Jessica's Letters from Niger

From the mom

2010-10-18T19:03:00.000-07:00

It is me speaking, the person who published most of these posts, sent to us via mail, and put online to share with a few friends and relatives who cared. It never dawned on me that others might read this blog, which unfolded like a story.

Over the past few years when I have followed Peace Corps volunteers' blogs I began to care about them and always wondered what became of them after they came back to the US. Somebody, somewhere, might like to know what has happened since Jessica returned to the US 10 months ago. I will be brief, and I hope she doesn't mind.

She took a long time to "re-adjust." Readjustment will probably never completely happen, and I think that is a good thing, because this was a transformative experience and it will be part of her for the rest of her life. That is as it should be.

Jessica is in contact with her village on a weekly basis, through the magic of Skype and cell phones. The grain bank has managed its first year without her. The school is thriving, but the doors need to be fixed, and she is able to call the contractor in Konni and a go-between in Niamey. Her village has just survived a very difficult hunger season, and is looking forward to an improved harvest in 2010. She plans to return to Niger within the next year.

Jessica is in graduate school in upstate New York, being challenged in the area of International Nutrition at Cornell University.

If you are reading this, welcome, and thank you for checking in!

Kerry

Sai wata rana- Until another day

2009-12-03T11:59:00.000-08:00

On my last day in Niger, I:

Woke up nervous

Ran along a sandy road (quiet on the way out, traffic on the way back)

Visited the hospital and bid farewell to the women who are still awaiting fistula surgery

Had a close-of-service interview and only cried during it once

Avoided saying goodbye, as a mutual agreement, with my friends on staff at headquarters (we did a lot of: "see you later, maybe even today!" )

Made and ate lunch with a fellow volunteer from my hometown (sifted bugs out of the pasta and could only barely taste them)

Packed a Going-To-Morocco-In-Sun-Faded-Clothes themed wardrobe

Gave three watermelons to the staff at Air Maroc for helping arrange my flight

Washed my grimey blue sweatshirt so whoever sits next to me on the plane isn't uncomfortable

Spoke to my two homes: parents in Oregon, and parents in...am I allowed to say the name of my village now? Maybe not, since I'm officially still a volunteer, until midnight...Anyway, I spoke with Narba, Mariama, Zuera, Suleil, and a few others.

And that brings us, generally, to Now. I have a few more hours before lift off. Thank you for reading, and I'll see some of you soon. Allah shi kiyaye, Allah shi gumma mu da alheri, Allah shi bada hankuri.

Looking Back

2009-11-30T02:45:00.001-08:00

It's been comforting to look back at pictures from my village while I'm preparing to leave Niger. Here are a few recent ones; for old time's sake I think I'll put up some of my all-time-favorites later this week, even if they're repeats.

This is Miniya, Zuera's youngest baby and Rahman's little sister. She and Rahman spent mornings with me while Zuera was out in the fields. Tying a baby on your back is called "goyo", and it is more secure than you might imagine. Plus it gives you full use of both arms.

Here is Ibrahima and his camel. He's in his work clothes here, but I'll try to dig up a shot of him on a day that "ya sha gayye"- got dressed up (Ibrahima is normally very well dressed). He knew that I wanted a picture of him with his camel so one morning he stopped by my house on his way back from the fields. The stuff tied on the camel's back is "harawar wake"- bean vines, which he'll feed to his family's sheep, goats, and cattle.

Camels have such big heads! The woven cover on his face is to prevent him from munching on millet in peoples' fields during the walk out and back from Ibrahima's field.

The Badagishiri bush taxi. This car comes through on Thursdays to take people and their goods to market; I caught it here early one morning as men were loading it with sacks of dried beans. This year was a better year for beans than it was for millet; many families hurried to harvest all of their dried ones to sell right away. They will use the money to buy bags of millet.

The road west to my village at sunset.

The Latest

2009-11-27T06:44:00.000-08:00

Thank you to everyone who's written to make sure I'm okay- I am okay, really. I will be in Niger for one more week before flying to Morocco and, eventually, to Oregon. It's an earlier take-off than I'd had in mind, but given everything that's gone on here recently it is an acceptable compromise. I'll take two weeks in Morocco, why not?

And, because I promised to include more information about "the situation", here goes. To the best of my knowledge: two weeks ago there was an attempted kidnapping of Americans in Tahoua, which is the capital of my region and a few hours north of my home. There have been a series of attempted and/or successful kidnappings of Europeans in and around Niger/Mali over the last year; most (if not all) of these are presumed to be the acts of an Al Quaeda group based in Mali. Because of the proximity and boldness of the Tahoua attempt, and because it appeared to target Americans, Peace Corps withdrew immediately from the region.

And that's why I had to leave my village early. I've spent the last two weeks trying to be useful (or, alternately, sitting in an absolute daze) in Konni, Niamey, and the training site at Hamdallaye, and will tackle my end-of-service paperwork next week before embarking on my last-minute trip to Morocco.

I have managed to talk with my family and friends in my village every day; we all appear to be (mostly) over the huge bummer of my sudden departure and are just happy to be able to hear each other's voices. They're wrapping up the harvest and preparing for the biggest holiday of the year-- Tabaski, which will happen tomorrow. Obviously I won't be able to partake in the festivities with them this time, but I will celebrate here in Niamey with city-Nigerien friends. What will we do? Be thankful for each other, dress up, visit and greet many people, slaughter a sheep, and eat lots and lots of meat for two days. Barka da Salla!

Below are a few pictures from my last days in the village.

Above are Rahido, Alkasum, Idi, and Wan Mano filling a granary with newly-harvested bundles of millet. The average family will eat approximately one bundle's worth of millet a day. This year, in our area, a family is lucky to get 150 bundles out of their fields. After the bundles run out, they will rely on money sent home from sons and husbands on work exodus to purchase bags of millet from the market.

Two days before I left, a truck pulled up at 7:30 in the morning with our twenty-five gorgeous new school desks!! That was so exciting. In this picture you can see Chaibou, the school director, and Isseuf, the man who arranged the construction and delivery of the desks.

Here is the inside of the new classroom, with new desks in place. In this picture are Narba, Balkissa, Rabi, Malim, Chaibou, and Isseuf. Balkissa, Rabi, and Malim are teachers for the youngest students; Chaibou will teach the two oldest grades in this new building.

There are so many more pictures that I wanted to take before leaving. I guess those will have to wait.

Abrupt and Unexpected

2009-11-20T03:39:00.000-08:00

Due to sudden security issues, all Peace Corps volunteers in the Tahoua-Konni region and many volunteers country-wide were permanently removed from their villages earlier this week. I will post more detailed information about this when I can.

For now: we are all safe, together, and increasingly able to address the imposing number of emotional and logistical adjustments that we'll have to make eventually.

I feel fortunate that I was near the end of my service here, and therefore had already started the Goodbye Conversation with many friends. I was lucky, as well, to have almost 3 hours advance warning that a car was coming to get me; I got to pack some things and say goodbye to the hundred or so people who waited with me. Rahman almost made it into my backpack undetected.

Again, I will write more about this when I can. It's a little too soon to try to process it now, especially with an audience. But thanks for checking in.

Grateful

2009-11-11T10:29:00.000-08:00

11/05/09

I went all the way to Tahoua and back. That is a lot of busing around, but it was worth it because I met Isseuf, who is coordinating the manufacture and delivery of twenty five brand new desks for the school!!! A very generous Nigerien-American family in the states, which supports girls' education and women's issues in Niger with great passion and empathy, made a private donation to fund this purchase. You know who you are- THANK YOU.

Tomorrow I'll truck and walk my way back to Foloa, for what may be the last time. I'm not sure if another volunteer will follow me, in which case there'll be more back-and-forth in December, or if I'll have other business that pulls me into the city between now and then. But- I am prepared to go in, be in for a month, and then leave, also for the last time. I've got plenty of work to do while I'm in- finishing the painting of a world map, re-filling of the grain bank, planting a garden with the school kids, and about 2,000 goodbyes... you may hear from me before then, but you might not.

Narba painting the world map with Kathleen

Lots of unknowns right now...

One simple sure thing is: I am grateful for the support, curiosity, compassion, and understanding that so many of you have communicated to me through this blog. My experience here has been richer because it is shared, in many ways, with you. Thank you for caring about me, about my friends and family here, and about Niger. I will see many of you soon-- one wonderful thing to look forward to in the midst of so many upcoming goodbyes.

Forever in my heart...

Faces I've come to love

2009-11-05T05:01:00.000-08:00

Our end-of-service conference is over, and now we're heading back for one last month in our villages. I thought now would be a good time to show you some of the American faces that I've come to love while living here. All of these folks came to Niger together in January 2008, and will be heading home next month. Impossible, but true.

With Krista, a fellow fistula translator who's hoping to extend her service in Kenya, and Jen, who built a giant garden and taught people how to golf. She also made the difficult 2 day trek/walk out to my village TWICE.

This is Laura, a fellow volunteer-trainer who cracks me up and kicks my butt with her "dance workouts". Laura built a well in her village and organized a camp for young girls.

The one and only John, my closest Peace Corps friend and neighbor. John made being here easy. His work included the creation of a grain/fertilizer bank, a goat project, and the maintenance of an enormous tree plantation. He also made me the world's sweetest birthday presents (have you heard of "Backpack Boyfriend"? Yeah, that's right, he made a boyfriend doll for me to carry around in my backpack.)

Kathleen and Justin- two kindred spirits who did some really amazing work up north. They started a farmer's co-op , created a school garden, did a goat project, and made waves in challenging traditional gender roles in Niger. There is nothing these two people can't do. And they're MARRIED! Watch out world.

Meet Alex, a fellow Oregonian who got more work done in compromised circumstances than any of the rest of us who had it easy. A sample of his work: gardens, maps, health care for a girl with polio, tree planting, and just generally being resilient and creative. We went to high school AND college together but didn't know it. Alex also made it out to visit and wowed us all with his already-advanced Hausa (he learned Zarma in training).

With Kathleen and Laura. Don't we look clean?

A lot of catching up to do

2009-10-30T02:14:00.000-07:00

I'm in Niamey to start the bureaucratic crunch that signifies the imminent end of my Peace Corps service in December, and I've been thinking about the work I've done here. We're supposed to find ways to "quantify our experience" that will help us "sell ourselves" to the work force in the US. I will do it, for the sake of my supervisors here who need the numbers, but dammit, I am resisting in my heart.

I do like to share with YOU guys what I do, because you don't ask for Anticipated Outcomes and Number of Participants and Percentage of Participants Who Benefitted and blahhhhhhhhh. Since it has been awhile since I filled you in---

The classroom! Green doors! I'll get more pictures on here, with kids, because the kids are the whole point, asap.

School has started, at last, even though a lot of the kids are still spending their days in the fields to bring in the last of the harvest. We haven't opened the new classroom yet, for two reasons- one is that the headmaster is insisting that he arrange a ceremony to appreciate all of the donors (that's YOU!), and he hasn't been able to find a date that all of the officials in the region can attend. (And I really hope that he never does, because I don't want a ceremony. But I'll do it, for him, because he says it's important. "This is Niger," he said, "and in Niger we have ceremonies".) So, okay. The second reason is that I've asked the contractor to return and do some more work on the doors, which were installed funkily and need some work. That should be cleared up by the time I get back next week!

Here is Habi, holding her daughter Samsiya, on the day they were released from the hospital in Illela. Habi's husband Shaibou is sitting on the left.

You know how it can be hard to write about something that you really care about? I feel that way right now but I'm still gonna get this out-- Word has been out for a long time in my village that I am available to connect mothers of severely malnourished babies with treatment centers in our region. You guys have heard about that work from the blog- you know about Habi and Samsiya, and the others. In the last couple of months, mothers started to bring their babies to me, just to look and see if I could tell if they were okay. Other mothers who I'd visit and advise to seek help were likewise much quicker to go get it- just a couple of weeks ago I ran into one such woman, Jemila, on her way to a feeding center south of us Tajae- she told me she'd been going weekly ever since I encouraged her to take her son there. I didn't even know she'd started going, and when I saw her son I didn't recognize the kid! That was really cool.

I started to realize that maybe, somehow, the stigma about severe, life-threatening malnutrition ("tamowa" in Hausa) is starting to change in my village. Instead of feeling intense shame and staying home, mothers seem to be taking action and getting themselves and their babies to the clinics. And it seems to help if someone is there to give them an extra push, encouragement, and basic information about what they can expect. I have filled that role for some women, and it's been, I think I can say, the most important thing I have done in my time in Niger.

Last month I talked with several women's leaders in the village to figure out a way to transfer the responsibilities that I've taken on to others, so that there is always someone to provide that supportive role to mothers. Narba and Ana, the main women's leaders, presented a plan to the larger community- about 200 women- and picked four women from the village (two from the east side and two from the west- they're so on it) to act as what I refer to in my head as The Baby Patrol.

