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.

Photos!!

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

My Friend Nicholas, a Refugee Volunteer from Guinea


Learning to make earthen cookstoves...

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

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

From Christmas to Mid-Feb

January 26th, 2010

General Activities…

January was an eventful month. Inter-Service Training (IST) was rapidly approaching, so I was trying to get to know my community at super-speed. The normal, non-refugee volunteer spends three whole months in his post before going to IST in Hamdallaye, at which one learns the “how to” of projects. However, due to the timing of consolidation and the time it took to get my new post ready, I only spent five weeks in village before IST.


Thus, I dedicated a great deal of time to running around talking to people, while simultaneously getting settled into my new home. The mayor’s office at my new post is much less active than at my old, so I only go there twice a week and usually don’t stay more than a couple hours. When I do make to the office (which lies on the edge of town) Seyni (SAY-nee), the Etat-Civil, and I are usually the only ones there. On one of my first visits, I asked Seyni if there was anything small/easy I could help him with in the office. I wanted to get to know the place, without taking on too much responsibility. Birth certificates, was his response. He invited me to come write birth certificates.

Because of Niger’s underdevelopment, public officials must handwrite all public records and subsequent copies. Thus, when someone announces a birth, marriage, or death, the mayor’s staff must write out three copies of the certificate: one to be sent to Niamey, one to stay at the mayor’s, and a copy for the declarer. Unfortunately, life often outpaces bureaucracy, creating a looming backlog of unwritten certificates.

My first day of helping, Seyni handed me a 12” by 16” book of blank birth acts and gave me a brief tutorial. The documents are all in French, which I don’t actually speak; nevertheless, Seyni assured me it didn’t matter if I made mistakes. After just the first few copies, my hand began to cramp, so I flipped ahead to see the rest of the book—99% of the entries were for illiterate farmers. In the entire book, one or two fathers identified themselves as “shopkeepers,” and no more than six had completed elementary school. In the whole book, there was only one birth act on which identified the mother to be literate.

It takes me about ten minutes to write the three copies for each act (plus some hand stretching breaks), so I estimate I write about ten certificates for each morning I spend at the mayor’s. After a couple weeks of (what I thought was) very diligent effort, I had worked my way through most of the book. Even though my book had been waiting to be filled out since 2006, I began to worry I would soon write myself out of a job. Concerned, I asked Seyni, “What do you do when you aren’t writing birth acts?” Seyni, who spends every weekday from seven a.m. to one p.m. copying these certificates, was clearly confused by my words. I rephrased the question, “What other work do you do when the birth certificates are finished?” He paused for a moment, sorting his way though my awkward Zarma. “It never finishes,” he replied. Seyni then drew my attention to the table in the back of the room, struggling to support at least ten more books of the commune’s birth acts, all waiting to be filled out.

I later observed Seyni doing a lot of work in addition to the birth certificates. I watched him organize the taxes for the entire commune, which is no small task. Also, as he is the only member of the mayor’s staff that comes to work, he must address all requests, inquiries and complaints that passersby may bring.




Though it’s much less exciting than the mayor’s office at Gotheye, I enjoy the time I spend with Seyni. For one, I really feel like I am helping him out, even if it is in a small, small way. Also, the quiet hours I spend writing birth certificates breaks up the (often overwhelming) rest of my day.

Besides going to the mayor’s, I’ve been all over town, getting to know the community. Here are some highlights: I visited the (destroyed/abandoned) community garden; drew a “resource map” of the entire village; taught a woman in my village to make friendship bracelets; learned to weave traditional Zarma mats out of palm leaves; journeyed to the next village’s market; spent a few afternoons at the clinic, watching the doctor give shots; attended nearly ten naming ceremonies, a wedding and two funerals; I sat in on a geography class at the primary school; learned to play “Blackbird” on my guitar; AND participated in no less than ONE MILLION get-to-know-you discussions with my villagers.




My 14-year-old neighbor started a particularly interesting conversation one evening when she randomly asked me (and I quote) “if I had ever seen God.” Considering rural, African villagers rarely engage in abstract, theological discussions, I decided she must have asked the question literately. (Surprisingly) This question caught me a bit off guard. First, I wasn’t completely sure I understood her. Second, I don’t know why she thought being an anasara might privilege me to witness the divine. Finally, I didn’t want to step on any pious, Muslim toes. After a considering all this for a moment, I told her the truth: I saw divinity everywhere—in her and in me. Staring back at me with wide eyes, she clicked her tongue in the back of her throat and said, “Irkoy beeri”—God is great.

