The 12th
This morning I went to church with OZ (‘O-Zead’), which was a strange experience on many accounts. He gave me a Hausa bible, which is currently wedged into my bookshelf right next to the Quran/Koran in English and Arabic. There were only 5 adults, including me and the pastor, and as we sang in Hausa my mind wandered. Churchgoing is comforting, no matter what you believe. It’s nostalgic and I’ve kept away these past few years to avoid hypocrisy, because I’m not sure what I believe anymore, (typical 20-something I am), but even if it’s just going through the motions…
Most people here are fanatically fervent in their beliefs and expressions of faith (praying 5 times a day?! That takes dedication!), and I feel of late I’ve ascribed to the American disillusioned intelligentsia anti-religion school of thought, distancing myself from any sincere expression of faith. But some of those of the smart set go to church too. My whole life I’ve been thinking of religion and spirituality as an all-or-nothing deal: either you are or you aren’t, you buy the bullshit or you don’t. Of course people aren’t wired that way, and my own wavering middle ground refusal-to-commit-to-any-one-opinion ‘belief’ of sorts that I’ve held for the past few years (I can’t quite let go of the idea of a Creator, but I’m not about to assert that Jesus is the only way) is evidence of that. So…what? Is it okay to attend church without the 100% sincere trusting faith of a child? To go not because you believe but because of the comfort and community you find there? Does your motive (have to) really matter? Is there something these guys (Nigeriens) are getting right, God playing a larger, more consciously on-the-surface role in their lives? So where do I go now—what do I believe, and what do I do? Try to read some familiar Bible tales in Hausa and see where that gets me, I guess.
The 13th
Thrown like a bucket of chum to a school of sharks today at the private school in town, what the hell am I doing here? I have no great specific practical wisdom to impart.
Today at ‘wurin Sani’ (‘Sani’s place’ AKA hanging with my fada) the conversation turned to the worth of women (½ as much as men; “the Koran says so!” is the common refrain). “What if you get married and your husband wouldn’t let you come visit Niger?” they asked. “It’s not a question of him letting me—I would tell him what I was going to do and I would do it!” Apparently women have to ask their husbands for permission to do anything, and they don’t initiate divorces, ever. “Women aren’t as smart as men,” my friends said. “What?!?” “The Koran says so.” “Well Mohammed was a man—if he had been a woman it would have been the other way around!” They got a kick out of that. They continued—it wasn’t what Mohammed thought, he only wrote what God told him. “Well if God were a woman…” The conversation concluded when we all agreed that God is bigger than we mere humans are capable of understanding.
This conversation was easy and fun (I was laughing a lot) but had echoes of a scary time in my life. Yes they actually believe this, but I found myself thinking: ‘So what?’ I don’t really care if they think 2 women are equal to 1 man in value, IF they’re willing to respect their wives (treat them well, not beat them), send their daughters to school…I mean, I’m not here to convert them to my superior way of thinking. That’s pointless and would be frustrating: I know because I’ve been there. I remember when I was an überChristian with such strong convictions, willing to argue points of faith and bully people into believing my truth, which was the only one. I don’t ever want to go back to that mentality and besides that’s not why I’m here. If I can just be an example of a different way, and a voice that challenges them to think critically (whether or not they actually do), I’ll have done all I can do. Thanks be to Allah.
Slightly related note: tractors. Industrial advancement. Life here is so pastoral, and as a visitor I relish it as a return to a past—a simpler, purer, healthier way of life. Doing farm work by hand isn’t as efficient as modern technology has forced farming to be in places like America, but are huge monoculture factor farms really a ‘better’ way of doing things? I get to be as jaded and cynical and critical as a liberal education of Michael Pollen and issues of the New Yorker could allow—that’s a privilege. Who am I though, emissary of the 1st world, to tell Nigeriens to feel lucky and be grateful, that they are ‘better off’ without tractors? They (should) have the right to rape the land and destroy the environment as much as anybody. The problem, of course, is money.
I have nothing to give, everything to gain, and am as terrible a person as ever. Want to feel like a grade A jerk? Move to Niger.
The 15th
Last night I had the most terrifying dream—Tondi riding up on a horse, catching me fiddling with a radio, which I could not for the life of me figure out how to turn off. I had been told 2 or 3 times to turn it off, not to listen to it, but I was busy with some crafty task (carpentry?). It was so vivid—just as I remembered that I needed to turn it off, and couldn’t figure out how, and finally decided to pop the batteries out, Tondi was there, looming over me. He kicked me out of Peace Corps right there. I pleaded, I cried, I tried to repeal, I tried to explain. I was crushed. I woke up terrified, relieved, in awe that this apparently means so much to me. I really am loving it here, incomparably moreso than France (though that was good for what it was).
Today was a fabulous day: a ‘sunan’ (baptism) where Nasaifa peed on me and I ate chicken, planning English Club with Zabeiru…just walking through town is so fun. I’m finding a rhythm, as awkwardness gives way to knowledge of expectations and ease of person, language, etc. My friends, however I’ve found them, are fabulous, and even slight acquaintances are interesting, fun, caring, amazing. I’m getting excited about work possibilities and am getting into my groove. I would be devastated to be torn away right now.