The women- A'I Mano, Haja Kalau, Rabi Masali, and Salamu Anza- have the following responsibilities: to know what severe malnutrition looks like, to be on the lookout for it in their neighborhoods, to be available to mothers who want to show their babies to someone in private, to provide accurate information about the local services available for tamowa, and to accompany women to local clinics to get services and/or referrals from the nurses there. I met with the Baby Patrollers last week to go over some basic information, and arranged for a nurse from a neighboring village to come down and give them a training about how to recognize severe malnutrition. I think he'll come in November...

So, that's what I've been up to. That and trying to get ready to come home to my other home, in Oregon. It's going to happen soon, and as much as I love home, leaving Niger is going to SUCK. But this post is long enough already, so I'll save that conversation for later. Or for never, or for Just in My Head.

Shaibou and Habi, each with Samsiya

More Dancing

2009-10-25T08:26:00.000-07:00

The dancers: Sadiya is in the orange shirt, Saratou the red scarf, Oweli in yellow, Mumuna, Tahirou, Rifaidi, Alhassan, Sofiani, Kadir, and Rabiatou are all in the background. Dela's sitting up front with Miniah on her lap. When the camera swings around, you see Mariama, Amu, and Salmata, and then Lahadi, sifting through some leaves that she'll use to make sauce.

Dance party at Lahadi's house

2009-10-24T09:58:00.000-07:00

Lahadi's son, Issa, came home in September from work exodus in Nigeria and brought a STEREO. We listened to tapes and watched the kids dance until the batteries ran out. Lahadi is the woman in the green shirt; I took a bunch of videos here and managed to post the one that doesn't have much dancing but does have a kid crying. Go figure! I'll try to get another one up later!

Moms and kids

2009-10-20T10:25:00.000-07:00

Here are some photos of the people I see the most, mothers and children.

Below is a video taken while walking into Narba's compound one morning. It shows a typical scene of kids hanging out and women working.

Jen and golf

2009-10-14T07:01:00.000-07:00

Jen is a licensed veterinarian working in eastern Niger. She has multiple serious projects going on, including a community garden. Midway through her Peace Corps service she inherited her grandpa's golf clubs and recently, just for fun, she introduced golf to her tiny village. Everyone seems to be in on it: little kids retrieve the balls, the guys work on their swing (below), and even the women are beginning to participate (above). Amazing!

News not related to hospitals, even though it is malaria season

2009-10-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

Millet growing in my concession

Part of the winnowing process

The millet, stored on its stalks. This is in Narba's concession, with millet from the family's fields.

Other news that isn't related to hospitals! Let's see. Harvest is in full swing. Beans beans beans, everywhere. And millet. Yesterday a woman gave me an entire bucket of green beans which were sooo good and fresh. It's hot again, and we have fewer rains to cool us off, so I spend a lot of time looking for shade.

Malaria season is upon us--started a few weeks ago and will continue for several more. Malaria season sucks, and if I could think of a more powerful word than "sucks" I would use it. Every home I visit has someone down with malaria. Lots of kids have it; in my close family circle, which includes 12 kids under the age of 12, 4 have malaria this week. Two of them got meds from the clinic a couple miles away; the other two haven't gone yet. I realize that all of my messages to you guys for the last month have been semi-bummers. It is a fitting tale...this time of year is tough, and there's no way around it. Sick people, hot weather, mosquitoes.

But we're all hanging in there, treasuring the lighter moments--such as:

Two days ago I walked around (verrrry slowly) with Abarta, an old lady and former women's leader. She's awesome--even-tempered, candid, and logical, a good leveler for my sustained mild sense of panic of the last few weeks. She also doesn't see well, but she knows my voice, and we've become friends. Anyway, we shuffled around Foloa, and she told me why she chews tobacco. She made a convincing argument and I did not counter it. Her gums hurt from where her teeth fell out, and tobacco is the only thing that soothes them. So there.

Updates

2009-10-06T20:18:00.000-07:00

Updates on the ladies and co. Habi and Samsiye are home and doing well; they visited the Concern-run feeding center on Monday and got a week's supply of special baby power-food. (It's called Plumpy Nut, and it's basically peanut butter.) Salamu and Abu Zaidi are still in Illela along with Hawali and Abu Lawa'asu, and all of them were in high spirits, really happy to see me this morning. They have changed so much--even in the last two weeks--the mothers look more confident, the kids are smiling and showing off their newly-acquired cheeks, and I feel proud being a part of their progress. I sent another woman up yesterday: Saddi and her son Abu Lawani. They were settled in this morning; nurse Hajara was just about to look them over and see where the best place for them is. I suspect that Abu Lawani has something else going on besides malnutrition, but I don't know for sure. Hajara will figure it out.

I want to add that of the four women who have come to Illela this year from Foloa, three of them are visited regularly by their husbands. Only Hawali's husband hasn't come; he is on work exode in Cotonou, Benin. Last week when Habi was released, her husband Shaibu bought three eggs for Hajara as a thank-you gift. That was pretty cool...

An unfathomable mix

2009-09-28T10:07:00.000-07:00

My parents and my Peace Corps friends have asked me if I think these women with malnourished babies would be going to the hospital if I weren't going with them. There are a few answers to that question, depending on the woman and her circumstances. One answer is no, or not until it's too late. We lost two babies, that I know of, last year because of this. I can't claim to explain it or understand it- it is an unfathomable mix of shame, pride, negligence, and ignorance.

Another answer is yes- Salamu, for example, was already on her way to get help. The other answer, which I think is more common, is an in-between-yes-and-no. Women recognize that their child is suffering, and do what they can (in the middle of the Sahel, how easy do you think this is?)- and depending on what they feel they can or cannot do (given the restraints of their marriage, their other children, their responsibilities at home) they may or may not consider going to the hospital as an option.

In Hawali's case, Gwallo had seen the baby, suspected severe malnourishment, and came to find me because she knows that I've been helping some mothers out. Hawali wanted to come, right away, and is prepared to stay at the hospital as long as she needs to, no questions asked. I don't know why she didn't/couldn't go earlier- surely her son has been looking this bad for weeks. But. She's here now, and that's what counts.

PS: A weird thing happened yesterday- after seeing Hawali and her son. In the village I saw a tiny, tiny, tiny baby goat laying in the sand on its side-- I honestly thought it was a cat, it was that size--, panting, with its eyes closed. People were walking all around it like it was nothing. I just stopped in my tracks. Karima was there, and I asked her if we could help the goat- you know, either feed it somehow or kill it, because it was clearly born way too early (last night, and its twin was born dead). She laughed at me, and lord knows how I managed not to burst into tears right there. I was able to cough out "I guess we deal with these things differently where I'm from" before stumbling away. All I wanted to do was scoop up that little goat and run for it, but I didn't, because that's not how they do things here. I hate it when "how we do things here" is so hard for me to accept. Karima said that they'll leave it alone until it dies. Sweet, wee little cat-goat, alone in the sun. I feel a little better about it now that I've told you. Why did I cry for a goat and not the sick baby? I don't understand.

Illela, again

2009-09-24T07:26:00.000-07:00

And here I am...again! Probably would've come to Illela anyway to see Habi and Salamu and their babes, and then ended up bringing another woman and her baby this morning too. Enter Hawali and her son, Abdu Lawa'asu. But first- the really good news- Habi and Samsiya get to go home! Samsiya is now bright eyed and has a round face, and Habi is radiant and relieved. The two of them will come home with us in the truck this afternoon. So that leaves Salamu and her son Abdu Zaidi, who is also looking great. I never knew you could get chubby cheeks in 6 days; apparently, with Hajara's attentive help, you can. I wouldn't be surprised if Salamu gets to come home next week.

Hawali, the new arrival, is a gorgeous young mother. A few days ago, Gwallo came over and said she wanted me to visit her that afternoon (you may remember Gwallo- she's a firecracker on the grain bank committee and I've mentioned her here before). My first thought was 'aw shit, what have I done now?' I thought I was in trouble...I almost didn't go to her house. But I did, and she sent for Hawali, who brought her son, who is very sick. He's 9 months old, and has the familiar signs and history of malnutrition/dehydration/illness that ruin little kids here: diarrhea that started 2 months ago, causing severe weight and water loss. To try to speak objectively- these babies come to resemble insects more than they resemble babies. Fragile little limbs, ribs, no butt, thin skin hanging off of their stick legs, hollowed eyes, skull...I will not take pictures of the sick babies, but I'll send some of the recovered ones. Deal?

So- you know the drill now, if you've been reading these entries for the last few weeks. Pack everybody up and head to what I am fondly referring to in my head as Hajara's Haven. Hajara, nurse of nurses, who knows when to yell at you and when to praise you. I think this woman may be an angel. Scratch that, she is. Hawali and her son are settled in the infant malnutrition ward, and I'll swing by to see them again before leaving Illela. Hajara warned them that they will be there for awhile; Abdu Lawa'asu weighs 4.4 kg and should weigh 6, so he's got a ways to go.

An unplanned trip to Illela (Part 2)

2009-09-20T09:42:00.001-07:00

9/17/09

So. This morning was the longest time I've spent at the infant malnutrition ward. There are five women staying there right now: Habi (in her 3rd week!) with daughter Samsiya, Salamu with son Abu Zaidi, and three women with their babies from other bush villages. One of the women has eight month old twins; one is a normal weight and well developed. The other, a little boy, has bright eyes and seems alert but weighs less that 2 kilograms. While these women stay at the hospital, they are under the stern but compassionate eye of Nurse Hajara. Hajara administers medicines, weighs the babies every day, tells the mothers when and what to feed them. Depending on the age and ability of the babes, they are fed fortified milk, or a peanut-butter like paste, or a combination of the two. Babies who won't drink are force fed; babies who will eat eventually get fed bits of fish and egg. When they reach a weight and health that Hajara approves, they are allowed to go home. Everything is paid for by the government.

When Habi came with 5-month old Samsiya 2 weeks ago, the top of Samsiya's skull was so sunken in you could have filled it with a half cup of water. She weighed 3.8 kilograms (sorry guys, how much is that in pounds? 8?). Today I got to watch Hajara weigh her again- she is now a whopping 4.0 kilos and will be released when she makes it to 4.3. Hajara said that Habi is the best of all of the mothers at making sure Samsiya is getting better. I was really, really happy to hear that. Salamu was smiling this morning; Abu Zaidi already looks better. She told me today that he had passed out three times yesterday, and she thought he had died. But now he's drinking canned milk and getting a whole smorgasbord of medicines and vitamins. It is too soon so guess at how he will do, but I sure do trust Hajara, and I think she'll know what to do for this babe. Habi and Samsiya will probably be home within the week, and hopefully Salamu and Abu Zaidi won't be far behind.

Some of you who read this blog last year may remember that September, October, and November were hard months for mothers and babies. One difference this year is that women seem more aware of where they can get help. It could be my imagination, but I think that perhaps some of the negative stigma- associated with revealing that your child is malnourished- is fading in my village. I hope so. I'll probably write about this again; I sure think about it a lot.

An unplanned trip to Illela (Part 1)

2009-09-16T18:01:00.000-07:00

I wasn't planning on coming to Illela today, although I did want to
come up here sometime soon to visit Habi and Samsiya at the hospital.
What happened was: yesterday evening at about 6, an older lady found
me at Narba's and asked me if I'd take another woman and her son to
the hospital.

I got up to go see what was going on; it turned out the woman and her
baby were already sitting in a truck on the road.  The woman, whom I
recognized but didn't know that well, had tears all down her face and
was holding her son, a tiny bundle on her lap.  Someone handed me a
note from the nearbly clinic; it had "severe malnutrition, admit to
hospital immediately" written on it in French.  People were all around
us, staring at her and watching me to see what I'd do, shouting advice
like "Throw your bike in the back, you can come back in the morning!
You're in charge of things like this, you should go!"

I didn't feel like I could just jump in and go. Maybe if I had had
even 10 minutes to get ready, I could've.  But the driver was revving
his engine, impatient.  What I decided to do was run back to my house,
grab some money for the woman, Salamu, wrap it in paper, run to the
truck and give instructions on where to go when she got to Illela.  We
got Hajiya, the older lady who came to find me, to go with Salamu.
They sped off.

I joined them this morning, via my bicyle.  When I got to the hospital
I found a whole crowd of people from our village: Salamu and her son,
Abu Zaidi, plus Hajiya, and Salamu's husband Sa'idou and one of his
friends, all together with Habi and little Samsiya.  My village is
filling the infant malnutrition ward!  Not exactly something you want
to feel good about.

But.
If it's the truth that there is infant malnutrition,
which it is, then it IS good that the women are getting help.

