15/10/05

Mom & Pops

Hey there!  How's it going back there in lovely ol' Minnesota?  How's the frost coming along?  Any of that yet?  It's been a while since I've written a letter to you guys - we get to talk every few weeks, which tends to take the wind out of the sails of any letter I might send.  Plus, I've been in a bit of a letter-writing funk recently.  Daily life is becoming hum-drum for me - but if I allow myself to take half a step back, I can see how it might look crazy back home.

Take the past 24+ hours.  Though I haven't done much, I've experienced many things that are typical of life in Niger.  It all began yesterday afternoon, as I was in my village getting ready to come to [the town to the east].  I went to my school director's house to say goodbye, as well as to get a shirt so I could have my tailor (Souleymane, here in [town]) make a copy of it (we are doing this environmental camp in November, he is going to be a teacher at it, and we're getting shirts made to indicate which of the three pre-determined groups we belong to).  He (Alhassane, the school director) accompanied me back to my house and took a look around the concession and said he wanted to get it cleaned up.  I was slightly confused, as he wanted to clear a path to the empty house at the back of the larger concession - I thought maybe one of the Emirou's cousins might be coming back to live in that house, as I know the whole concession once belonged to him.  Contrary to this assumption, Alhassane tells me the reason is because he has "deux femmes".  Thinking I misheard him, I ask, "Really?" and he repeats that he indeed has two wives.  This is of course accepted practice in Islam and Niger, and there are numerous men in [the village] who have two wives - but this revelation comes as a shock.  Not only did I have no idea (OK, the long absences in Niamey during the rainy season were questionable, but still, so must mine be - and you don't see me getting married!), but I had formed this opinion of him, and of school teachers in general, as more educated, and thus more cosmopolitan (i.e. "westernized") - apparently I was wrong!  In addition to being totally contrary to the ideal of monogamy that's been drilled into me since birth, it seems patently unfair that a man can have multiple wives, but not the reverse.  In any case, my jaw dropped at the news and he subsequently dropped like 400 points in my book (plus another 50 points for spite, because from now on, I won't be able to walk about freely in my boxers, as I've gotten used to doing, now that I'll have a real neighbor).

After that, I walked to the road ... as the sun was wending its way to the horizon.  After a few minutes, I got a bush taxi going [east].  Seeing the van approach, I should have known the fates did not have the quick 30-minute pain-free ride in that I often enjoy.  Because, not only was the car full of people (somehow there was a space for me), but the height of the van was doubled by the boxes and sacks full of stuff loaded on top - behind and around which were seated more people, with a guy or two hanging off the ladder near the back (amazing how this barely registered last night - I think I might be hard to rattle when I get back home).

16/10/05

It should, of course, be noted that we are in the middle stretch of Ramadan here, and it seems that more people are observant of the fasting than I initially gave them credit (for on the first day, when I didn't eat anything, not a single other young male was fasting, and many other [village people] were not, either).  It so happened that, as the van got on its way, it was getting ready to strike "me feeri" (literally "mouth opening") - the time of day around sunset when the fast can be broken (apparently 6:45 in my village, 6:27 in Niamey - I have no idea how they figure this stuff).  So, everyone was fidgeting, checking their watches.  Everyone seemed to make water magically appear as it got closer - the woman to my left pulled out a powdered drink mix and added it to the thermos pitcher she had, the man to my right pulled a chilled plastic baggie of water out, either from a pocket or his bag, and bit off the end to drink it down (this sounds like a strange way to drink water, but I do it all the time).  All of a sudden, everyone had something to drink in hand, and was seen gulping it down.

This happened as we were approaching a somewhat larger town on the road that has a Saturday market (that I've yet to go to).  For whatever reason, instead of passing the village, the bush taxi went down the gravel road into the village, and then to the market area.  I thought this strange, as it was evening, near dusk, and not even a market day - it was a Friday.  Then I realized, Aha!  It's Friday - meaning all those sellers that spent all day in [another town]  need to get their good to this village for the market the next day.  So I got to wait that out - which look longer than usual, because, in addition to the fasting, people seem to be more rigorous about observing the daily prayers during Ramadan.  So prayer, then the unloading.  By now, it was pretty well dark.  Finally, we got back on the road, and made it ... about 5 km down the road - when the driver noticed "something" rubbing against the back rear wheel.  So we stopped while he and the "apprentice" (generally a younger guy who sits by the sliding door in the back of the van and collects money, tells the driver when to stop, gets everyone to squeeze together just a bit more, etc.) check it out.  I hop out and sit on the edge of the road, looking up at the bright starlight.  Much to our good fortune, one of the four bush taxis that unloaded things in the ... market with ours, pulls up behind our own bush taxi.  The drivers chat, some money changes hands, and we try to cram as many people as possible into this other bush taxi - all now with the sun completely down.  On this last 15 km or so in to [town], there were no hiccups - though the bush taxi stopped to unload two sets of people and their things within the city limits ... within site of where I wanted to get out - this ate up another 15 minutes, but I didn't really care - I'd rather sit in the bush taxi and get my 500 Fcfa (about $1) worth than walk the extra couple hundred yards - time is not quite so important here.