The 21st
The last 3 days I spent visiting bush villages, the posts of the 3 volunteers coming to my department. Cindy and I ventured out into the unknown without advising the people of the towns beforehand (how could we?), trusting the incredible hospitality of Nigeriens to take care of us. And they did. The villages are small and picturesque, the people excited, friendly, helpful. We were provided with everything we needed—food, mats, a jerry-rigged light made out of a few batteries and a CD. I was amazed at our spirit (‘That town is 5k that way? Ok, see you in a few hours’), and also at how normal it all seemed. Even when we got almost lost for half a second, there was no space to be scared, as even in the open bush we were never far from signs of civilization—stored stacked millet stock, a shepherd, a small clump of houses. This place is beautiful, and the people all the more awe-inspiring for eking out a living here for generations. The landscape reminded me of northern California, near Paradise, near Chico. I felt like an incredibly capable explorer, and alternately like an inadequate human being, not as equal to the task of basic survival as the bush people here are. Trekking back to the road from the third village, I commented: “This is what humans were made for. Walking around Africa is what we evolved to do.” And here I was, doing it, even if in such a small capacity, my lazy American chub slowing me, my bright skin a constant worry, covered by a hat and sunscreen. These new volunteers will have a great time, I hope, and I can’t wait for them to come and for our experiences to commingle.
Also yesterday Souleymane asked me if I washed my clothes by hand or with a washing machine, which I brought from America on the plane, right? I found that too funny to laugh.
Christmas
Being in a mostly Muslim country for Christmas, you realize that, like most things, it’s mostly buildup. You’re reminded of the incongruity of Christmas’ origins, so radically religious, and its equally-as-legitimate bastard, commercial, completely cultural shadow, of shared music and films, similar (if personal and varied) memories. Such strong emotions are attached to this most random of dates (that’s not even determined by the moon!) that a random collection of Americans can come together in Zinder for a truly meaningful, delicious moment. For me, it’s about the family experiences that have been had, however nontraditional or small they’ve been. Spending Christmas away from family is nothing new, and even when it is with family, it’s nothing big, nothing movie- or J Crew catalog-worthy. Of course, as always, being away just makes me appreciate my people (“Greet your people for me!” –OZ), my foods (cranberry orange relish, cookie press cookies, lard-y shortbread, mashed sweet potatoes, lamb cake) and the times we are together so much more. I am so blessed with the fucked family I have, and the new friends I’ve made in Niger. Throwing another Mexican Christmas Eve eve feast for them (I invited a different set of friends than I invited for Thanksgiving—it seems even in Niger I am cursed/blessed with so many varied groups of friends that it’s impossible for them to all be together in one place at the same time) was fantastic.
Now
The new kids are almost here. It’s almost 2011. When did that happen? What will this next year bring? I can't be sure, but I'm hoping: camel rides, travel to other W. African countries, projects in my town (starting a radio station? I could be Niger's Ira Glass or Randi Rhodes!), new friends, a visit from my mom (and brother?!!!), etc. etc. etc.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Mex-a-giving
November 26
Yesterday I invited about a dozen friends (Majabiya and her family and neighbors) over to my house for a Thanksgiving feast. I had obsessed over the menu for weeks, my criteria being: what could I cheaply make a lot of, fairly ‘easily’ that would be different and interesting to Nigeriens? Easy: Mexican food! Consulting the Peace Corps Niger cookbook, I made refried beans, which I cooked in two 2-hour batches the night before, saved the been goop drain-off, then refried them the day of in aforementioned bean goop and oil and onions (which I could have used more of) and added taco sauce mix my mom had sent me from the states. Rice with another taco sauce packet, flour tortillas and salsa (tomatoes, onions, salt, lime juice) rounded out the meal. Luckily an army of children had come over around noon to help sweep my concession, cook (and burn) the rice, wash dishes and ride my bike.
I showed them how to put the tacos together and I’m proud to say that it was a hit: “When are you going to teach us how to make this?” which I think means they liked it. They particularly liked the beans and tortillas, taking all the leftovers, presumably to show and share with family members at home. It was over and done with in less than 2 hours-I told them to come over at 5pm and they were all gone by 6:30. I had been cooking like a fiend for 4x that amount of time, but I loved doing it, especially for Majabiya, who cooks for me and welcomes me into her home all the time. It is such a labor of love to cook for family and friends, because they’re worth it. When I cook for myself I’m happy enough making the same thing every day: pasta and sautéed veggies, or some variation on the theme. Going to all the trouble of refrying beans is not something I’m going to do for myself. Majabiya thanked me for the food and party, and I thanked her: “Without you, I would have to celebrate alone” was the sentiment I attempted to communicate in Hausa.
Of course in the process of planning and throwing this party I thought of Thanksgivings past. This is my fourth one celebrated outside of the states and I always make it a to-do. It’s the perfect opportunity to share American culture with the rest of the world. I love that it’s not religious, it’s American, and I also love sharing the story of what we’re celebrating. As I tell it, the Amerindians shared their food with and saved the first Europeans to come to America, which was a bad move on their part, as the Europeans later proceeded to kill the Amerindians and steal their land. “What do you do for Thanksgiving?” people ask. We don’t exchange gifts, it’s a time for families to come together and eat lots of good food.