Green: Generally Food Secure
Yellow: Moderately Food Insecure
Orange Highly Food Insecure
Red: Extremely Food Insecure
Black: Famine
Gray: No Data

Here is the FEWS map for the way things stand in Niger now. Compare it to the map from July and you can see the difference. Foloa is in the yellow zone. Although harvest season is beginning, we now face the most difficult season for infant malnutrition.

Not fasting

2009-09-15T18:41:00.000-07:00

The village mosque

Ramadan is almost over. I tried fasting for one day, don't have the willpower or stamina for it, and gave up by noon. But I love cooking up nice meals every night to share with people- the most popular treats so far have been popcorn and boxes of raisins (courtesy of my grandpa!).

Do you like how I call popcorn and raisins 'meals'?

Don't worry, I have Narba

2009-09-08T19:52:00.001-07:00

With Narba

Narba (who is over 70 years old!!!!) climbed over my 7 foot-tall mud wall last night at 10:45 pm because some of my neighborhood guys (Ayouba, Shaibou, Suleil, and Mustapha) thought they heard someone banging on my door. They wanted to make sure I was okay, but they didn't want to freak me out, so they woke up Narba to come check on me. I was fast asleep, oblivious to the world, until I awoke to Narba calmly asking me:

"Did some guys bang on your door?"

"Nooo-- wait, what is going on? How did you get in here? Are you OKAY???"

"I'm fine; I just climbed your wall is all. Now let me out and go back to sleep."

Turns out whoever it was didn't knock on my door at all, it just sounded like it. In case any of you ever still worry about me-- really, you don't have to.

2009-09-06T09:02:00.000-07:00

I added a video to this post, from July, about planting. It gives you some idea of the size of the fields hand-planted in millet, and shows Mariama in action. The video was shot in June; some of this millet will hopefully be harvested soon.

Today

2009-09-04T07:48:00.000-07:00

Today I am in Illela, site of a new internet cafe. I came to accompany a woman from my village whose 5 month old daughter is severely malnourished. They'll stay at the hospital here until, well, until the girl is better, hopefully.

My friend is Habi; her daughter is named Samsiya, after me.

Community classroom photo update

2009-09-02T07:33:00.000-07:00

The classroom is FINISHED and it is realllly nice- shiny green doors, smooth cement steps, a roof and walls... I will send pictures asap! THANK YOU EVERYBODY!!! Letters from the kids of the village soon to follow-- if you donated to the project via check and would like a card, please send me your address! Otherwise, if you donated online, I think I have it.

Meanwhile, here are some pictures taken by my dad in early August:

This is the old classroom; the roof is made of millet stalks.

Inside the old classroom.

Bricks, handmade, and drying in the sun. They had to be sprinkled with water as they cured.

Plastering the wall

Workers

It was a lot of heavy work

Me with part of the crew in front of the new blackboard

Putting in the ceiling. This is so much better than millet stalks.

See? It looks so nice.

Working on the door frame

The building, not yet plastered or painted, from a distance.

With the crew

Come and gone

2009-08-26T06:41:00.000-07:00

They came and now they are gone!?! What the? My Mom and Dad were here for three weeks. Maybe I will write about that, but I may not. In any case, you can read about it and see my Dad's beautiful pictures at www.eddyandreuben.blogspot.com

Ramadan

2009-08-24T08:33:00.000-07:00

Ramadan, the month of fasting, has begun, so here is a picture of the top of the village mosque. There are minarets sculpted from mud on the corners of the building.

Kid pics

2009-08-17T07:59:00.000-07:00

Tears

2009-08-14T08:57:00.000-07:00

This is the oldest person in the village. Her name is Tunno, and she walks around every morning before the sun heats everything up. I didn't see her once for my first year, and only heard stories about "Tunno, the 130 year-old dawn-walking woman". Finally I met her- Ayuba, pictured here with her, ran to get me one morning when she made it to our side of town.

She told me that she doesn't see very well, and that it's because of all of the tears she has cried for all of her friends and her family who have died.

That made me sad and heavy, but then Ayuba promised to buy her some sandals, so she wouldn't have to be barefoot anymore, and that cheered both her and me up.

Beautiful horses

2009-08-10T08:27:00.000-07:00

Insanely beautiful horsemen who showed up for a wake, and then left:

Rainy season pictures

2009-08-07T07:49:00.000-07:00

Stormy sky

Seasonal lake

Peace Corps bikes, and rain on its way

English class photos

2009-08-03T01:56:00.000-07:00

English class happens 5 days a week with 20-27 men in my courtyard. I started with teaching greetings, and are moving on to basic questions, names of places, actions etc. This is one of my favorite parts of the day.

While learning the names of places, I had the guys draw a bunch of pictures on the board. I think these are so great; I didn't want to erase them! Here we have: a mosque, the marker, home, the clinic, the road, the well, school, and the fields.

A generous gesture

2009-07-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

The story behind this photo is what I like. This is a Tuareg man from a nearby village, who brought his dog to the site where dozens of guys were hacking at the solid ground in another land reclamation project. The man is pouring water into his dog's mouth, a generous gesture in this parched place where most people don't like to be anywhere near dogs.

Lunch in the field

2009-07-29T10:26:00.000-07:00

July 14, 2009

Yesterday I walked out with Mariama to take hura and beans to the guys in the fields- I think you can see them at the top of the field, weeding away.

FEWS Maps and the hunger season

2009-07-28T06:08:00.000-07:00

Nationwide, almost one million people in Niger were considered to be living in “severe food insecurity” with another 1.9 million in “moderate food insecurity”, based on the government’s 2008-2009 assistance plan... In 2008, 39.3 percent of the population was estimated to be chronically malnourished, according to the government. (Source: IRIN News)

It's that time again: hunger season in the Sahel. The maps below indicate food security for the second quarter of 2009, in countries monitored by the USAID/USGS FEWS NETprogram. The Famine Early Warning Systems Network, set up in response to the starvation of close to 1 million Africans in 1985, attempts to analyze and predict climate conditions and food security in 17 sub-Saharan countries, as well as Afghanistan and a handful of countries in central America.

The most vulnerable time will appear on their next set of maps, due soon. "Hunger season" is that time when food supplies have run out and the new season's crops are not ready to harvest, and it can represent the slow onset of famine.

Green: Generally Food Secure
Yellow: Moderately Food Insecure
Orange Highly Food Insecure
Red: Extremely Food Insecure
Black: Famine
Gray: No Data

Faloa lies on the edge between green and yellow. As we approach August, the yellow and orange areas are likely to expand; green areas will shrink.

Community classroom update: We've got walls!

2009-07-26T06:58:00.000-07:00

I left Foloa on Thursday to start the trek to Niamey to meet --gasp!!-- my PARENTS, and took a picture on the way out. I think by the time we get back, there may even be a roof.

For the curious and concerned parents of Peace Corps trainees in Niger!

2009-07-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

First of all, your daughters/sons/friends are fine, albeit probably exhausted by everything that's happened in the weeks since training started. Right now, they are busybusybusy in their 2nd week of learning how to live and work in Niger. They probably miss home, but are so distracted by the difference of Here from There that they don't have any brain space to worry about it as much as you might think. Instead, they're wishing they could tell you all about it, and are writing letters to you by lamplight, letters that probably won't get to you for awhile... I'll try to fill that gap, the month-long gap between when they left home and when you'll hear from them again, by telling you about what they're doing. I hope it helps to put your minds at ease!

Training takes place for ten weeks in and around the town of Hamdallaye, which is about an hour's drive north of Niamey, Niger's capital city. All of the trainees-- they're not considered volunteers until they complete all of their training-- spent their first 2 nights in Niger at the central training center in Hamdallaye, a comfortable hilltop compound equipped with electricity, running water, and a whole staff of cooks, laundry men, gardeners, and official trainers. The entire staff is marvelously competent-- energetic, understanding, patient, and eager to help Americans find their way in Niger. I have never worked with such a compassionate and effective leader as Tondi, who manages all of the training activities.

On their 3rd day here, each of the trainees went home with a host family, where they will live for the next two months. You'll hear a lot about this from the trainees themselves, so I won't insert too much of my own picture in this, aside from saying that this was a good, strong shock to my system. During the day, trainees attend language, cross-culture, health, and technical training sessions. In the evening they are home, playing with kids, practicing their French/Hausa/Zarma, and eating whatever it is that their host mothers have cooked up that day.

At some point in the next month, the trainees will be able to call home (yay!!), an event that everyone here looks forward to SO much. You'll get an email from the PC office in Niamey giving you more details on this! By the time of the phone call, your trainee should know where in Niger she'll be posted, and she'll be close to starting her service as a volunteer.

I'm sure it's hard for you all at home, being out of the loop and not knowing what the heck happened to your people. But rest assured, they're in great hands. There's no place most of us would rather be right now than Niger.

Classroom update: the foundation

2009-07-24T07:34:00.000-07:00

July 14, 2009

I left for Tahoua on my bike today, and snapped this picture on my way out. In the background you can see the cement bricks that were made by a crew last week. We have been sprinkling them with water ever since, while they cure in the hot sun.

Toothbrushes!

2009-07-20T07:05:00.000-07:00

Here is the headmaster, Shaibou, giving a lecture on dental hygiene to a primary school class. We handed out toothbrushes, courtesy of my generous dentist in Corvallis, to over 200 village students.

Shaibou insisted that the students raise their new brushes into the air for the photo-hence the salute. We salute you, Dr. Kendall Wood! Thank you!

Classroom construction update: hauling sand

2009-07-15T10:35:00.000-07:00

June 20, 2009

Well, the work is starting!

This young man and his donkey just brought a load of sand to the construction site. The new classroom will be in the space you see to the left. Next step: we will mix cement and create bricks.

Weeding

2009-07-13T07:06:00.000-07:00

Now that planting is mostly over, we are moving on to weeding. In some ways I think this work, while back-breaking, is also a blessing. It means that the rain was enough to get the millet to grow, and likewise the weeds are popping up. It's not like weeding at home, where you sit or crouch and pull on stems (which is also hard work, absolutely!) It's done with another hoe-like tool, which has a more curved end. You tackle the rows head on, and hack and chop madly through the dirt, uncovering everything except what you planted, which gets to stand proudly, all tufty and green. It's quite a show- muscular, sweaty, full-of-motion men and women bent over and pushing their way through the greengreengreen.

Salla and Shaibou on the first day of weeding; Narba is going out to greet them

It will take a month to weed one of Narba's fields- maybe that gives you an idea of how big the fields are, and how slow the work goes. We'll be more split up for this work- we may be at different fields, or in far apart sections of the same ones. But some days we'll be together. Salla, Shaibou, and Badaru will head out before sunrise, and Mariama, Rasida, Sadiya and I will follow with food mid-morning. Zuera will stay at home with her new baby, Minaya. The little kids- Kadir, Oweli, Rahman, and Rabi- will chase each other around in the shade and step on thorns, then holler for one of us to come pick them out. Narba will go where she pleases, and when she comes near me she will insist that I rest, which I will refuse to do.

Working with everyone in the fields has been a strong reminder of how much I have learned in the last year. To understand how and when and why people do the work that they do- I am getting there! I am learning what is necessary, what is extra, what isn't quite enough to live.

Last year, I couldn't quite follow the beat- I felt like a pale little rock in a dark stream of very busy, beautiful, moving people. This year, I have a family and a place. Now, I guess you could say that the current has lifted me up. Sometimes I fight it, but I live for the moments when I realize I'm moving with it.

Planting

2009-07-09T08:03:00.000-07:00

Rain

6/30/09

We got our first big rains two weeks ago, signifying a sudden shift in the daily rhythm that had been more or less constant since last fall. Everything changes with the rain. Once a big enough storm has passed- meaning the ground is soaked enough that a hole dug with your foot is damp at the bottom- men, women, kids, everybody, vacate the village for the fields.

Issa, Lahadi's son, with a sari (planting tool)

The strongest ones have the job of "sari": walking out ahead with a long, heavy hoe-type tool that they strike into the ground with every step, creating holes with small mounds of dug-out sand next to them. They make row upon row of these holes, which from a distance look like expansive, linear colonies of molehills.

Mariama, planting in the distance

Following behind the Mai saris (those who do the "sari" job) come the Masu taki (those who plant). These guys- usually women and kids- hold a bowl or calabash of millet seeds in the crook of their left arm, and walk along the rows, using their right hand to drop seeds into the holes, and their right foot to push sand back over the seeds. The best, quickest planters move so smoothly that you don't even notice they are planting; they simply look like they are strolling through the field, waving their hand over the dips in the earth. It looks and feels like dancing.

There is a rush to do as much planting as possible before the soil dries out, so families spend all day every day out in the fields, working hard to get all of their millet, sorghum, beans, sesame, and peanuts in the ground. Millet is the priority; once an entire field is planted in millet, people will go back and plant the other crops in the spaces between.