I had another memorable conversation the first time I went to see the doctor in my village, Zilah (ZEE-lah). I showed up right as the she was closing up for the afternoon, so the small, one-room clinic was empty. Though I hadn’t been there before, the doctor knew exactly who I was and immediately began interrogating me. The conversation went something like this:

“Why haven’t you come to see me yet? Nadira (the old volunteer) used to come and see me everyday. Your skirt is too old, and it is dirty. Why hasn’t your boyfriend bought you a new one? Where is your boyfriend? Are you married? I will buy you a new skirt when I go to Dosso. How long have you been here? Do you pray? Do you pray the Muslim way? Come with me to the mosque now and I will teach you how to pray correctly.”

Zilah delivered this whole speech in less than 15 seconds, without pause. I managed to slip in a few monosyllabic responses, but was more or less steamrolled by this outpouring. In the end, Zilah turned out to be great company, if a bit preoccupied with finding me a boyfriend…





February 15, 2010

Toilet Issues

Before I left for America, I read something in the pre-departure materials warning parents not to be too concerned when their children tell “war stories” over the phone. War stories…tales of incredible illness, ridiculous infrastructure troubles, or getting sprayed by cow diarrhea. (Parents are also told not to contact the Peace Corps unless they go three months without hearing from their children.) Anyway…I wasn’t even going to bring up my toilet issues (war story)…because I figure everyone listening from home doesn’t need monthly updates on my digestive system…which actually cuts out a great deal of “blog content,” since here so much of my life revolves around my stomach. But, the following was too wonderful of a story to not share. Thus, let me issue a WARNING: This next bit is about poop.

It all started when I learned I would get a new post…

After the attempted kidnappings, it became clear many volunteers would not be able to return to their posts. However, (for obvious reasons) Peace Corps didn’t want team refugee endlessly languishing about the Niamey hostel. So, the Bureau worked to prepare new sites as quickly as possible; and thus, when I arrived at my new site, it was not 100% ready. The house was clean and empty, but had no floor. There was no shade hanger—critical for hot season. And, I didn’t have a latrine.

I didn’t want to spend any more time in the hostel, so I assured my boss, Ousman, I would be comfortable staying in a nearby house, until the mayor (who, as my supervisor, is responsible for all my housing issues) could oversee repairs on my house. Also, agreed to stay with only a temporary latrine. In less technical jargon, a “temporary latrine” is a big clay pot buried in the ground. What a glamorous life I do lead…

The clay pot worked out pretty well in the beginning—really, it was just like a latrine. What’s more, construction on my new latrine seemed to be moving at an encouraging pace. While I was in Dosso for Christmas, the mayor had hired a couple kids to dig the hole and to make the cement cover. Now it just need to be put together and a wall for privacy.

Before I go any further, I have to give you a little background on family matters in my village. The village chief, the mayor, and my landlord, Hama, are all a part of the same family. Unfortunately, some time ago, Hama and the mayor had a bit of a falling out and are now engaged in a full-on feud. I’m not to clear about how it started…something about someone not selling someone rice. Regardless of who’s to blame, this feud puts me in a bit of an awkward situation. First of all, the mayor doesn’t really like to come over to my house/deal with housing issues, because Hama is in charge of the property. And (of course) Hama is always looking for opportunities to point out what a terrible person the mayor is. Thus, when Hama showed me the hole and the concrete slab the mayor had built for me, he pointed to them emphatically, insisting the work was cuta; which (as best as I can translate) means “piece of shit.”

Considering Hama is (perhaps) not the most objective judge of the mayor’s character, I brushed off this review as a consequence of the feud. Yes, the hole was not especially deep and it did seem a bit half-assed…but I wanted a place to poop, and didn’t have a lot of options. (Of course my villagers throughout this whole ordeal, kept insisting to me I go and poop in the field behind the village like a normal person.)

Again, with the hole dug, and the concrete laid, all I needed was for the latrine to be assembled and a wall for privacy. But, as I waited for these final steps to be completed, days became weeks and my little pot got very full. Soon I was going to unusual measures to avoid what Peace Corps types call “splash back.” I grew more and more aggressive about reminding the mayor to finish the work, but each time I called he always promised the work would be done “tomorrow.” Mid-January, I was fed up and ready to pay Hama to do the work for me, but the same morning I told Hama to do it, a representative of the mayor’s office showed up with a millet-stalk mat for a wall.