At least that’s how I explain it in my very basic Hausa. But reflecting on the Thanksgivings of my past, they’ve as often been spent with friends rather than family. We have celebrated with my mom’s best friend Nancy (who’s like an aunt) and her family; my godmother and her husband; “just us” (mom, brother, stepdad, me); and last year I spent it with my aunt, uncle, cousins, their friends and a coworker of mine I’d just met a few weeks before while my mom and stepdad were in California with other aunts, uncles and cousins. At least in my family it’s nothing like Tabaski in Niger, where people travel far to their hometowns to celebrate with brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, mothers, fathers. It got me missing my grandma for the second time this week. My family has been without a matriarch for almost half my life. She must have been a unifying force as we (her 5 children and their families) have rarely convened all together since. The first time I missed her was while reading the Jane Austen book. I know my grandma loved her and regret not having read the books while she was alive so we could have discussed them. I also know she’d be able to relate to my Thanksgiving and other cooking endeavors.
I will never take a home-cooked meal for granted again-it takes a lot to plan and execute a meal that doesn’t involve instant- or microwaveable- anything. My godmother sent me cookbooks from the 70’s and 80’s and the complicated recipes and obscure ingredients struck me as incongruous with the (too?) fast-paced jam-packed ‘scheduled’ lives Americans lead these days. ‘Scheduling’ isn’t a prominent part of life here in Niger, and while it’s taking some getting used to, I like it. Family and friends are important in a matter-of-fact, everyday kind of way. I’m learning the protocols of greeting and visiting (and fucking it up a lot in the process). I’m grateful for the friends who have welcomed me into their homes so quickly, so easily. Even though it was exhausting, I see many such feasts for my friends in my future.
A week later the Zinder volunteers convened at the hostel to celebrate Thanksgiving together. We had 3 ducks, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, squash bread, deviled eggs, squash casserole, green bean casserole, salad, and fruit salad, which I made. Bananas, oranges, apples, a papaya and shredded coconut. Mmmboy. We had wine, bissap, and mojitos. It was a good convivial time.
I’m grateful for anyone who has ever cooked for me, for current friends who are open and patient and generous to me, and friends and family back home whose letters and packages are so thoughtful and always welcome. Happy Thanksgiving! Barka da salla!
Yesterday I invited about a dozen friends (Majabiya and her family and neighbors) over to my house for a Thanksgiving feast. I had obsessed over the menu for weeks, my criteria being: what could I cheaply make a lot of, fairly ‘easily’ that would be different and interesting to Nigeriens? Easy: Mexican food! Consulting the Peace Corps Niger cookbook, I made refried beans, which I cooked in two 2-hour batches the night before, saved the been goop drain-off, then refried them the day of in aforementioned bean goop and oil and onions (which I could have used more of) and added taco sauce mix my mom had sent me from the states. Rice with another taco sauce packet, flour tortillas and salsa (tomatoes, onions, salt, lime juice) rounded out the meal. Luckily an army of children had come over around noon to help sweep my concession, cook (and burn) the rice, wash dishes and ride my bike.
I showed them how to put the tacos together and I’m proud to say that it was a hit: “When are you going to teach us how to make this?” which I think means they liked it. They particularly liked the beans and tortillas, taking all the leftovers, presumably to show and share with family members at home. It was over and done with in less than 2 hours-I told them to come over at 5pm and they were all gone by 6:30. I had been cooking like a fiend for 4x that amount of time, but I loved doing it, especially for Majabiya, who cooks for me and welcomes me into her home all the time. It is such a labor of love to cook for family and friends, because they’re worth it. When I cook for myself I’m happy enough making the same thing every day: pasta and sautéed veggies, or some variation on the theme. Going to all the trouble of refrying beans is not something I’m going to do for myself. Majabiya thanked me for the food and party, and I thanked her: “Without you, I would have to celebrate alone” was the sentiment I attempted to communicate in Hausa.
Of course in the process of planning and throwing this party I thought of Thanksgivings past. This is my fourth one celebrated outside of the states and I always make it a to-do. It’s the perfect opportunity to share American culture with the rest of the world. I love that it’s not religious, it’s American, and I also love sharing the story of what we’re celebrating. As I tell it, the Amerindians shared their food with and saved the first Europeans to come to America, which was a bad move on their part, as the Europeans later proceeded to kill the Amerindians and steal their land. “What do you do for Thanksgiving?” people ask. We don’t exchange gifts, it’s a time for families to come together and eat lots of good food.
At least that’s how I explain it in my very basic Hausa. But reflecting on the Thanksgivings of my past, they’ve as often been spent with friends rather than family. We have celebrated with my mom’s best friend Nancy (who’s like an aunt) and her family; my godmother and her husband; “just us” (mom, brother, stepdad, me); and last year I spent it with my aunt, uncle, cousins, their friends and a coworker of mine I’d just met a few weeks before while my mom and stepdad were in California with other aunts, uncles and cousins. At least in my family it’s nothing like Tabaski in Niger, where people travel far to their hometowns to celebrate with brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, mothers, fathers. It got me missing my grandma for the second time this week. My family has been without a matriarch for almost half my life. She must have been a unifying force as we (her 5 children and their families) have rarely convened all together since. The first time I missed her was while reading the Jane Austen book. I know my grandma loved her and regret not having read the books while she was alive so we could have discussed them. I also know she’d be able to relate to my Thanksgiving and other cooking endeavors.