We got in four full days of planting after our last good rain, enough to plant all of Narba's family's fields with millet and one of them with beans and sorghum as well. When it rains again, we'll plant the rest. It's hard work, but I really like it. I like how it brings women and men together, and how it gives everyone a common purpose in a common space. There's an etiquette to it, too- you plant in pairs if you can, so you always have a companion planting the row next to yours. Even though I was slower at first, Mariama and Rasida always, always waited for me. They'd either slow down, or double back and plant the rest of my row for me, meeting me in the middle. We talked and sang songs, and time was irrelevant.

Chief

2009-07-06T06:53:00.000-07:00

A word about our chief:
Every village has a traditional chief, and the larger villages have multiple ones for their different neighborhoods. Being chief ("Hakimi" or "Maigari" in Hausa), is a responsibility usually passed down between men in a family- from father to son, or brother to brother. I think that the job of the Hakimi may vary to some degree depending on the village, but in general he serves as an important representative of the village to local and regional government officials, settles village disputes, and is almost always around for people to ask questions and get advice.

Our Hakimi's name is Mohammed, but we all call him Hakimi. He's a quiet, friendly, soft-spoken older man who really doesn't stick his nose in any body's business but always seems to be in the know. He doesn't talk alot, but he's always sitting out in the shade near our mosque in his white boubou. Often there's a little girl playing on the mat next to him- I think she's his granddaughter, but could possibly be his daughter. When I first got here that's how I knew who he was- by the little girl hiding behind his knees- because I couldn't keep track of everybody by face yet.

I visit the Hakimi every day and exchange greetings, and I keep him informed of any work that I have going on. It would be considered unacceptable to do anything- a meeting, a project- without his knowing. He's been helpful to me in planning village meetings by telling me when and where I'll get the most people, who I should tell, what I should make sure to say. I also give him a few days of heads up before I travel or have visitors, so he always knows where I am. When I do get visitors, one of the first things I do is take them to the Hakimi so he can meet them; such visitors unfailingly comment on how twinkly his eyes are. It's true!

The Hakimi farms just like everybody else, despite his age and relative frailty. People are constantly bugging him during farming season to 'go home and rest!!' but he doesn't really listen. He and his wife live in a small hut and as far as I know don't receive any special privileges for his position. After the yearly harvest, you can find the Hakimi weaving large, thick mats out of straw, which are used for making walls and roofs for shade. He is the only one in our village who knows how to do this work. It's beautiful to watch.

Blessed Moment of Competence

2009-07-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

Detail of Sandro Botticelli's "Madonna of the Pomegranate" (circa 1487)

It's been a year and a half and I still have days when I speak like a 3-year old, make the mistakes of a stranger, and have to ask how to do the simplest of things. But sometimes I do things right. And, rare as it is, sometimes I do things spectacularly well. Two weeks ago I went to Tahoua, and came back with a pomegranate. I gave the pomegranate to Narba. At that moment, I was called away-- a crying child, a passing camel, someone at my door-- I don't recall what it was that interrupted the pomegranate exchange. But later that night, after the last prayer call, Narba came over to ask me a question. "What is this thing, and can we eat it?" Aha- I immediately swelled with the knowledge that I alone possessed the information and experience needed to share a pomegranate. I joined her, eight of her grandkids, and two of her grown children on the mat in her courtyard, and proceeded to deftly and gracefully open the beautiful fruit. My audience was overcome.
Thank you very much, blessed moment of competence, for saving my self confidence.

Eating when you're hungry

2009-06-28T12:32:00.000-07:00

These boys have just had a successful hunt for a hedgehog and a rat.

While the vast majority of food consumed in the village is millet, people supplement their diets with other things as often as possible. "Often" isn't as often as anyone would like, but they make do with what they can, when they can. Some common diversions to the regular millet routine include sweet potatoes (purchased at markets in the city) from December-March, mangoes from April-June, ansa berries (green bean-like things that grow in the bush) in June-July, locusts (caught in the fields) and wild greens from July-September, and anything else that can be caught, hunted, or picked year-round.

So what do people hunt and catch around here? I see a lot of young guys, around age 15, heading out in the evenings to hunt rabbits, rats, mice, hedgehogs, lizards, and birds. They use slingshots to hit and stun all and any of the above, and finish the job with a rock or a stick. I've seen Fachi's son, Amadou, spend hours meticulously rigging up a trap to catch birds; he used rubber bands, cardboard, and string to fashion a sort of trapdoor/headbanger thing. It took me awhile to get used to seeing boys carrying home hedgehogs and rats to cook up, but I'm used to it now. The boys are invariably cheered by their bounty, so it's hard not to share in their excitement.

Ol Cook Pot

2009-06-23T21:56:00.000-07:00

Ibrahim spent a morning last week installing a screen door on my mud hut- a Peace Corps mandate, this screen door thing. Last year I coveted the screen doors of all my PCV neighbors (helps keep out flies and rats and such beasties), so when mine was dropped off I was pumped. But then I decided not to put it up, and it's been sitting inside my hut for a year. Occassionally I'd prop it up against the doorway and use it to keep dust and wind out during storms, and with the onset of the new rainy season I decided that a more permanent situation was in order. So, while Ibrahim mixed the cement and mud bricks to hold the door in place, I sat nearby and played music for him off of my Ipod.

I tried to pick music that he'd like and recognize. Ali Farka Toure- a Tuareg musician, was a big hit. Bob Marley- Ibrahim knows reggae from his days on work exxode. Sideways Portal- he hadn't heard this before, but got a kick out of knowing it's my Dad's group.

Then Narba joined me, and the two of us resumed watching Ibrahim work. I looked over my music, thinking of songs that Narba would relate to and enjoy. Right away I thought of a song by the Duhks that I like- 'Ol Cookpot- and I put it on and translated the lyrics to Hausa. 'Ol Cookpot is a rocking folksy soul song about a woman with five mouths to feed, no husband to help out, and a big empty cookpot that she's got to bargain with to provide just a little more food. Narba, if you can guess, now loves this song as much as I do. It totally translates- the words, the idea, the shittiness of the whole situation. Narba shook her head in sympathy for the lady and sang along with me. Later, I caught her explaining the song to her daughters-in-law and her nephew-- "This poor woman, she has nothing to put in the sauce, and she has five kids and her husband is off in prison or working or somewhere, and can you imagine? What is she supposed to do?"

There aren't a lot of things that translate so easily from English/the United States to Hausa/Niger. But some things, like working to feed your family, need no explanation.

Pandemonium & reluctant acceptance of miracles (Part II)

2009-06-18T10:19:00.000-07:00

Narba at the door of the grain bank

For those of you who know me, you know that I'm too sensitive for my own good, and that the sight of so many apparently furious women would really rock my boat. The first several such meetings (i.e. all of 2008), I would leave close to tears, convinced that everyone was pissed off, and that the project would never work, and that no one cared about it, and that I was a stupid, foolish, hypersensitive nincompoop. That still happens, actually, but it has gotten a little better. A little bit. What I learned is, there happen to be a lot of different ways of doing things. My friends- Gwallo, Narba, Lahadi, Fachi- have taken the time over the months to explain to me that, for better or worse, the women here have their way of making decisions. They laugh at themselves- "Muna kama tsuntsaye cikin itatua"-- "We are like a thousand birds in the trees"- and insist that no one is angry, even if they sound that way to me. Everyone, men and women alike, nods in agreement that "Samsiya, bata so yaya"- "Samsiya really doesn't like it when everyone talks at once." A few times, the ladies have done their best to restrain themselves, and have managed to put off the chaos for a few additional seconds. But it doesn't last. It's okay, I guess, as long as things work out in the end. Which is where this story is going--

Collectively (read between the lines and know that we had a half dozen squalls/meetings), the women decided that each bag of millet (100kg), would be sold to groups of four women- that is, four women per bag- for the small price of 2,000 CFA. At harvest time, each group will have to bring an additional 15,000 CFA worth of grain to restock the bank. So, each bag assumes 17,000 CFA. I purchased the grain at 14,000 CFA per bag last year, so we're making 3,000 CFA profit per bag (1,000 CFA in grain, 2,000 CFA in cash).

The day the committee opened the bank was, in my experience, a complete and total disaster. What I saw was: Some women came in groups, some came alone, some came with money and some without, and no one stood in line. Women were thrusting cash at each other and yelling names to be written down, and their sons were carrying precious sacks of grain off before accounts could be settled. The women in the committee were all over the place- Huri and Habsatou were alternately scribbling down names and stubbornly refusing to write a word, Karima was taking money and making me sit on the cash box, Salamu was barking orders at the boys carrying grain, Lahadi was standing there with an amused look on her face...On my precarious perch on the cash box, I was squashed by woman after woman, who would lunge forward to force coins into Karima's hands. Meanwhile Ana, Aisha, and Yashe repeatedly used my shoulders as a stool when the crowd of women would start to fall onto us.

I was saved from calamity by a phone call from my mother, and was able to extract myself from the pandemonium for the haven of her support and patience. I didn't return to the grain bank; even if I hadn't been talking with her I don't think I would've made it back there. But about a half hour into our conversation, here comes Narba, beckoning me over. And this is where this whole mess started to make a little more sense. The women had all gone home, except for the committee, who were now all sitting on mats in my own courtyard. "We've been waiting for you!!", they said. They wanted to count all of the money, and I needed to be present. So that's what we did, and instead of finding that they were missing a zillion dollars and that they'd only managed to write down ten names, we found that all but an inconsequential amount of money was there and that all the names were recorded. They even knew exactly who hadn't paid, and how much she owed, and had a plan for collecting the missing money.

So, count me utterly bamboozled. I don't understand their system, and I don't like being caught up in its volume and tussle, but I can now attest that it does, in fact, work. A part of me is nearly indignant, that such turmoil cuts it. But that's the American part of me, which admires order and calm. But I am in Niger, after all, and I suppose I'm learning a little humility at last.

Pandemonium & reluctant acceptance of miracles (Part I)

2009-06-15T11:00:00.000-07:00

The time came to open the grain bank, an event that I had been anxious about from the beginning. There's just so much to keep track of, and so many different ways to do things, and then for the committee to be new at it all...it's a big responsibility, and I wasn't sure of the best way to run it. Which is fine, since I'm not supposed to run it anyway, but I couldn't help stressing about it. It was hard for me to figure out a respectful balance between giving constructive advice and sticking my nose into their business. It is theirs, after all. And, as they kept telling me, the women'll run it the way they want to, when it comes down to it. So I kept my mouth shut most of the time, opening it only to say:

1. The grain is for selling, not for giving away.
2. The bank had better be full with grain again after the harvest.

Another reason that I was anxious about the grain bank opening was because I have come to dread, and indeed avoid, womens' meetings that involve more than 20 people. The way womens' business is carried out here- loudly, chaotically, everyone-shouting-at-each-other-at-the-same-time- makes me want to disappear. I won't pretend that I like it. I despise it. I think my difficultly with it is born out of major culture differences in the way groups of people make decisions. In the States, I was taught to present articulate, well-prepared arguments in as calm and dignified way as possible. I was taught that one person speaks at a time, and that other people listen, and that if someone gets loud and agitated it means that they feel very strongly about something, and that probably they're angry or disagree with what that was said. Groups of loud people mean that people are fighting, and that something bad is happening, etc etc etc.

Here, though, it's different. Things happen like this: two hundred women sit under a tree, one woman starts talking, then another woman stands up and starts yelling, and within 15 seconds (I timed it), every woman is standing, half of them are yelling, and no one is listening because you can't hear anything except noise. It's hard to imagine, I think, because it's unusual at home. But try: you're in this crowd, fists are in the air, voices are raised, people are up in your face and shouting things that you can't understand, and this goes on and on beyond the point where you think that people should really chill out.

At home, I believe the word for this is Riot.

Movie time: Early morning bush taxi ride

2009-06-11T20:43:00.000-07:00

Let me make sure this is clear: I hate riding in bush taxis. They are dangerous and they are uncomfortable. However, we don't have other choices, most of the time. So here's a video from the back of one. Don't be misled by the seeming lack of people in the back of this truck- I have never, ever seen such an empty truck here! Chalk it up to the early hour and the direction we were going-- away from a market town. The road was pretty clear, and we felt relatively safe, so I relaxed and enjoyed the wind. And so did Meaghan.

OK, this is a more sedate ride; actually we're still loading up:

Fencing

2009-06-08T07:20:00.000-07:00

Traditional fencing is made of thorny brush that is gathered and piled in a row. It can be effective, but needs a lot of rebuilding.

The fencing that we got from a previous volunteer's village has a new future: instead of going up around our gum arabic plantation, we're going to use it for the school gardens and community tree nursery. I talked about it with the school director and the Tree Guys, as I think of them, and we decided more people would benefit by using the fencing this way. We still haven't put it up, but it'll happen. Probably soon!