By now it was after 8 pm, but there was still street food in the market.  I got four "decent lemon"-sized balls of rice with some brown sauce for 100 Fcfa (about 20 cents), then some bread for the morning, and made it to the hostel for an evening's rest.

One thing I forgot - even before I got in the bush taxi, as I was sitting ..., listening to peoples' conversations, two men started talking about the new cellular service they're setting up in these parts.  They talked about how the tower in [a town to the east] was working, though they hadn't fired up the one in [a town to the west].  Now these men are the type that, in any other time, would talk about the rainfall during the rainy season, or how many "bokey", or bundles, of millet they were getting this harvest season.  But here they are, sitting on the side of the road in the middle of the bush in West Africa, literally discussing how many bars would show up on their cell phone at various points along the road.  It was just one of those surreal moments, where you ask yourself, am I here or dreaming? 

Then yesterday - Saturday - I woke up ...

18/10/05

Okay, maybe I'll finish this today then.  So Saturday, I woke up, ate my breakfast (bread with Nigerien peanut butter), then hit the road, heading for Namaro.  We are doing an environmental camp there next month (Inshallah - though rumor is that the Bureau in Niamey scheduled a series of meetings that would prohibit half the team from going to Namaro, so we'll see about that), and I volunteered to go check up on the preparations.  The place we're having the camp at apparently used to be quite the swank little outfit back in the '80s - the government ministers would have retreats and meetings there, as well as party a little bit (a place to take the girlfriend on the weekend, for example).  Now it's become neglected and turned into a bit of a dump - glass broken in windows, opened buildings befouled by man and beast alike, weeds overgrowing everything.  So my goal was to get there and see if they had made any headway in getting things cleaned up since three-plus weeks ago.

I rather easily got a bush taxi to take me towards the ferry, and they rather unceremoniously dumped me on the side of the road when I said I wanted to go to the gendarmes' place.  Seeing dirt road split in three, I asked the apprentice, "So which way do I go?" to which he helpfully replied, "Yeah."  Great.  But I saw a guy leading a sheep on a rope, caught up with him, and found he was going to market - so I had someone to tag along with.  As luck would have it, a bush taxi showed up almost right at the moment I made it to the gendarmes' checkpoint.

With room to spare, I got in - but then the bush taxi went the way I had just come from, and we got back on the paved road to the closest village.  It was here that a bunch of old women rushed at the car, clambering over one another, pushing each other in quickly so they could claim their seat.  In a row that is designed to fit four snugly (knees toughing all the way across), we somehow managed to get seven people in:  two men to my left, a woman on the ledge in front of me, a woman wedged between me and a man sitting to my right, and the apprentice half hanging out the window, half sitting on the other half of this guy's lap to my right.  Ah, West Africa, ain't it great!

By about 8:15, having navigated the pothole-pocked gravel road and gone the remaining 15 or so km, we made it to Namaro, where the market was hardly under way.  Now came the fun part:  how do I find the guy who, three weeks ago when last I talked to him, said he'd be here?  Would he even be here?

The riddle was quickly solved - all I did was walk up to a guy who looked like he knew what was going on, and asked if he knew Yacouba Francis.  Sure enough, he did.  Imagine that in America (my villagers certainly can imagine that - they think they'll get off the plane in New York - always NY, don't know why - and ask "Where's Genghis Khan's house?" and presto! they'll find me) - showing up someplace you've never been, asking for someone who lives there - and them knowing exactly who you're talking about (or else I've never lived in a small place in America before - it might not be that difficult to imagine).  So I followed this kid to the guy, and, since I didn't really remember what Yacouba looked like, I thought maybe it was him - but it wasn't.  Eventually, after this guy, Abdouramahane, finished with the buying of his goat, he led me to Yacouba.  I was a little worried he wouldn't be there, as he splits time between Namaro (he is the site's guardian) and Niamey - and Nigeriens have a habit of telling you they'll show up to something you schedule without the remotest intent of being there (just the same as I would tell you, "Oh no, that shirt looks fine." when in truth, it is atrocious;  we have different values about what sorts of things are okay to tell white lies about - my villagers had absolutely no qualms about telling me how ugly my scraggly facial hair had been when I came back clean-shaven Sunday).