I will never take a home-cooked meal for granted again-it takes a lot to plan and execute a meal that doesn’t involve instant- or microwaveable- anything. My godmother sent me cookbooks from the 70’s and 80’s and the complicated recipes and obscure ingredients struck me as incongruous with the (too?) fast-paced jam-packed ‘scheduled’ lives Americans lead these days. ‘Scheduling’ isn’t a prominent part of life here in Niger, and while it’s taking some getting used to, I like it. Family and friends are important in a matter-of-fact, everyday kind of way. I’m learning the protocols of greeting and visiting (and fucking it up a lot in the process). I’m grateful for the friends who have welcomed me into their homes so quickly, so easily. Even though it was exhausting, I see many such feasts for my friends in my future.
A week later the Zinder volunteers convened at the hostel to celebrate Thanksgiving together. We had 3 ducks, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, squash bread, deviled eggs, squash casserole, green bean casserole, salad, and fruit salad, which I made. Bananas, oranges, apples, a papaya and shredded coconut. Mmmboy. We had wine, bissap, and mojitos. It was a good convivial time.
I’m grateful for anyone who has ever cooked for me, for current friends who are open and patient and generous to me, and friends and family back home whose letters and packages are so thoughtful and always welcome. Happy Thanksgiving! Barka da salla!
November 22 - Being the True Account of a Most Marvelous Day
Today began like any other-rushing off to the middle/high school where I observed two of Zabeiru’s English classes. The students were some of the most cordial I’ve encountered and Zabeiru’s very excited about both of my projects on the horizon (English Club and a teacher training). Hurrying off to hopefully meet Abdou-Zakari I nearly trod on a brilliantly hued green chameleon, the first I’ve seen since being here in Niger! I know Nigeriens are scared of them but I took the meeting as an auspicious omen. I watched him for a few minutes before continuing on my way. Later all my friends laughed as I showed them how the chameleon walked and made up the ‘hawenya rawa’ (‘chameleon dance’).
Next stop: the Inspection, where the bitches had the nerve to berate me for not having visited any of them for Tabaski. I thought holidays were supposed to be relaxed and relaxing affairs with friends and family! As it was I stressed myself out and got myself sick trying to get everywhere I had promised. Now here were a bunch of harpies saying it would have been nice/good/better/proper of me to go to the Inspector’s house and all their houses too. Whatever-living in Niger is a permanent lesson in not taking things personally.
Well Abdou-Zakari wasn’t around and neither was the mayor, whom I’d decided to visit since I was out and about in the town at 11am. Things were looking grim again-it was hot and kids were screaming ‘Anasara!’ as old ladies were asking where my medicine was for them. I was walking home down streets I’d never been down before, a whole new section of ‘my’ town that I enjoyed meandering through in the generally correct direction of my house. Then I saw a goat and her tiny baby. A double take and I saw that the baby was all wet and getting placenta licked off of it by its mom. I had happened upon a 2-minute old baby goat! Indeed as I stopped to watch I noticed a girl headed into the nearest doorway to inform the owners of the birth, and soon the new arrival had a crowd around it. I was entranced, and kept exclaiming: “Barka da haihuwa! Sannu da kokari!” (‘Congratulations on the birth! Good effort!’) to the mom, and “Sannu da zuwa cikin duniya!” (‘Welcome in the world!’) to the baby. A girl was using a stick to wipe the placenta off the baby’s face, as it tried to wobble to its feet and toppled over, legs sprawled and shaking with every effort. Fascinating! Then what to our wondering eyes should appear but something slimy sticking out of momma’s butt: another one! I watched as she kicked some dirt, lay down and a second baby slid out! She bit off the umbilical cord and began licking (and eating) the placenta off noticeably smaller baby #2. ‘Life is pretty nasty, but amazing’ I thought, as the babies sneezed to clear their noses and I remembered my cousin Chad sticking his fingers up a newborn calf’s nose after my Uncle Mark had delivered it by Cesarean section, the only comparable experience I had to this miracle. Enchanted, I promised I’d be back to check on the babies. Two days later I came with camera and soap in hand (a traditional naming ceremony gift) and asked what their names were. The people thought I was crazy, as they don’t usually name their animals, but since they were both boys they said the baby goats’ names were Hassan and Ousseini, (what all twins are named in Niger).
I made my way back to familiar territory, where I sat with my fada for about an hour, and I started to learn the Arabic alphabet. After resting and reading, I headed back to the mayor’s office, via the fada to pick up my friend Souleymane and take him to visit the new babies! Then to the mayor’s, where after a long wait she said she’d introduce me on Wednesday to the leader of a Women’s Group, and then to Majabiya’s house, where it goes without saying that delicious food was eaten.
Then to my fada, where ‘stopping and saying hey’ on my way to bed turned into an hour of laughing about djinns, (who appear in the form of ‘waddas’, or dwarfs, or very tall people at 1am, but when am I ever out at that hour here?), mice (who are Issa’s friends, even though they bite him and he poisons them, which is taking a lot of liberties with the term ‘friend,’ I think), Project Runway (somehow I’ve got to arrange a screening of that for Sani the tailor) and Issa’s upcoming race for City Council (I can’t support him publicly, of course, but in my heart he’s my candidate, but if he tells anyone I’ll beat him) and Issa’s current work drama which plays like a telenovela (and who knows how much of it is true): he has the same girlfriend as the Human Resources dude at the Inspection, so he’s being exiled to a school in the bush 200 km away (he’s an Arabic teacher). No potable water, electricity or cell phone reception, the horror! First I suggested he send the man chocolate (this before I knew about the girlfriend bit). “CORRUPTION!” they all cried, asking me if I was advocating for Issa to bribe the guy. I laughed. “Chocolate isn’t money!” Which is one of those great true-but-not-exactly turns of phrase (chocolate isn’t money, but it could still be a bribe). When I discovered “love” (or at least one of the fairer sex) was involved in this tale, I encouraged Issa to challenge his foe to a duel instead. It only makes sense!