Measuring for a new fence

Funded!

2009-06-04T21:07:00.000-07:00

So happy!

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!

The Community Classroom Project was fully funded as of today, June 4. As work progresses on this project I will give you updates!

Back from exode

2009-06-04T07:34:00.000-07:00

The men are all back from exode (months away from Niger, working to bring home cash), and waiting for planting season (i.e. RAIN). The village is full of life and activity. When I returned from my weeks away, I saw that they had brought in a pile of gravel for the community classroom; remember, they agreed to provide 33% of the cost and that's part of it. But it was a tiny pile of gravel! I worried that once the rains start we wouldn't get the gravel and sand, but they assured me "No, no, Samsiye, we know how much is needed!" And sure enough, the very next day I saw donkey cart after donkey cart bringing in loads of gravel and sand; they're getting this stuff from way out in the bush somewhere.

So the men have some time on their hands right now, and have asked for English lessons. Why not? There is a group of 25 or so who come to my compound every evening for a 45 minute English class, hoping to pick up some English for when they next go on exode to Nigeria. It's fun, and they are good students.

Details of the community classroom project

2009-05-24T21:23:00.000-07:00

A future student of the proposed classroom

A big THANK YOU to those of you who have brought the donations for the Community Classroom Project up over $5,000! We are getting close now: only a little over $2,000 left to go, and then the village will get a new classroom to house those 72 kids currently attending school outdoors. If you haven't yet donated, please consider it: 100% of your tax deductible contribution goes directly to the classroom project. All donations are very much appreciated!

The total cost of the project will actually be $11,478.12, but the community has agreed to contribute 33% of this cost, which will include the land on which the classroom will be built, all sand, gravel, and water for cement mixing, transportation of all raw materials to the work site, food and lodging for all skilled construction workers, organizational labor by the Classroom Association, desks to furnish the new classroom, and a full-time teacher (on government contract). This community contribution amounts to $3,805.21, leaving another $7,672.91 to be raised thanks to the donations of folks like you.

Some of you haven't seen the budgetary details associated with this project, so I thought you might find it interesting to see what the actual costs will be to undertake the building. We got two different bids from contractors, and we also considered trying to do the project without a contractor; we ended up settling on a contractor who has worked with Peace Corps in this region successfully and reliably for years. Here is how it breaks down:

Excavation:
Channel and embankment of compacted dirt
$196.46

Foundation:
Reinforced concrete for interior, columns & crossbeams
Masonry of full mixture
$1,172.08

Lower floor:
Reinforced concrete
Concrete for staircase
$510.42

Masonry of walls:
Masonry of hollow walls
Reinforced concrete for window bays, crossbeams,
columns, high crossbeams, channels
$1,790.63

Coating & Surfacing:
Interior coating
Exterior coating
Chape Bouchardee
Coating of cement for blackboard
$932.86

Ceiling ('scuze my lack of ability in translating the French):
Panne IPN 100
Tube carre 50
Fentre bitumineaux
Bac alu zinc
Plafonnage en contre plaque
Buses de ventilation des combles
$2,353.80

Metal work:
Metal door & fixtures
Metal windows & fixtures
$275.00

Paint:
Interior walls
Ceiling
$441.67

Total: $7,672.91

Back in Niger

2009-05-19T21:48:00.000-07:00

May 15
Okay, news from Niger: had a greatgreatgreat time on vacation, and loved Ghana through and through. Kumasi and Cape Coast were especially awesome, so much to see, so much good food, and friendly people. On Tuesday we got a car from Cape coast to Accra, and then one from Accrato Lome, Togo- a long day in the car. Lome was cool- only spent one night there, but it had a nice vibe to it. Wednesday, we took a car to Cotonou, Benin, and went straight to the bus station. And here is where our vacation was not fun, but at least it was almost over....see, our bus was supposed to leave at 9:30 in the evening and take 15 hours to get to Niamey. Instead, it left at 3am and took THIRTYHOURS. Oh. my. god. So, we just got in (Friday morning). Jen and John were ideal travel partners-- relaxed and funny, but also safe and organized. So, I guess 30 hours with them was way better than 30 hours alone or with any one else. Thank god we are all healthy! No diarrhea the whole trip! knock on wood...

Me and Jen

I am pulling a crazy move and getting BACK on a bus in 2 hours for Konni. My legs already hate me, annd now I'm going to sit even longer! Ugh. But I really want to get back, and tomorrow there's a shuttle to Foloa so I'm going to bite the bullet and just go. Willtry not to think about it anymore so the next 2 hours can be semi-enjoyable.

Oh one more thing- I went to the market this morning after getting in from Benin and bought presents for everybody. Including eighty-that's right 80- cardboard cellphones that have candy inside. I was so embarrassed, carrying that around! But the kids will LOVE it. And I got earrings for Narba and Fachi, and pretty scarves for my girlfriends, and baby clothes for the bazillion babies that were born while i was gone. and a prayer hat for Ibrahim. Oh and Zuera-Rahman's mother- had her baby last Sunday! I didn't have great reception when I called Ayouba and heard the news, so I'm not sure if it's a boy or girl, but he said everyone is healthy and fine. Thank goodness!!

Cape Coast, Ghana

2009-05-16T15:49:00.000-07:00

5/10/09
And now, on to other things... like... GHANA!!!  I love Ghana!  I LOVE
Ghana.  Ghana is soooo nice.  I loved Kumasi (most beautiful batique
fabric EVER and I went crazy buying it), and now we're in Cape Coast
and I LOVELOVE Cape Coast. It's only been a few hours, but so far so
good... And Green Turtle Lodge, well... I can totally see why one
would love Green Turtle, but I for one was not smitten.  I love the
ocean, so of course that was a good fit, but the unfortunate truth is
that the whole place is infested with, try to guess---- rats.  Yep.
Rats all over, everywhere. At night, in the afternoon...I was on a
towel in the shade reading with John, and suddenly John yelled OH MY GOD
THAT IS DISGUSTING, which of course made me leap up in fright-  turns
out there was a giant rat (dead) stuck headfirst in the sand with its
legs sticking straight up in the air, right next to me.  Didn't see
that...


But other than that- the food there was absolutely mouthwatering
(papaya/peanut/cabbage/green bean salad!?!?!) and the staff was superbly
nice and helpful.  The British owners were home- she's having a baby-
so the Ghanians were rocking the place.  Very fun!  It rained the whole
time, so no sunburn, not even a tan.  But it was still a good time.  I
was glad to get out of there this morning and head east to Cape Coast,
where we'll spend a couple of days before heading home.


We decided to stay a few extra nights in Cape Coast, so the grand
total will be 4 by the time we leave.  It's a cool city-
bustling and full of life, but not too big.  Ghanians are SO friendly
and outgoing- everybody tries to show you around, ask you your name,
sit down and talk with you.  It's fun.  Gets to be alot if you're out
by yourself (like I was yesterday afternoon for a couple of hours),
but mostly it's just great.  Yesterday we spent almost all day at the
Cape Coast Castle, which was used for holding people as slaves until
they were shipped to Brasil, Jamaica, and the US.  There's a good
museum there, where we spent all morning, and we got a tour in the
afternoon.  I had a lot to think about, and felt a lot of different
things being there- anger, disgust, shame, guilt, grief.  I am pretty
sure the public school system didn't teach me what I should've known
about all of this.

Cape Coast Castle: where slaves were held before being sent to the New World

Dungeon at Cape Coast Castle

Congratulations, Hadizatou Mani

2009-05-06T20:27:00.000-07:00

The US Department of State has a blog called Dipnote. Dipnote? Well, anyway, if you check it out you can read about Hadizatou Mani, a Nigerien woman from the Tahoua area of Niger, not far from Konni. Hadizatou, the daughter of a slave, was sold into slavery in 1996 at the age of 12 for $500. She was named a "Woman of Courage" in March of this year, and more recently she made Time's list of "The World's 100 Most Influential People." In this article, author Zainob Salbi says:
It is not easy to know you are worth more than what you are being told, to know you have the right to stand up against injustice, to know the world is still beautiful and safe despite its horrors. Not too many of us have the constitution to stand against power as Mani did when she took her country to a West African court for failing to enforce its own laws and denying her right to freedom. "I knew that this was the only way to protect my child from suffering the same fate as myself. Nobody deserves to be enslaved," she said. And she proved it when she won her case in 2008.

Congratulations, Hadizatou Mani.

Photo: Win Mcnamee/Getty

Video about Fistula

2009-05-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

This video shows some of the same women who still live in the courtyard by the hospital. It is a good description of the fistula project for which Peace Corps volunteers donate their time to translate Hausa and Zarma for the American medical staff doing surgery.

Things You Might See in Niamey

2009-04-27T03:11:00.000-07:00

First, a disclaimer: still no Niamey pictures. Can I blame it on the heat? Today's not actually that bad, just humid. And overcast. I feel like I'm being steamed. Possible bright sides to this condition include- less static electricity; knowing when you're dehydrated because you run out of sweat and become the only dry thing for miles; you might be able to cook something, very slowly, perhaps thinly sliced carrots.

And now, a quick lesson in the proper pronounciation(s) of the word Niamey:

Niamey is pronounced NEE-am-aay if you are an American speaking with another American (rhymes with FREE-spam-day, sounds kind of like Miami if you pronounce Miami the Spanish way).

If you are an American speaking with a Nigerien, you would say something like Nee-ahm-AYE (rhymes with Free-um-FLY).

But if you are in a rural village, the N is replaced with a Y, and the capital city suddenly has just two syllables and sounds like Yum-EYE.

I should also add that I opened this up for discussion with six other volunteers and none of us can agree on any of it. So, I guess you can just say it however you want.

Here are two neat things that you might see in Niamey:

1. Tall white camels carrying loads of hand-woven grass mats, being led by ropes through their noses by men in robes. I see these guys every day, and every day I try not to stare. Camels are just so unlike any animal I am familiar with in the states-- their gait, their size, their expressions-- so they always capture my attention. I hope I never, ever get used to seeing camels.

2. Enthusiastic taxi drivers. I agree with Alex- some of my most memorable conversations take place in taxis with the driver and his other passengers. The way city taxis roll here is an adventure in itself: you stand on the side of the road, wave one down. He pulls up but doesn't stop, just pauses long enough for you to shout out where you want to go. If he wants to go there, or is planning on going near there, he'll motion you in with a nod, and you jump in and join the other 2 or 3 people already in the car (all, presumably, going somewhere close to where you're going). If he isn't going where you're going, he shakes his head and zooms away, leaving you feeling rejected, a little miffed, in the hot sand on the curb.

Once you finally enter a cab, you become an accepted member of an exclusive, travelling, temporary, 4-member-only club for people with shared interests insofar as you all have business in a common neighborhood. It's a nice atmosphere, most of the time. And it's a guarantee that at least one of the other passengers, if not all of them and the driver to boot, will gush gratitude and admiration for your efforts to know and speak Hausa. Most of the time, I get out of cabs feeling like I just got the pep-talk of a lifetime. It's nice to be appreciated. And driven around.

The city and two friends

2009-04-25T06:47:00.000-07:00

I am still in Niamey, buzzing around from one idea to the next, getting to know the city a little better each day. The doctors are gone, early, leaving me with a few days to look around the city (and the internet...) before I go on vacation next week.

Things that come to mind when I think of Niamey: wide dirt roads. bright sun. humid air. lines and lines of wooden tables along the streets, piled high with mangoes, melons, tomatoes, cabbage, onions, eggplants. meat- lamb, goat, beef- grilling on large open fires. people. large, healthy people wearing large healthy clothes in large healthy colors, redorangepinkgreenblue. skinny, bent over people wearing skinny, bent over clothes in shades of grey and brown. taxis and motorcycles careening all over the paved roads and getting stuck in the sandy ones. lots to seesmellhear here. I haven't taken my camera out in the city, but I bet you'd like to see some pictures so I'll try to remember tomorrow.

In a few hours I'll go back to the hospital to visit. I went two days ago, hung out with Joumare for awhile. She told me "Reading is great but one day you should get a husband. Marriage is good for you". Thank you, Joumare. Today when I see her again, I'll give her the 3 yards of thick, dark blue and white cloth that I bought at the big market yesterday, and she will embroider it for me with bright threads of yellow and pink. She's very proud of Fulani arts, and it's no wonder- they use color beautifully. Their embroidered fabric is like looking up at night and seeing flowers instead of stars.

A Fulani textile, without embroidery.