So, we went up to the site, which is on a hill overlooking Namaro, out over the Niger River (it has a pretty nice view, especially when the surrounding area is flush with green).  And after a half-minute walk around, he told me that people were coming up tomorrow to fix things up.  I thought that would be great, as nothing had been done in the past 2 1/2 weeks, and it would be good to get things going on the clean-up - the weeding of the grounds, the sweeping of all the cement, the repair of the thatched roofs over the eating area, the cleaning out of sleeping areas, the erection of walls around the latrine, etc... - with so many things to be done in the next four weeks to prepare.  I then asked him if he'd mind being a guardian on the first day of the camp, the 17th, and he said no problem, he could be here for the first few days, but then he had to go to Niamey on Wednesday.  Red flags went up in my mind when I cross-referenced it with the calendar in my head - the camp was to start on a Thursday, and there wouldn't be a Wednesday at all while 3+ day camp was going on.  I said, "I think the 17th is a Thursday."  He said, "Oh, I thought it was a Monday."  "Of November?"  He paused for a second, then asked, "Wait, the camp is in November?  Ohhh ..."  "Yes, the 17th of November."  Then I thought.  Oh.  My goodness.  It's been 16 days since I've seen this man, 16 days in which absolutely NOTHING was done.  The dirt piles were in their same places in the food area, none of the holes in any of the thatch had been patched, etc... He had thought only 2 days were left - less than 48 hours until the kids, instructors, and PCVs would show up - and he's telling me that everything is going to be taken care of tomorrow.  I let out a sign, let a resigned smile spread across my face, and thought, "Ahh ... Niger."  Nothing here is as easy as it should be.  He must have been relieved, because he just received a 4-week reprieve for getting things done.  I will not be surprised if, in four weeks' time, absolutely nothing else will have been accomplished - I'd bet 500 Fcfa on it.

We looked around a bit, I picked out an area to clear for game-playing, and then we went down to the market.  I bought some mats to make walls for the latrine area, then gave him money to buy stakes for the walls, plus an absurd amount of money to clean the area for games (I tried to work out the math in my head, and it still seemed way too high - but it's Alicia's money, and she said she had more than enough to cover everything, so I paid it [gee, and we wonder about graft in Africa when Western countries are basically giving money away for free - thought I don't think corruption is too big of a problem in Niger;  in any case, I'm getting sidetracked into an irrelevant tangent]).

Afterwards, I walked around the Namaro market by myself for a bit.  One of my favorite things to do in Africa is walk around in the markets, seeing all the colors, sights, smells, etc...  Though most markets all sell pretty much the same stuff, they're all set up a little differently, and have a few different things to offer.  What's available changes with the season.  So in Namaro, with the harvest in full swing, I got to see millet in quantities I'd never seen before.  Some in bags, but most of it in "bokey" or "goley" - bundles - just as if they'd come from the fields that morning.  And almost all of it delivered by donkey or ox card, six to twelve bundles to a cart, each a half meter in diameter.  It's refreshing to think about such a direct connection between field and table - something us urbanites rarely get a glimpse at first hand back in America (And no, I didn't buy any, though I've recently been drinking millet-based drinks, which are pretty good if you add unfiltered water, un-pasteurized milk and/or sugar to them ).

Around eleven, I went to grab a bush taxi - it happened to be the same one I arrived in Namaro in - and, just to amuse myself, I asked when we were leaving.  The man responded with "sohonda" - which literally means "right now" but in practice means "now-ish".  By 12:15, after I had read a good chunk of the book I had thoughtfully brought along, we left, and were on our way, as the bush taxi was well past full.  From there we went to the ferry launch, where I got to wait for another hour, talking with the Hausa butchers - sure, there was a flayed goat carcass hanging a few feet to my right, and a pile of animal pelts being dive-bombed by flies right behind my feed - but hey, at least they had a shade hangar to sit under in the heat of these mini hot-season days.  We had the normal conversations - yes there are goats, sheep, cows, and chickens in America;  sure, if you can get your passport, visa paperwork, and plane ticket money together, you can come visit me - and then, after the 2 pm prayer, and an hour of waiting, the bush taxis came from across the river on the ferry, and I caught one going to [the town east of my village].

Once I got [there], I went to the tailor's and picked up my newest bou-bou (with browns, yellows, tans and white, it's my most "African" to date), then passed one of the [tradesmen] who thankfully had some ice (our fridge, having been broken, fixed, then broken and fixed twice more - is once again broken).

Finally, I was back at the ... hostel.  I was pooped, having been out in the sun all day, and put my ice to good use - first making a warm beer tepid, then making a warm Sprite taste beer-flavored and tepid.

All that was within a 24-hour period, and it really just seemed like an average day's work here, until I thought, my word, I couldn't imagine myself doing any of those things ten months ago!

Anyway so, are y'all getting excited to come?  Now that I have my own plans for going to Senegal nailed down, I'm ready to start thinking about hosting you guys here.  Get those tickets - I'm excited to see you guys again, and show you a little glimpse of what my life here is like.

Oh, and sorry I went on and on - but it's been a while since I've sent a letter, so I thought I'd make this one a doozy.

Anyway, much love to you and all back home ...

Michael Redman