To a somewhat sour start, I couldn’t have crammed more treasured moments and laughs into a single day if I had tried. What a splendid way to start Thanksgiving Week!
Next stop: the Inspection, where the bitches had the nerve to berate me for not having visited any of them for Tabaski. I thought holidays were supposed to be relaxed and relaxing affairs with friends and family! As it was I stressed myself out and got myself sick trying to get everywhere I had promised. Now here were a bunch of harpies saying it would have been nice/good/better/proper of me to go to the Inspector’s house and all their houses too. Whatever-living in Niger is a permanent lesson in not taking things personally.
Well Abdou-Zakari wasn’t around and neither was the mayor, whom I’d decided to visit since I was out and about in the town at 11am. Things were looking grim again-it was hot and kids were screaming ‘Anasara!’ as old ladies were asking where my medicine was for them. I was walking home down streets I’d never been down before, a whole new section of ‘my’ town that I enjoyed meandering through in the generally correct direction of my house. Then I saw a goat and her tiny baby. A double take and I saw that the baby was all wet and getting placenta licked off of it by its mom. I had happened upon a 2-minute old baby goat! Indeed as I stopped to watch I noticed a girl headed into the nearest doorway to inform the owners of the birth, and soon the new arrival had a crowd around it. I was entranced, and kept exclaiming: “Barka da haihuwa! Sannu da kokari!” (‘Congratulations on the birth! Good effort!’) to the mom, and “Sannu da zuwa cikin duniya!” (‘Welcome in the world!’) to the baby. A girl was using a stick to wipe the placenta off the baby’s face, as it tried to wobble to its feet and toppled over, legs sprawled and shaking with every effort. Fascinating! Then what to our wondering eyes should appear but something slimy sticking out of momma’s butt: another one! I watched as she kicked some dirt, lay down and a second baby slid out! She bit off the umbilical cord and began licking (and eating) the placenta off noticeably smaller baby #2. ‘Life is pretty nasty, but amazing’ I thought, as the babies sneezed to clear their noses and I remembered my cousin Chad sticking his fingers up a newborn calf’s nose after my Uncle Mark had delivered it by Cesarean section, the only comparable experience I had to this miracle. Enchanted, I promised I’d be back to check on the babies. Two days later I came with camera and soap in hand (a traditional naming ceremony gift) and asked what their names were. The people thought I was crazy, as they don’t usually name their animals, but since they were both boys they said the baby goats’ names were Hassan and Ousseini, (what all twins are named in Niger).
I made my way back to familiar territory, where I sat with my fada for about an hour, and I started to learn the Arabic alphabet. After resting and reading, I headed back to the mayor’s office, via the fada to pick up my friend Souleymane and take him to visit the new babies! Then to the mayor’s, where after a long wait she said she’d introduce me on Wednesday to the leader of a Women’s Group, and then to Majabiya’s house, where it goes without saying that delicious food was eaten.
Then to my fada, where ‘stopping and saying hey’ on my way to bed turned into an hour of laughing about djinns, (who appear in the form of ‘waddas’, or dwarfs, or very tall people at 1am, but when am I ever out at that hour here?), mice (who are Issa’s friends, even though they bite him and he poisons them, which is taking a lot of liberties with the term ‘friend,’ I think), Project Runway (somehow I’ve got to arrange a screening of that for Sani the tailor) and Issa’s upcoming race for City Council (I can’t support him publicly, of course, but in my heart he’s my candidate, but if he tells anyone I’ll beat him) and Issa’s current work drama which plays like a telenovela (and who knows how much of it is true): he has the same girlfriend as the Human Resources dude at the Inspection, so he’s being exiled to a school in the bush 200 km away (he’s an Arabic teacher). No potable water, electricity or cell phone reception, the horror! First I suggested he send the man chocolate (this before I knew about the girlfriend bit). “CORRUPTION!” they all cried, asking me if I was advocating for Issa to bribe the guy. I laughed. “Chocolate isn’t money!” Which is one of those great true-but-not-exactly turns of phrase (chocolate isn’t money, but it could still be a bribe). When I discovered “love” (or at least one of the fairer sex) was involved in this tale, I encouraged Issa to challenge his foe to a duel instead. It only makes sense!
To a somewhat sour start, I couldn’t have crammed more treasured moments and laughs into a single day if I had tried. What a splendid way to start Thanksgiving Week!
Conversations with Majabiya
Watching some dumb Nicolas Cage movie I had the following conversation in Hausa with Majabiya, in which I try to explain aliens:
MAJ: Who are they?
ME: Uh, they’re from the stars.
MAJ: There are people in the stars?
ME: Well, some people think, just like we have a world and people, there are worlds and people out there, in the stars.
MAJ: Oh.
ME: But, there are people who think ‘one Allah, one world, that’s it.’ So, I don’t know. A lot of movies are about people from the stars.
MAJ: Ok.
On Vegetarians, as informed by Michael Pollen’s Omnivore’s Dilemma:
ME: I have 3 friends here who don’t eat meat. What did they do during Tabaski?