I want to tell you about one of the nurses here, because he is somewhat of an enigma- a marvelous enigma- given what I've seen in Niger so far. Souley is a male nurse anesthetist. He is young, probably in his twenties, and he interacted and cared about the fistula patients in a way that completely blindsided me. I guess, after seeing women as caretakers in this country for so long, and having zero precedents of men providing direct, compassionate care to women, I was not at all prepared to see Souley doing everything to make the women physically comfortable and emotionally at ease during their surgeries. Even when he didn't speak their language, he was tender, attentive, and always at the patient's side. One of the American doctors, an anesthesiologist, commented to me "Souley is a very fine nurse. I can't even get him to leave to take a lunch break." Even after 6 hours of surgery, he's there, checking on everything. I know this is his job, so you could say he's just doing it, but it's more than that somehow. Not all of the nurses are like that. Many of them are rough and distracted, and warranted many a gruff correction from the visiting staff. But Souley was perfect. A young guy, taking good care of women and girls in a place where women and girls are expected to take care of themselves. It caught me offguard. And I can say- even now, with a lump in my throat!- that watching Souley work was the only time that any tears made it out of my eyes during this whole thing. Just when I think I know what to expect from someone they go and blast me to outerspace. Here's to Souley!

Some docs

2009-04-23T22:08:00.000-07:00

Last morning of surgery- with Evangeline, Liz, and Star. Evangeline is a nurse, Liz and Star are both surgeons. They were all really great.

Rachida

2009-04-23T06:52:00.000-07:00

This is one cool little girl. Rachida has it going on! She's a tough cookie, plus she surprises you with a smile at the most unlikely, most needed times. Maybe, hopefully, circumstances will work out for her to get surgery down the road.

A daughter

2009-04-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

This sweet girl is here in Niamey with her mom, who is awaiting surgery. I couldn't resist that grin.

A note about donations to the Community Classroom Project: Peace Corps has been working on their website, and this has severely interrupted the donation process. Bad timing!! A few folks have been able to get through, and thank you SO MUCH! You may find it easier to donate by phone: 1-800-424-8580 Extension 2170. This is a phone tree; just wait until you are cued to enter the extension number, and you will talk to an actual person. (To avoid the phone tree, call direct: 202-692-2170) The office hours are 8:30-5:00 Eastern Time.

Last days with the docs

2009-04-21T18:25:00.000-07:00

Here are Tuni, Fatima, and Zeinaba. Zeinaba and Tuni came with me all the way from Foloa to see if the doctors could do some work for Zeinaba. The woman in the middle is a friend of theirs who lives in Niamey and came to visit them in the courtyard.

In the last two days of the mission I translated for Ramatou, Hamsa, Rachida, Halima, and Miyeba. Ramatou is a forty year old Beriberi woman, from a village way out east. I didn't have Hwanta to translate the Beriberi into Hausa for me, so this was another very mime-y surgery. She had a fistula repaired, and was looking good in recovery this morning! Hamsa is a Zarma woman in her twenties, and again, this was a multi-lingual event! Zarma, Hausa, English, Doctortalk.

Rachida, one of my 8 year old charges, was put under anesthesia as well yesterday, but only for an exam. I dressed both her and her mother up in scrubs, so they could be together before the drugs were administered. Long story short, the doctors determined they can't operate on her here; she may be another candidate for an over-seas operation. Maybe one day. We can dream.

Halima is a twelve year old girl from Zinder (a 13-16 hour bus ride east), who came here all by herself. She is a bright and intelligent child; you can see it in her eyes. She listens. Her history is violent, and when combined with her complicated anatomical issues the doctors decided surgery was too risky this time around. Halima has a Peace Corps Volunteer in her village out east who'll keep an eye out for her.

Last but not least, Miyeba! Miyeba is the only woman who speaks her language in the entire hospital. She's Gourmance, an ethnic group from the Nigerien border with Burkina Faso. The Gourmance are known for their distinct language, filing their teeth into points, having short unbraided hair, and for not conforming to Islam. Miyeba is dark-skinned and observant, and she must be awfully brave and independent to have made it here without any common language. She'd had her urethra cut by a traditional doctor who was trying to increase the size of her vagina; we've had a few cases like this. (It is not the same as genital mutilation, in which the clitoris is cut.) This being my fourth or fifth time translating for a patient whose language I don't speak, I was a lot better at communicating stuff to her. Her surgery was quick- about 2 hours- and hopefully successful.

And that's the end of that. The doctors leave tonight at midnight, two days ahead of schedule. I really enjoyed working with most of them, and am proud that they're Americans! They did a lot of incredible work here, and changed the lives of many a girl and woman. I'll continue to go to the hospital to check on the post-operative women for a few days, but the translating is all over. Thanks for checking in.

We're tired today

2009-04-20T10:11:00.000-07:00

I'm a zombie today. I need to get more sleep! Will work on that. In other news: today was slow for me, because most of the patients were Zarma speakers. I translated for one woman this morning, Maimuna. She's a 26 year old Tuareg from Agadez, and she only speaks Tamachek. So, I did alot of miming and smiling, nodding and holding of hands. One of the male nurses in the room is Tuareg, so I could call him over for help when something significant was going on. Otherwise we were pretty quiet.

Maimuna is a gorgeous woman- smooth, golden skin, straight black hair, big black eyes. She was pregnant with her first baby last year; after a 6 day labor the baby was removed, stillborn. She is a small person, very slight, and impossible not to notice. She's here with a few other Tuareg women; they are captivating and warm, and always greet me even though we share few words in common. The surgeons said her fistula is the worst that they have seen yet, but they also said they were able to do a lot of good work on her. I visited her in recovery this evening; she was surrounded by three Tuareg women and two Tuareg men. The men spoke Hausa, so I was able to talk directly with them, which was great. They wanted to know if they could give her yogurt (what is it with men giving women yogurt? Or is this a coincidence?). I like Maimuna's family.

I've continued to have some interesting conversations with the anesthetist. He's been observing some pretty fascinating differences in the ways Nigerien women react to surgery, anesthesia, and pain medication, relative to the way American women react. He says the Nigerien women, hands down, require fewer meds of lower strength, and do not seem to suffer many of the side effects that Americans have. Examples: American women get itchy and scratch alot when they get spinals. Nigeriens do not. Americans get more headaches and neckaches from spinals. Nigeriens don't get very many. Americans feel pain sooner and request sedatives, Nigeriens tend to bear it all. The anesthesiologist showed me all of these pain meds he expected to be running out of; he hasn't even opened most of them! Also, when we do rounds to visit the women in recovery, we keep finding women who haven't even started taking their pain meds yet (there is no nurse to dispense meds, and so the women have to keep track of all of their antibiotics, Percoset, Advil etc. ) They are in pain, but they wait until we come by to start taking them-- these are women who just had all sorts of crazy surgery, and they're not even taking Tylenol! Take that, pain! It's very humbling. I have vowed never to complain about an annual exam, ever again. That's small beans, ladies. Very small beans.

There's more. I was told this afternoon to go tell Bichara (one of my 8 year old girls) and her mother that she'd be getting surgery tomorrow. I went, I told them, I gave them the whole pre-op shpeel. And then, not a half hour later, I was told that no, never mind, she will not be getting surgery. I.was.so.pissed. I won't go too much into the details of all of this, but I will say that if the doctors had put their heads together and been honest from the beginning, they could've told this girl last week that surgery wouldn't happen this time around. Instead, they made promises they couldn't keep, and as a result this girl and her family have spent a week living at the hospital expecting surgery. I insisted that the surgeon come with me to break the news, because she is his patient, and she deserves to be told by him. It really sucked. But, Bichara's mom Eki is a tough and composed lady, and she was as gracious as you could expect. Bichara, by the way, has gotten less shy around me and now holds my hand when I'm nearby. I got their phone number, and will try to get Bichara's name on the list for the next round of surgeries, in October. There is some talk of trying to fly her to the US for surgery, because she needs some very specialized work, but I don't know if that will go beyond just talk.

And now, this zombie needs some rest. More news to come. Thanks again, to everyone who reads this blog! It means alot to me to know you're out there.

The courtyard

2009-04-19T10:39:00.000-07:00

This is the hospital courtyard where the women wait/sleep/eat/live/hang out. Some women are here short term, just for the weeks during surgeries. But many are here for months, and many consider this their home. Several young women have lived here for a few years. On the left you can see a bunch of beaded bracelets set out for sale (the buyers being the visiting doctors). The women sleep on bright plastic mats like the ones in the foreground.

Another day in surgery

2009-04-19T10:38:00.000-07:00

When we finished today, after 11 hours in the chilly, sterile, beige-and-seagreen world of the operating room, the other translators and I crammed into a taxi and realized we look realllly ragged. We had many laughs at each others' expenses. (expenses? sure) But we sure clean up well. Yep, we clean up well, and then we go to bed and sleep like rocks. It feels good to do good work.

So, today: I translated for Rabi, Fatima, and Joumare. Rabi is 20, a stoic, composed young woman who stayed calm through her whole surgery, which took all morning. She barely said a word, and managed to sleep for awhile (with no extra meds). Her biggest (and best) reaction was the giant grin she flashed us when I told her that the surgery went perfectly. Yay!

Rabi was similar- she's 18, and has been through 3 previous surgeries. She knows the drill, and hardly flinched when they gave her the spinal. I was very impressed. She slept (again, no extra meds, just the spinal), so I chatted with the anesthetist about all of the different types of doctors. Rabi's surgery went very well!

Joumare is Fulani, and she speaks both Hausa and Fulfulde. She's one of the most amiable people that I know-- so easy to be around, and interested in the world, and one of those people you look forward to seeing. I met her at the beginning, when I was going around meeting all of the women; she stood out partially because of her ethnicity and appearence, but also because of how warm she was to me. I mentioned her earlier, after doing her interview. Joumare is probably in her 40s, and lives in Agadez. She has one grown son who's a tailor and jewelry maker; she's selling some of his stuff iin the hospital courtyard (it's very pretty!) Joumare's fistula started 3 months ago, after she had a hysterectomy performed. During her surgery today, we found out that the reason she was leaking urine was because whoever did her hysterectomy stapled her bladder (by accident? on purpose, stupidly?), leaving it with a bunch of holes. After a whopping 5 hours in surgery, Joumare's bladder is as good as new. Awesome! Next on the list for her: nutrition. She needs to put on a few pounds.

All of you Wisconsin family folks will appreciate the conversation Joumare and I had during her surgery-- she told me how to make cheese, Fulani style. The Fulani's are herders, milk sellers, cheese makers: she knows her cheese. Joumare rules.

Happily, all of my translations today were happy stories. I was a busy bee for awhile there; there were about two hours when both Rabi and Fatima were getting worked on, so I kept going back and forth to sit with each one. There was one rough moment this morning; when the surgeons opened up a Zarma woman on the table next to ours, they found a lot of cancer in her abdomen. They cut some of it out, but not all of it, and they weren't able to operate on her fistula. It is hard to know something like that before the person herself knows. I don't know how I would tell her that news.

What else. We had some unfortunate news this morning- the doctors may be leaving a few days early to avoid a strike that's about to happen at the airport. They're worried that if they don't leave early they'll get stuck here. I know I am biased, but I wish they would just stay...I know it would screw up their plans and schedules at home if they weren't able to leave right away, but just think of all of everything they could do here! I am dreading telling dozens of women that, in fact, they won't be getting that surgery that they were told they'd get. Not a cool situation.

Further bulletins as events warrant. In the meantime-- thank you for reading! Celebrate your health!

With Sa'a

2009-04-19T00:15:00.000-07:00

With Sa'a

Hey guys-

Just want to let you know that I'm doing alright! I'm not allowing myself to think about the awful side of things too much, because then I get upset, which isn't helpful. I keep reminding myself of that, and maybe I've already said it to you. It keeps me level.

We just got off- an extra long day. It's 7:15pm. I was in surgery all day again; I translated for Hamsatou in the morning, and Sa'a all afternoon. Hamsatou is in her mid forties, and has had fistula for over 15 years. She had two children, both stillborn. Her surgery took a really long time, but the doctors said she should see an improvement, which I guess is all that you can hope for sometimes. One thing about this surgery was that Hamsatou is from Diffa and speaks Beriberi, so I got my OWN translator, Hwanta, to help me talk with her. Hwanta is in her twenties, and is also awaiting fistula surgery. She sat with me in the frigidly cold operating room for three hours, translating Beriberi to Hausa, which I then translated to English.

Sa'a is thirty, and has three living children. Her last child did not survive childbirth, and it was after this labor that Sa'a's fistula started. I feel like I really connected with this woman. When I first called out her name, she seemed very serious and apprehensive, which obviously is to be expected. But unlike many of the other women, Sa'a asked alot of questions. About procedures, doctors, tools. And she stayed very calm throughout the whole thing- no extra pain meds, no sedative, nothing. She was totally lucid the whole time. So, of course, we chatted. She kept asking what the doctors were doing (the anesthesiologist and I rigged up a blanket across her knees so she couldn't see much). I mentioned this to the doctors, who were immediately like "Really?! Cool! Tell her this is part of her fallopian tube!!" and then held up a piece of flesh with giant tweezers. Sa'a blanched and said "I don't want them to show me!!" No kidding, Sa'a. In addition to having her fistula repaired (water tight! said the doctors), she had her tubes tied. It wasn't a procedure she was expecting before today, but this morning she talked with the doctors about the chances that any fistula repair she had done would be destroyed if she conceived again, and she agreed to having a 'tubal litigation'. I personally found it questionable that they would spring that on her and not give her time to think about it. But it's done.

