When am I moving? As soon as Allah wills it. I told the Peace Corps Bureau I am not willing to move into the new house until the latrine and shade hanger are finished. The memory of my temporary latrine is still all-too-vivid. The first go-round was kind of funny to me, but I’ve had my fill of pooping in clay pots for weeks at a time. Unfortunately, Hama told me today I can’t stay in his house while I wait. So I may be stuck at the Dosso Hostel while I wait, which I’m not thrilled about, but there are worse alternatives…I’ve experienced them.

At this point, I am looking forward to the move. I will be relieved to be free from Hama’s daily lectures and paranoia. Also, (I haven’t really had the chance to elaborate on it but,) if you think Hama’s bad, you should see his mom, whom I share a concession with. Let’s just say I got scolded a lot.

Things have been set into motion, and with the full support of the Niamey Bureau I’m sure I will be back in business in no time. Allah will it that this be my last Peace Corps move…



May 8, 2010

And now my monthly complaint about weather:

No Joke.

Hot season is by far my least favorite season, but it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. There’s only been two times I really almost cried about the heat. As evidenced by the picture below, hottest I’ve seen it is 117 degrees Fahrenheit. It doesn’t even matter to me how hot it gets during the day, as long as it cools off at night. During the day, I can just lay on my concrete floor fanning myself. At night, falling asleep while sweating—or worse waking up sweating—is just completely intolerable.

Not only have I developed a full-body heat rash, but most mornings I wake up feeling hung over. No, I haven’t been sneaking wine coolers while in my village. There have been several nights when I’m pretty sure I never stopped sweating. And, since I have not yet developed the ability to drink water while sleeping, I get dehydrated. No matter how much water I drink, entire days go by without me needing to pee.

The mornings I wake up sweating are the worst. I hate looking at the thermometer my dad sent at eight a.m. and knowing I’m not going to be able to stop sweating for the rest of the day. Because hot mornings follow hot nights, I’m usually deprived of sleep and suffering from a heat rash outbreak at this point. Thus, these are the times (if I weren’t so dehydrated) I would probably cry about how effing hot it is. BUT, thank Allah, this has only happened two are three times…I was expecting months and months of this kind of weather.

Even though it wasn’t as bad as I expected, I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to the year’s first rain. Not only does this signify the end of my least favorite season, it also marks the completion of my first year in Niger. What’s more, the rains transform the dry, sparse Sahel into…well, not a paradise, but it’s much greener… It’s a feeling I would compare to the beginning of summer in the United States…

For weeks I kept my eyes turned toward the east, waiting for the east-to-west wind that signals the arrival of a storm. A couple of times we had what my villagers call the “Mango Rains,” which are very light, brief showers. (Mangoes are by far the best part of hot season. I eat several mangoes a day in village. Mangoes, mangoes, mangoes!)

Rain!

When the first storm finally did come, I was on the phone with my sister and was so excited I had to end the conversation early. I then sat and watched front approach for almost two hours. When the rain finally did start to fall, I did what any normal anasara would do—I ran out and danced in it. In ten minutes, the storm dropped the temperature 20 degrees. It was pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me. I learned later, hot season may linger for another few weeks, but I’m optimistic that the worst of it is over…

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.