MAJ: Oh right! (A beat, then: ) Why don’t they eat meat?
ME: Uh, well, in America, it’s not like here, where each family has one or two or three goats or cows. In America, one person can have lots of cows-thousands! And when there are a lot, they don’t have health. They give them medicine all the time.
MAJ: They don’t eat meat because the animals aren’t healthy like animals here.
ME: …Yeah sure. Also, there are people who love animals, so they don’t want to eat them. I don’t understand, because meat is so delicious!
MAJ: Does the meat taste better here or in America?
ME: I don’t know, because we don’t eat sheep much in America. Mostly cows, and chicken, and pork! (end of discussion)
While she walked me part of the way home one particularly moonlit night:
ME: The moon is beautiful tonight.
MAJ: Do you have a moon in the US?
ME: (scoffs) Yes! Of course! One world!
MAJ: (laughs) One world, different people.
ME: Exactly!
MAJ: Who are they?
ME: Uh, they’re from the stars.
MAJ: There are people in the stars?
ME: Well, some people think, just like we have a world and people, there are worlds and people out there, in the stars.
MAJ: Oh.
ME: But, there are people who think ‘one Allah, one world, that’s it.’ So, I don’t know. A lot of movies are about people from the stars.
MAJ: Ok.
On Vegetarians, as informed by Michael Pollen’s Omnivore’s Dilemma:
ME: I have 3 friends here who don’t eat meat. What did they do during Tabaski?
MAJ: Oh right! (A beat, then: ) Why don’t they eat meat?
ME: Uh, well, in America, it’s not like here, where each family has one or two or three goats or cows. In America, one person can have lots of cows-thousands! And when there are a lot, they don’t have health. They give them medicine all the time.
MAJ: They don’t eat meat because the animals aren’t healthy like animals here.
ME: …Yeah sure. Also, there are people who love animals, so they don’t want to eat them. I don’t understand, because meat is so delicious!
MAJ: Does the meat taste better here or in America?
ME: I don’t know, because we don’t eat sheep much in America. Mostly cows, and chicken, and pork! (end of discussion)
While she walked me part of the way home one particularly moonlit night:
ME: The moon is beautiful tonight.
MAJ: Do you have a moon in the US?
ME: (scoffs) Yes! Of course! One world!
MAJ: (laughs) One world, different people.
ME: Exactly!
Monday, December 06, 2010
November at Post, Part the Second
Because so much happened this month, and shorter posts, like smaller bites, are easier to digest?
November 17
Tabaski has been more or less what I expected-stress, awkward moments, kids clamoring, screaming in my face for candy, a moment I almost almost wanted to start to cry when I was being ordered to take a picture of the kids because the last volunteer always took pictures of them. But when frustration is about to bubble over like that, I know I need to step back, rest and/or eat, and consider how lucky I am and how much I have. If I were in France or America right now I would certainly not be so effortlessly welcomed into people’s homes, meals and celebrations. And as I’ve been running around making promises to everyone and then trying to keep them and stressing out about it all, I think: ‘Really, what a wonderful, if still annoying and aggravating problem to have-too many friends and invitations.’ Abdou Zekeiou peed on me today, the first such christening since I’ve been in Niger. Really I’m shocked it hadn’t happened sooner. I watched Majabiya and Fatila and Farida braid intestines. I ate liver and other organs. I looked good. All in a day’s work, right?
Today threw into sharp relief a phenomenon I’ve been living here. 2 fadas, on 1 road, where I play 2 roles: at Majabiya’s I’m one of the women, which yes I am grateful for! They’ll be my in, helpful and insightful, my much appreciated window into women’s realities here. I’m pretty sure I’ll never drink that third cup of tea with Solo, Balla (pronounced ‘Blah’) and Twalé (the guys). But then at Sani’s I’m one of the guys: I eat with them, drink tea with them, chat with them about marriage, etc., and I haven’t even met most of the women in their lives (I did meet Issa and Souleymane’s older sister today). I love them-what I originally characterized as the ‘creepy’ fada has become my favorite group of friends so far, where I feel most comfortable and most welcomed (a commentary on my true creeper nature perhaps?). It’s just so interesting how different my experiences are in spending time in the two settings, so near each other.
November 18
Day 2 of the salla. I ate head mead. Twice. ‘Akwai dadi!’ (‘It’s delicious!’) I went to Hamissou’s house and saw Paddy: is it so wrong if I was just a little disappointed he hadn’t yet been served up to some Nigerians? I held a 6 day old baby (the naming ceremony is tomorrow). I saw a deformed girl (“her mother gave birth to her like that/she came out that way”). I talked about how men here like to marry girls 10 years their junior. I ragged on the French. I ate more than enough food, and didn’t see everyone but made a good showing. I’m trying (not always successfully) not to stress about pleasing everyone and running out of money (I’ve got 4 milles, ≈$8 to throw a Thanksgiving party and not starve over the next 2 weeks). I’m reminded of Irene’s mantra: “It all works out when you let it.”
November 21
Today was gloriously incongruent: I spent it resting and reading a book about Jane Austen, imagining carriage rides through the English countryside to stately manors and townhouses. I finally left my house shortly before 4pm to watch traditional Nigerien wrestling, which was exciting and sexy (ripped-as-hell wrestlers without shirts? Hell YES!). Hopefully I’m ready for the week.