After surgery I went out to tell her friend, Haoua, that she was fine. And I met her husband! He came! Isn't that cool?! I was so happy that I may have startled him with my enthusiasm. He asked me if he could bring her some yogurt (no, but still a very sweet gesture). Later I explained her meds and recovery to him, and he listened very carefully. I think Sa'a is in good hands.

I visited Sahara in recovery this morning and this afternoon, and she is feeling better than she did yesterday evening. Evidence: she joked with me about buying a sheep liver for her for dinner. And she told me I would be prettier if I had some facial scars. So yes, I think she's doing alright for now. She's in a room with 20 other recovering women, which is good for morale, and especially good for collective teasing of the translators.

Bichara and Rachida are both waiting surgery- looks like it'll be Monday. Bichara, the shyer (sp?) one has warmed up to me a ton, and I can get her giggling in no time now. Rachida is cute as ever and tried to follow me into a restricted area today...oops.

Translating

2009-04-18T11:25:00.000-07:00

With Dajowre in surgery

The team

2009-04-18T11:22:00.000-07:00

Translating, with a patient, anesthetist, nurse, and surgeons in the background.

What Sahara went through

2009-04-17T16:38:00.000-07:00

Today was alright. I translated for my first surgery. The doctors are doing all of the most complicated surgeries first, so the women have more time to heal while the doctors are still here. So I got in at 8 and right away jumped into surgery clothes (scrubs, plus funny hairnet and boot covers and face mask and goggles), and brought Sahara in for surgery. Her story, the more I think about it, brings up red hot anger from the pit of my belly, and I despise whoever did this to her. She's probably about 15 years old. She was married at age 10. She was pregnant and had her baby at age 12. Her labor lasted five days; her child didn't survive childbirth. And she was left with a gaping hole from which she leaked feces and urine, as well as damaged nerves in her left leg. I hate thinking about what she went through.

So that is the worst part. The best part is that three months ago, she came to Niamey (all by herself, no family with her, not to mention her husband. Where is he? Does he even know what happened to her? Does he care? I'm sorry to lash out like this, but not sorry enough to not do it. Where is her family?). And today, three surgeons performed surgery on her for five hours-- they took some muscle from her leg and used it form a 'sling' that will hold her urethra up so she won't leak (which they accessed through the vagina and a hole they cut in her abdomen), and then they cut out a bunch of scar tissue and reconstructed her rectum. They said that everything went as well as they could have hoped, and are confident that she will see a major improvement. They gave her an epidural, so she was only numb from the waist down. For the first hour she was really anxious (so was I), and it didn't help that we had no sheet to keep us from seeing what the doctors were doing. She started to get more panicky, so I asked her if she'd like to be more sedated, which she did. The anesthesiologist gave her some meds to keep her drowsy. I stayed with her, anyway, because every once in awhile she would be more lucid and I didn't want her to feel alone. Now she's in the recovery room, on lots of pain meds, with an ice-pack I made out of three bags of frozen juice. Please send Sahara some comfort and some love.

After surgery I went back to our little meeting room and laid down for a long time. Eventually I went back out to talk with some of the women awaiting surgery, many of whom are making stacks upon stacks of beaded bracelets while they wait. I will buy tons and tons of them, to bring home and give to you all, who are helping by just thinking of us over here.

And that is what I did today.

The Surgery Room

2009-04-17T12:09:00.000-07:00

There are two surgery rooms, with two operating tables in each. Teams of three American surgeons, one American Anesthesiologist, a few Nigerien and American nurses, and one Peace Corps translator work at each table. The rooms are pretty crowded, and very busy.

Mode: Kickass

2009-04-17T12:03:00.001-07:00

There's something verrry cool about wearing scrubs. This is me and Krista, chillaxin' before surgeries started yesterday morning. Try not to be intimidated.

Fistula Days 2-3: Exams

2009-04-17T10:54:00.000-07:00

Today and yesterday were full days. We did, I think, at least forty exams each day. An exam is like an annual exam but waaaay worse in every possible way. The women are poked and stretched and prodded, in order to determine why and where they're leaking. For anyone who wants more details on this, I can tell you about it later.

Yesterday I translated for Bachira, Mariama, Sakina, Joumare, and Tawra. Our responsibilities as translators are to help the women change into hospital gowns, bring them into the examination rooms, be with them throughout the exam (takes 30-60 minutes, sometimes longer), and translate for them the whole time. It requires some new Hausa vocab, to say the least.

Today, I had Fachima, Habsatou, Bintou, Fatima, Sa'a, Habi, Nana Hanatou, Rachida, and Djaliatou. My mind is full of their stories and I'm finding it hard to concentrate on writing about anything-- I want you to know everything, but there's just so much. I will start, I guess, and see how it goes.

Habi is seventeen years old. She's beautiful, with dark eyes and a large, careful smile. She knows 'hello', 'how are you', and 'i'm fine'. She limps, because her nerves in one leg got damaged during labor. Habi was pregnant at age 13, and had one son, stillborn. She has had several surgeries to correct the leaking of urine and feces; she no longer leaks feces but continues leaking urine. She has lived at the hospital for a few years. During her exam today, the doctors decided that they will not operate on her, because she has too much internal scarring, and the surgery is unlikely to succeed.

Bintou is twenty years old. She is serious and direct, and came from a village from way out east. She has never been pregnant or had a child. She leaks urine because her urethra was cut in order to enlarge her vagina. Her clitoris is intact. The doctors will perform surgery next week.

Nana Hanatou is in her early forties. She talks a lot! I ask her one question and her answer deviates all over the place, ultimately being about her grandchildren. She leaks urine, but it turns out it's not because of a fistula. After doing a bunch of tests (and putting an IV of indigo into her hand, which was pretty fascinating for me and her to watch), the doctors determined that she has an easily reparable condition in which one of her ureters (sp?) runs to her uterus instead of wherever it's supposed to go. Anatomy. She'll get surgery in a week.

Joumare is older, maybe in her fifties. She has one grown son who is a tailor. I don't remember the details of her fistula, but I do know that she's going to get surgery next week. The doctors said they won't perform it until she beefs up a little; she's very slight and malnourished. They're going to give her power bars! She was pretty excited about that. She also said she's going to bring me some new clothes.

Fachima is twenty years old. She is petite, not even 5 feet tall, and is quick to smile. She shouts my name every time she sees me. She had one daughter last year, stillborn, after three days of labor. Her bladder has a large hole in it, so the doctors aren't sure surgery will work; they estimated 60% chance of success. They'll try tomorrow.

Some other women are here who don't have fistula, exactly, but other gynecological/pelvic/obstetrical/rectal issues. Today I translated for a woman with stress incontinence, one with a fallen uterus, and another with a large hernia.

Fistula Day 1: All personal

2009-04-16T16:30:00.000-07:00

Today we gathered medical histories on all of the women and girls. The term 'medical history' used to sound so impersonal to me-- it seemed like a neutral term, the simple compilation of facts. But now I see that it's all personal, and it requires you (the translator) to ask a lot of sensitive questions.

Such as: When did you start leaking urine? Do you also leak feces? Is it constant, or only when you're walking? What caused your fistula? Was it after childbirth? How many children have you had? How many are living? How many were stillborn? Are you married? How old were you when you got married? How old were you when you had your first baby? Do you still sleep with your husband? Have you had surgery before? Did it work?

Depending on what the answers are, a person can feel really, really shitty after telling them to a total stranger.

And this first day I definitely felt like a total stranger. A real jerk, for coming in and asking too many questions about things that I perceived as upsetting. How does a person learn, in question #26, that a woman has given birth 4 times and lost all 4 babies, and then move on to question #27 and ask whether they were boys or girls? And then on and on.

I talked with some of the women about this. Well, I wasn't 'talking' about it- I apologized for it. And without exception, they all said "We're here to get better, we'll tell you everything, don't worry about it". So. I did my best to be private and gentle with these sharp questions.

2009-04-16T10:45:00.001-07:00

Ramatou, her daughter Eki, and Eki's children, Bichara and Monseur, with me, sitting in the courtyard at the National Hospital at the end of the day. Bichara (in red headscarf) is getting surgery this week for a condition she was born with. She does not have obstetric fistula. I will be her translator.

Fistula Mission

2009-04-15T20:10:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I started doing translations for obstetric fistula patients at the National Hospital in Niamey. I'll be here for this work for two weeks, so you'll hopefully hear from me much more frequently (daily internet access! holler!).

Obstetric fistula is a condition most often caused by prolonged childbirth. Simply put, fistula is a hole between the bladder and the vagina or the rectum and the vagina, which leads to the leaking of urine and/or feces. Women develop obstetric fistula when, after being in labor for a very long time, their internal tissues begin to die because of lack of oxygen. My understanding is that the weight and pressure of the fetus essentially crushes the woman's organs, which begin to disintegrate. Prolonged labor is more often seen in young girls; their bodies aren't fully developed and are not ready for childbirth. When I say prolonged labor, I mean 2 to 5 days. Other causes of obstetric fistula that I have encountered are genital mutilation and botched hysterectomies.

Women and girls with obstetric fistula are able to function in 'normal' society to varying degrees, depending on the severity of their case. Some women leak urine constantly, while others only leak when standing, working, or walking. Depending on the community in which the woman lives, and the age at which she gave birth/developed fistula, she may or may not be ostracized for her condition. Because perpetual leaking, the women often smell strongly of urine. Those who also leak feces have it harder. In the short time that I've been working with these women, it seems like most of them move out of their husband's house and back to their own family's home. They may remain married, but do not have much contact with their husbands. Many of them are divorced. In the vast majority of cases, the babies do not survive childbirth.

So there are some of the basics about fistula. At the National Hospital in Niamey, there's a wing for women with fistula to live while they await surgery. Currently there are over 80 women waiting here. One of the surgeons on staff knows how to repair a fistula, and groups of American doctors come through 3 times a year for two weeks to do what they can for as many women as possible. The latest group just got in on Sunday night, and I'll be translating for them during their stay.

We just started yesterday, and there's already so much to tell. I think maybe the easiest way for you to know about what's going on here is for me to just give you a play by play-- to tell you about what we're doing, how the women are, the ups and the downs.

A co-ed meeting and a new project

2009-04-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

A view of the village, with the mosque on the left, granaries on the right, seasonal lake in the background. A clinic was not feasible, however the villagers decided that a new multi-purpose classroom is also a much-needed addition to the community.

And, newest to the list....drumroll....

New Classroom!

Here's what happened: Months ago, in December, I held a big meeting with a bunch of men to discuss potential projects I could collaborate with them on in my last year here. After brief deliberation, they decided that they wanted to try to get a clinic built here. I have no beef with that: spend five minutes here and you will see the need, which varies from mild to severe to absolute, for health care. If I started to name the ailments, accidents, and tragedies that should not have ended as such, I will never stop and this entry will become a list of sadness.

So the short story there is that I rode my bike to lots of faraway offices where fat men wearing boubous and with easy access to doctors all told me "No way, we're not putting a clinic in Foloa. Even if you build it, it won't get staffed and you'll have the same problem stocking it with medicine that all of the other clinics have." Eventually, as of last week, I stopped pushing and moved on to plan B.

Plan B meant having another village meeting. This time, I met with 100+ men and women (the co-edness of it was a point of great amusement to all involved) to discuss other, more feasible projects for my next 8 months here. It was a productive meeting- people talked, asked questions, argued, yelled, nodded, laughed, and eventually agreed. We're going to try to raise funding for a new classroom for our school. Go us! We have three existing 'real' classrooms used by about 180 students, and one millet stalk classroom used by a class of 72. (72 kids, all under the age of 8, one teacher. Try not to think about it...). So, there's a need. And there's a means:

As of March, 2009, the village has raised over 30% of the total cost of the project, more than their expected portion.
As of April 6, 2009, Peace Corps has approved a detailed proposal for raising funds through the Peace Corps Partnership Program. So here goes, folks:

If you would like to donate to the Community Classroom Project, please go to the Peace Corps Partnership listing for this project. Any money you donate is tax-deductible, and 100% of it goes towards my project. We in the community all thank you for your interest and your support.