So there it was—my latrine! It had a hole, and a wall, and a cement cover for me to stand on. The only thing missing now was a door—an actual avenue through which to enter this miraculous depository. The guy from the mayor’s office had done a great job setting up the millet-stalk wall; it was very private. The only trouble was he had not cut a door through the straw, so I could look at the latrine all I wanted, but couldn’t actually use it.

Hama said he would cut the hole for me, but Monday he was gone. Tuesday he forgot. The next day was Wednesday, which is the market day for the next town over. Then Thursday is the market day for Vela, and he had to go and sell a cow. These are legitimate excuses, but it meant waiting nearly another week for a new latrine. Friday, Hama cut an entryway to the latrine, but he did it in a way so that everyone passing by on the street would be able to see me in there. Thrilled to have access to my new toilet, I was happy to hang an old piece of cloth as a door—giving me all the necessary privacy. Though, the project didn’t seem quite finished to me.

Two whole days passed, during which time I was able to use my latrine without trouble. THEN! ON THE THIRD DAY! I was midway through my morning routine when Hama showed up. He was fuming with anger as he told me to pack my things, because that day I was moving out. I was pretty alarmed. I didn’t want to move. I liked my new house and neighbors. More importantly, I had only gotten to use my new latrine twice, and was not excited at the prospect of reliving the past month’s construction issues. Unsure what to do, I called up the regional representative (a PCV who works as a liaison between volunteers and the office), and told him the situation. He immediately contacted my mayor, the village chief, Hama, and the Dosso program assistant (Seyni ), while assuring me I would not have to move.

Everything worked out. I didn’t have to move. The details are still foggy, but I later learned what had happened: The mayor had gone to the village chief and told him he wanted me to move, because he didn’t like me living in Hama’s house. The village chief had then called Hama to come and discuss the matter with the mayor, which led to a big fight, which led to Hama telling me to move out. To further complicate the matter, the mayor hasn’t actually paid Hama any of the rent he owes on my house, giving Hama a legitimate reason for asking me to move.

Of course within ten minutes of the big fight at the village chief’s house, the whole village knew about it and wanted the inside scoop. So, I spent the whole day trying to avoid the conflict and answer questions diplomatically, while at the same time keeping a close eye on my house to be sure Hama didn’t move me out. I also endured a forty-minute lecture from Hama, enlightening me about his merits as a landlord. (Hama is a wonderful landlord.) By the end of the day I was really exhausted.

Then, as evening fell, I paid a visit to my latrine to dispose of a piece of refuse. I paused to reflect on how long it had taken to be completed and how happy it made me, just to have a private place to poop. Gazing (admiringly) at the latrine, I notice the cement had begun to crack. My heart sank. It had been such a struggle to get this latrine built. Was it falling apart already? Perhaps Hama was right (not just begrudged) in calling it cuta. I toed the crack, deciding if I should say anything to Seyni, the program assistant, who was due to visit my site in the next week. But, in an instant, the cement gave way and I fell in.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I fell into my latrine.

So, let’s keep this all in perspective. Yes, I fell into a pit of my own feces, which is the worst thing that can happen to anyone ever. BUT, on the bright side, I had only used it twice, and thus escaped WITHOUT GETTING ANY POOP ON ME. Also luckily, the hole wasn’t especially deep, so I was able to climb (bolt, leap, launch myself) right out. I did, however, scrape my arms pretty badly, and was bleeding. I held it together long enough to text the regional representative about what had happened and to bandage my arm, but then I sat down on my floor and bawled with complete abandon. I sobbed out of shock and self-pity for about ten minutes, until an exhausted yawn of acceptance rose up from my chest and it all just stopped.

The next morning all my villagers (who notice every time I get a paper cut) were very alarmed to see my scraped arm. Each one would ask what happened. I would tell them. Then he or she would insist on coming to see the wrecked latrine. But, rather than laughing at me as I expected, each one consistently pointed out how lucky I had been. I hadn’t drowned in my own feces. I did not get stuck in the hole. I didn’t even get hurt that badly. (There was one girl who started calling me her “latrine friend” in Zarma, but I don’t really get that joke.)

The Seyni (the program assistant) showed up a couple days later and within the span of a few hours had: talked to the village chief, the mayor, and my landlord; located all the necessary materials, including a new block of cement; settled the question of the unpaid rent; and gotten my landlord to dig me a new latrine. (When it was finished, several grown men in the village jumped up and down on top of the new piece of concrete to demonstrate its strength.) Basically, he settled four weeks of trouble in one afternoon.