November 27
Did I forget to mention that an old man gave me 50 F CFA yesterday for my dowry? “I thought I’d at least be worth a mille!” I said. (1000 F CFA≈$2) I bought some kossai (fried beans) which I gave to Hamissou and ‘Mistah’ with my ‘dowry.’ Today I made ‘yakua’ (‘hibiscus’) sauce that turned out very edible which I served with rice to my neighbors, Amadou-Mussa, Bashir, the friendly old smiler (I don’t know his name!), etc. It was nice and overdue, and I can see it becoming a tradition-every so often cooking for the guys. I really like it, cooking for people. Next up is fada Sani. I don’t know if I’m up for another Mexican feast quite yet though. Soon. Today we talked about mermaids, and debated if they existed or not, because if djinns exist…there’s a mermaid named ‘Mami Wata’ they all know about, and whom I had them draw for me. They were divided on whether or not she had arms. We also discussed marriage, as Moutare and Issa aren’t married yet but are looking, and a group of young girls came to pick up some gum to give out to their friends to invite them to the wedding in a week.
They keep asking me how long I’ll be here, and conjecturing that I’ll stay for years and years. I know I just got here, and I’ve got to get through these 2 years before the next step can be considered and determined, but this place is pretty special—who knows but Allah? Never say never. The fact is I have been immensely enjoying myself so far, even as I stress about navigating social obligations and protocols. It’s ridiculous how these guys compare to the people I met in L’Isle sur la Sorgue-there’s no comparison. Niger may be the poorest country in the world, but they have a different kind of wealth—community, family, caring. People still give a shit about each other here.
November 17
Tabaski has been more or less what I expected-stress, awkward moments, kids clamoring, screaming in my face for candy, a moment I almost almost wanted to start to cry when I was being ordered to take a picture of the kids because the last volunteer always took pictures of them. But when frustration is about to bubble over like that, I know I need to step back, rest and/or eat, and consider how lucky I am and how much I have. If I were in France or America right now I would certainly not be so effortlessly welcomed into people’s homes, meals and celebrations. And as I’ve been running around making promises to everyone and then trying to keep them and stressing out about it all, I think: ‘Really, what a wonderful, if still annoying and aggravating problem to have-too many friends and invitations.’ Abdou Zekeiou peed on me today, the first such christening since I’ve been in Niger. Really I’m shocked it hadn’t happened sooner. I watched Majabiya and Fatila and Farida braid intestines. I ate liver and other organs. I looked good. All in a day’s work, right?
Today threw into sharp relief a phenomenon I’ve been living here. 2 fadas, on 1 road, where I play 2 roles: at Majabiya’s I’m one of the women, which yes I am grateful for! They’ll be my in, helpful and insightful, my much appreciated window into women’s realities here. I’m pretty sure I’ll never drink that third cup of tea with Solo, Balla (pronounced ‘Blah’) and Twalé (the guys). But then at Sani’s I’m one of the guys: I eat with them, drink tea with them, chat with them about marriage, etc., and I haven’t even met most of the women in their lives (I did meet Issa and Souleymane’s older sister today). I love them-what I originally characterized as the ‘creepy’ fada has become my favorite group of friends so far, where I feel most comfortable and most welcomed (a commentary on my true creeper nature perhaps?). It’s just so interesting how different my experiences are in spending time in the two settings, so near each other.
November 18
Day 2 of the salla. I ate head mead. Twice. ‘Akwai dadi!’ (‘It’s delicious!’) I went to Hamissou’s house and saw Paddy: is it so wrong if I was just a little disappointed he hadn’t yet been served up to some Nigerians? I held a 6 day old baby (the naming ceremony is tomorrow). I saw a deformed girl (“her mother gave birth to her like that/she came out that way”). I talked about how men here like to marry girls 10 years their junior. I ragged on the French. I ate more than enough food, and didn’t see everyone but made a good showing. I’m trying (not always successfully) not to stress about pleasing everyone and running out of money (I’ve got 4 milles, ≈$8 to throw a Thanksgiving party and not starve over the next 2 weeks). I’m reminded of Irene’s mantra: “It all works out when you let it.”
November 21
Today was gloriously incongruent: I spent it resting and reading a book about Jane Austen, imagining carriage rides through the English countryside to stately manors and townhouses. I finally left my house shortly before 4pm to watch traditional Nigerien wrestling, which was exciting and sexy (ripped-as-hell wrestlers without shirts? Hell YES!). Hopefully I’m ready for the week.
November 27
Did I forget to mention that an old man gave me 50 F CFA yesterday for my dowry? “I thought I’d at least be worth a mille!” I said. (1000 F CFA≈$2) I bought some kossai (fried beans) which I gave to Hamissou and ‘Mistah’ with my ‘dowry.’ Today I made ‘yakua’ (‘hibiscus’) sauce that turned out very edible which I served with rice to my neighbors, Amadou-Mussa, Bashir, the friendly old smiler (I don’t know his name!), etc. It was nice and overdue, and I can see it becoming a tradition-every so often cooking for the guys. I really like it, cooking for people. Next up is fada Sani. I don’t know if I’m up for another Mexican feast quite yet though. Soon. Today we talked about mermaids, and debated if they existed or not, because if djinns exist…there’s a mermaid named ‘Mami Wata’ they all know about, and whom I had them draw for me. They were divided on whether or not she had arms. We also discussed marriage, as Moutare and Issa aren’t married yet but are looking, and a group of young girls came to pick up some gum to give out to their friends to invite them to the wedding in a week.
They keep asking me how long I’ll be here, and conjecturing that I’ll stay for years and years. I know I just got here, and I’ve got to get through these 2 years before the next step can be considered and determined, but this place is pretty special—who knows but Allah? Never say never. The fact is I have been immensely enjoying myself so far, even as I stress about navigating social obligations and protocols. It’s ridiculous how these guys compare to the people I met in L’Isle sur la Sorgue-there’s no comparison. Niger may be the poorest country in the world, but they have a different kind of wealth—community, family, caring. People still give a shit about each other here.
November at Post
November 5
I left to Zinder for 5 days and the babies I know (Azizo and Abdou-Zekeiou) doubled in size in that time!
I found myself being so moved yesterday reading Jean-Paul Sartre in Abdullah’s Terminale class; yes, writers have a responsibility to their era, their society, to move when they are called to, to speak up and out, against the wicked, for the weak, to think about our common, immediate future, but not obsess about our own legacies. Don’t concern yourself with your work’s staying power, its universality; make sure it matters, here and now. That’s all. ‘Mille neuf cents ooh la la’ –Abdullah’s way of saying 1900-something. I like it.
Yesterday I was labeled a “freethinker” by Fadji, which is her ‘polite’ way of saying ‘infidel.’ “But she believes in a God” Abdullah stuck up for me, without knowing me (or that) for sure. It was an interesting exchange-a reminder that I should always be on my guard, though I did admit that wine tastes good.
For my birthday I took cookies and crackers, homemade cupcakes, salad fixin’s and a movie (Terminator 4 and Transformers 2, among other things), baby pictures of myself (courtesy of my godmother Irene), and music to my friend Majabiya’s house. Sometimes if you want a party you’ve got to throw it yourself!
November 10
Soaking my poor little cracked footsies while drinking some wine(!) and reading a New Yorker article about Steve Carell: I can’t think of a more fabulous way to celebrate the exit stage left of Paddy! I refuse to feel anything but joy in this moment-I’ll sleep outside! I’ll get a karhi (clay jar in which to keep cold water), and a mat, and landscape, and garden, and have people over! I’m elated right now.
At least one thing is crystallizing for me so far, career-wise: economics is hella important. The economics of development is what, according to Ibrahim, I should study next. He’s got a great point. Economics is everything, the confluence of all other fields, cultures, human relations; it’s the language in which we function. But reading the New Yorker article about lithium in Bolivia, and living here in Niger, I begin to question my desire to work for the Foreign Service. Would everything about it that I want be worth giving up my autonomy? How hard would it be to always be pushing and working within the confines of official US policy, as opposed to saying and acting however I felt? Politics is complicated. But working for the ‘right’ and ‘good’ is exhausting and riddled with its own contradictions and difficulties, I’m finding out.
November 13
My 18 year old friend Souleymane pointed to a cheesy postcard picture of Haystack Rock (famous Oregon Coast landmark) with a flock of birds flying up and asked if they were pigs. WHAT?!? Living in a 99.5% Muslim country will do that to you, I guess. I drew a cute little picture of a pig and showed it to him. I told them all (the guys in my ‘fada’ or ‘loose group of guys who hang out on the corner and drink tea’) how delicious pork is and how I feel bad for them that they have to miss out, but that’s religion. Sani or someone said something and Souleymane looked at me wide-eyed and asked: “Suna chin tutu?!?” (“They eat shit?!?”) For some reason this was the funniest thing I’d heard in awhile. If I accomplish nothing else over the next 2 years, I’ll at least have taught an 18 year old what a pig looks like. These are the moments I live for!
November 16
These have been 2 crazy days. Yesterday I got a fish as a present from Haoua, saw a shirt that said ‘Harley Davidson’ on the front and ‘Harry Potter’ on the back, and watched satellite TV with some pretty progressive NGO dudes. Then I hit my finger with my frying pan I was using as a hammer. Today I went for a great run, hung out at Majabiya’s, where I didn’t get henna done but where I did take a nap after watching her divide cookie crumbs into little plastic ‘bags’ (that she made by cutting small bags into 1/4s and tying them) that she will sell for 5 F CFA (≈1 cent). Or will all just be eaten by Zeinabou. COOKIE CRUMBS?!? Are you kidding me? Then I met up with Abdullah who took me to the bar in town (guess my rep was already shot the second I didn’t cover my head and wore pants, but still), where I had a Coke, thank you. We discussed religion, politics, the UN, life in my town; he’s legit. We ate dinner at his house and ‘hung out’ at a ‘party’ some of the high school students had invited him to. We sat off to the side, being the token adults while a handful of students wandered in and out, greeting us, and music was sometimes played. The least happenin’ party ever: even by Nigerien standards it was weak sauce.
So tomorrow’s the big ‘salla’ (‘holiday’: Tabaski). I’m keeping my expectations low and will be happy if I can manage to walk around and bump into a significant majority of the people who have invited me to party with them. In any case I’m sure of one thing: that this ridiculousness that is life in Niger, [me-a mess of miscommunications, over-committing, stressing about stupid shit, a complete basketcase of emotions, pissed and awkward one minute, grateful and content the next; life-hours passed in workplaces, plans beginning to be made, a schedule being decided and not adhered to but (at least ½ the time) it all working out when I let it] will continue being as amazing and exasperating as ever!
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