(Side note: That day, as the men put the finishing touches on my latrine, one of the men had a seizure in my yard. This was perhaps the scariest moment of my Peace Corps career. Having been trained in first aid and possessing a knowledge of first-world medicine, I felt obligated to do something, but was frozen by doubt. In America, I would have probably called for an ambulance or at least been relatively sure the man had received medical care for his condition. Standing in the middle of the desert, the only thing I was sure of was how far away a hospital was and how inaccessible medical care is.)

Now, in the days before IST, I seemed to be on the homestretch with this whole latrine business. Yet, in the days following Seyni’s rescue, I grew more and more angry with the mayor and my landlord. How silly were they for, after all these years, not giving in on some feud over rice? Here’s the story I told myself: I could not be certain, but was am fairly confident if my mayor and landlord weren’t still clinging to this tiff that occurred years ago I would have been built a proper toilet. Rather than hiring someone the mayor might have done the work himself, or at least come to see it, rather than avoiding my (Hama’s) house. Hama might have been more willing to help the mayor, rather than just pointing out what a poor job he did. They might have even built the latrine together while singing Cat Stevens songs. Without doubt, I wouldn’t have spent a whole day wondering whether or not I would be forced to move. What could they be fighting about that is SO important, so injurious they couldn’t forgive each other after all these years, I asked myself.

Just then…all the grudges I have gnawing on for years flashed before me…

Whenever I have a hard time working up the maturity to forgive someone, I always remember a story I heard once about a couple living in South Africa during all the radicalized, apartheid violence. I do not recall the details, but this couple lost their son to a particularly brutal and tragic murder. When the police caught the perpetrator, the parents shocked the world when they refused to press charges. “Another execution will not bring peace to South Africa,” they said, “only forgiveness will.” And they forgive the man.

So if two people, living in a veritable war zone, can forgive the brutal murder of their child, surely I can forgive so-and-so for breaking up with me, or you-know-who for lying to me that one time. Really, we are all doing out best to be happy, bumping into each other from time to time. So I ask you now, consider: from whom in your life you are withholding forgiveness? Anger is like an acid, it eventually destroys the container. (I read that on a billboard once.) Better let go, lest an unsuspecting bystander fall into a latrine because of your grudge.


February 16th, 2010

The following is a quote written on the blackboard in Hamdallaye, the Peace Corps Niger Training site. I liked it a lot, and thought you all might as well.

“The magic of travel is that you leave your home secure in your own knowledge and identity, but as you travel, the world in all its richness intervenes. You meet people you could not invent; you see scenes you could not imagine. Your own world, which was so large as to consume your whole life, becomes smaller and smaller until it is only one tiny dot in space and time. You return a different person.

Many people don’t want to be travelers. They would rather be tourists, flitting over the surface of other people’s lives while never really leaving their own. They try to bring their world with them wherever they go, or try to recreate the world they left. They do not want to risk the security of their own understanding and see how small and limited their experiences really are. If we don’t offer ourselves to the world, our senses dull. Our world becomes small and we lose our sense of wonder. Our eyes don’t life to the horizon; we don’t hear the sounds around us. The edge is off our experience and we pass our days in a routine that is both comfortable and limiting. We wake up one day and find that we have lost our dreams in order to protect our days.



Travel, no matter how humble, will etch new elements into your character. You will know the cutting moments of life where fear meets adventure and loneliness meets exhilaration. You will know what it means to push forward when you want to turn back. And when you have tragedies or great changes in your life, you will understand that there are a thousand—a million way to live and that your life, and that your life will go on to something new and different and every bit as worthy as the life you are leaving behind.”


February 17th, 2010

The following is an email my friend and fellow Evans School student sent me. As a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, I think she gave me some really solid advice in response to my panicked I-don’t-know-how-to-save-all-of-Africa-all-by-myself email:

Katie,

You should not do too much. Calm down. :) You have two years in which to do things. Many will fail. Some will look promising. At least one will be a big success. Take your time to select/work on a project that you enjoy and brings value to the people you are working with. Enthusiasm will take you far, but will not make a project, especially if the people you are serving do not want it/do not take ownership of it. Be patient, and foster your relationships. Don't forget to have fun and enjoy your life. Life is amazing right now. It won’t get any better...strange as it may seem living in a mud hut with no running water or electricity.

Take a deep breath...and relax. You will be great.

I heart you!

Mary

January 4, 2010

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

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

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

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

January 9, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Forbids me to climb trees.

· I would never…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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