What's happening with young girl's education

2009-04-09T06:23:00.000-07:00

Hadiza's father, Mano (on the right), died in January

Young Girls Education: I'm still sponsoring Hadiza, with funding from the Friends of Niger organization, in her attendance of junior high. Hadiza and I are gradually getting to know each other better; she comes to visit me every time she's home on break from school. It's been a hard year for her family, and truly our whole village, because her father Mano got very sick in October and passed away recently, in late January. Mano was a major person in my life here, and I miss his presence in the shade on the corner where we used to hang out. I had developed photos of him and his family while I was home for Christmas, so it was good to be able to give them to Hadiza and her Mom, A'I. Hadiza's teachers informed me that although she was lagging behind most of last semester, she's doing better in her classes now, and they are hopeful that she'll be able to pass her exams in June.
We went to Maradi together for a conference 2 weeks ago, which was really great for both of us. (See the Alvin AiIey post from a while ago.)
Next: A big new project in the works

Women's literacy in the village

2009-04-04T07:24:00.000-07:00

The estimated literacy rate for women in Niger is just 9%. In my village it is even lower, less than 1%.

Women's Literacy: And by women, I mean Two Women. Mariama and Rasida, my two sister-like girlfriends, have been bugging me for a year to teach them to read. Rather, Mariama has been bugging me. She is hilarious and full of antics, and I cannot get enough of her or her son Oweli (another child of my heart).
Why did it take me so long to start this??? For the last week and a half we've met every night for an hour, from 8-9pm, to learn our letters. So far they know M, A, S, O, R, D, I, B, K, and N. Now we're working on recognizing syllables- MA, NA, DA, RA, etc.
It's a lot of fun, and as my Dad observed, possibly the most radical thing I'm doing here. True that.
Next: Young girls' education

What's up with environmental education

2009-03-30T18:21:00.000-07:00

Men's tree nursery

Environmental Education: In January, I started co-teaching enviro ed classes with the headmaster. We have a 1-2 hour lesson every other Wednesday afternoon with the 5th and 6th graders. So far it's been surprisingly kickass, because Chaibou does a great job of animating and legitimizing the material. We're using the Globe curriculum- it's used by schools worldwide to gather data on different aspects of the environment: atmosphere, soil, water, and trees.

So far we've done 2 soil lessons and 2 tree lessons, and when the students return from spring break we're going to start a small tree nursery so everyone can take some trees home with them. Ibrahim, my friend, Hausa teacher, and formal work counterpart, is jazzed to help with all of that.
Next: women's literacy

What's up with the grain bank

2009-03-27T19:35:00.000-07:00

The next few posts will be updates on my 'official' work here. It's true, I am technically a 'Natural Resources Volunteer', but in real life the technicality of that expands generously to include all kinds of projects...basically, I can do, or can try to do, anything that my counterparts and friends in the village want to do.

Grain bank committee in front of the grain bank building

Grain Bank: Lots of news here! We opened the bank for general viewing last week; most of the women hadn't had a chance to see all of the grain yet. It was exciting- all 65 bags are there, in giant white stacks of blessed insurance against hunger. The women crowded inside the building and were reluctant to come out; everyone wanted to count them for themselves. We discovered that a few of the bags have bugs in them, which is both a bad and good thing: bad, obviously, because nobody wants bugs in their food. But good that we saw them, because now all of the women know and will bother the committee about it until the problem is fixed. So, that's cool. We won't open for business for a few months. There's actually quite a lot more that I've been learning about food security here, and I'll share it with you later.

(Next up: environmental educati0n)

Dance...or whales?

2009-03-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

Wide-eyed, on a bus for the first time

About the internet and Alvin AIley:
My mind went totally blank when I was trying to think of
what to show them. The first image of the Outer World.
Only two things came to mind, after literally a
whole minute of just sitting there.  I thought:  dance, or, whales.
And I decided on dance.  Whew.  The girls stared and were silent-- a
lot to take in.

The conference is going splendidly - actually, it is AMAZING. There is
no doubt that these girls are having the experience of a lifetime.  I
have NEVER seen Hadiza smile this much.  The other volunteers noticed
too- they keep commenting on how happy my girl looks.

There are 12 girls total. I'm
in charge of 5 of them- Hadiza, plus Chaffatou, Zalefa, Aminatou, and
Tahiratou.  They've already opened up so much from day one-- at first
they were so quiet and timid, and now they're playing and asking
questions, laughing and teasing me about stuff. It's great.  Yesterday
they spent most of the day on job shadows- I took Hadiza and Aminatou
to shadow a female doctor at the maternity clinic of the hospital,
Zalefa shadowed a female military officer, and Tahiratou went to
either the post office or a utilities company.  In the mornings,
before sessions start, the girls have stayed busy with coloring books,
and in the evenings they stay up super late playing bingo. We also
played musical chairs, which was A HUGE SMASHING HIT that was
requested again the next night.  I was too tired to play- how lame.
But maybe tonight. We're going to show them a movie!  And tomorrow
we're having a party, and we're gonna eat lots of MEAT.  Yeah!

Alvin Ailey in Konni

2009-03-18T07:16:00.000-07:00

An email sent from the new internet cafe in Konni, March 17:

Made it in 4 1/2 hours this morning...not too bad, but about 1 1/2 hours longer than my record. Last time, this trip took me 6 hours...that was a long day! You just never know. The bush taxi drivers can go wherever they want and stay there for as long as they want. I'm getting better at just sitting tight and staring into space.

Shoe vendor in Konni

Hadiza came in with the three other young girls who are going to the Maradi conference this morning; they left from Tajae with the volunteer there. I met up with them and took them all around on a mini-tour of Konni. It's pretty cool when you realize this is their first time in the city, ever. They look, suddenly, really, really young and out of place. I'm going to have to be a good chaperone this week and make sure they're comfortable. I took them out to lunch; there's a lady on the corner who makes great rice and sauce. Then we walked down to the post office, which is towards the end of this very busy road, so the girls got an eyeful of vendors selling everything from oranges to bottles of gasoline, motorcycles galore, and as much pavement as they've ever seen. I am pretty confident that none of them had ever been in a car until today...can you imagine what this must all be like? At the post office, the three ladies working there chatted us up for a long time and helped put the girls at ease; when all of the bureaucratic stuff was over (you have to get all of these slips stamped and signed and then pay for it all to get packages), the girls were allowed to go in the back and help me pick up my mail. I have packages galore!!!! THANKS FAMILY!
Next, we headed to the new (and only) internet place in Konni, because I wanted to show them how that works. Not that I can explain it in English, but I had to try! I said it's basically like a really smart cellphone, which they know about, but bigger. So picture this: me and four sweet young girls sitting in a white room around an old gray PC, me trying to explain the Internet in my childish Hausa as the Google homepage loads... And what to show them?! I decided to look up a video of the Alvin Ailey Dance company. It was beautiful, even without the sound....and that's all we did; it occurred to me that with all the world at our fingertips, perhaps we should proceed with caution and deal with reality first.
So then we came back, and I let them pick which package to open together, and they chose Aunt Carol's. Young girls of Niger, meet Teddy Grahams! Thank you Carol!! We loved the photos (and yes you know EXACTLY which one is my favorite), and I devoured the letters later, by myself.

Tomorrow we'll get on a bus to Maradi, where for the next four days the girls will attend a conference for Young Girl Scholars. I saw the agenda- it looks good. Sessions are on a range of topics- everything from health to school to careers. The objective is to give these girls a look at what's out there, if one day they're able to and interested in making a life beyond the village.

Gardening

2009-03-17T07:06:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned before, the intrusion of animals is a major deterrent to gardening. Goats, sheep, cattle, and donkeys have free range during most of the day, and it only takes one to break from the herd and destroy a whole plot in the space of a minute. This year chickens have been the main problem; a few came through and wiped out all of the newly sprouted crops that five other women had planted in an adjacent area to ours. Those women didn't replant. Traditional methods of keeping animals out are either covering plots with big thorny branches, or weaving fence out of grasses, sticks, and thorns. We did both of those; after seeding, we used a nasty tangle of thorns, and once things started growing we built a grass fence around the perimeter of our plots. We haven't had any problems except some unknown something who keeps nibbling my collard babies.

I've had two village meetings with the landowners around the pond to see how we could afford purchasing metal fencing to enclose garden areas. Everyone is in unanimous agreement that many, many more people would garden if there were some insurance that their plots would be safe, and there is continued interest in investing in a more permanent solution than thorny branches. The challenge is that not only is metal fencing (chain link) prohibitively expensive here, but also that there is not yet a communally owned piece of land that could be enclosed. As it is, we would be fencing in certain individuals' land, and not others', which gets political and a bit messy. To clarify- the women are gardening on land owned by a man named Adamou, who lets them use his land for free during cold season. Fencing this part of his land would be awesome for gardeners, but is problematic for the other 12 landowners who would also like to fence in their plots and garden. So...there's some work to be done. Moussa suggested that I push to get a landowner to sell his or her land to the village, so it'd belong to everyone and no one, and could then be fenced in without rubbing anyone the wrong way.

In the meantime, the six of us will keep up our morning and afternoon trips to the garden, to water our growing veggies and get away from the bustle of the village for awhile.

Habi watering greens

Habi and Balki at their lettuce plots , inside of El Hadji Shaibu's land

Cold season gardening in Niger

2009-03-11T07:17:00.000-07:00

Millet

The growing season (May-August) is completely devoted to growing the staple crop of millet and there is zero time for anything else. But during the cold season (Dec-March) some folks try to grow veggies. "Cold" is a relative term. This week it was 111° F (43.8°C) in the shade.

I was thinking I should write up a little something for you about vegetable gardening, which is going on right now. Well, in case you're interested:

From December through March, when the temperatures are a little lower and there's not any farming to be done, many villagers plant vegetable gardens around the edges of seasonal ponds. By this time of year the ponds are dried up, but usually there are shallow wells nearby that have enough water to work with. In my village it's mostly women who do 'cold season vegetable gardening' ('noman rani', in Hausa), although there are several men who are using this time to transplant mangos, neem trees, and henna. In past years I hear that there were at least 30 women who gardened, but that number has dwindled to five because of frustrations with crops being ruined by errant grazers (and chickens). This year, it's Osuma, Narba, Hassana, Karima, and...me.

Most women plant the same things: tomatoes, hot peppers, cabbage, lettuce, and carrots. And, while they will take some of their wares home with them to eat, the majority of vegetables are grown with the intention to sell them either at the larger market in Illela or here in town. A nearby village, which has a great area fenced in for the gardeners, is already producing a ton of lettuce; on any given day I'll run into a young girl selling it out of a giant plastic bag on her head. It's cheap- 50 CFA (10 cents) for about 2 heads.

I planted a bunch of collards, zucchinis, and cucumbers. The collards and zucchinis weren't familiar to my fellow gardeners, but they've had cucumbers before. It'll be cool if everything makes it, although I'm skeptical about the collards' heartiness in such hot weather. I'll let you know how it goes.

We are washing lettuce in the hostel in Konni, and it is verrry dirty. Ate it anyway.

That's it for now...but more about gardening later.

A difference in the landscape

2009-03-08T10:24:00.000-07:00

Tree growing in a demi-lune
Photo credit: ICISAT (New Agriculturist)

It has been cool, and encouraging, to see the difference that the demi-lunes have made in our landscape. During a walk through them last week, Ibrahim pointed out how most of the trees planted are still alive, and how each crescent grew a healthy bunch of green grass this year, which has long since dried up and is now golden tangles of hay. Ultimately, the entire area will be used for grazing and the harvesting of fodder for the region's animals.

I'd originally thought that the ultimate goal would be to use the space for farmland, but that is not the case: in our region at least, the crescents are used specifically to bring back the long-lost savannah landscape that makes the free-roaming herding lifestyle of the region possible. The addition of Gum Arabic trees to the landscape seems to me a bit of a wild card; the intention there is part reforestation, part income generation (the gum produced by the trees can be sold). Goats, sheep, and cattle aren't allowed to enter the area yet- and won't be for another couple of years, until the trees are big enough to survive being grazed on themselves. But eventually, what was once just an enormous flat disc of hardpan will produce a ton of gorgeous green fodder.

Wow who knew there was so much to say about demilunes....

Demi-lunes and land reclamation

2009-03-04T06:35:00.000-08:00

These photos show the digging of banquettes at the edge of town. Banquettes serve the same function as demi-lunes: to make the hardpan soils usable. Last photo is a demi-lune.

As you can imagine, Niger's climate, topography, and heavy land-use (grazing) provide a perfect situation for the formation of hardpan, and there are miles upon miles of it throughout the country. One method of land reclamation--i.e. turning unproductive land into something greener-- is the building of demi-lunes: the digging out of large, 5-meter long, 1-foot deep crescent shaped holes in the hardpan's hard shell. A sapling- usually Gum Arabic- then gets planted in the space. Typically, hundreds to thousands of demi-lunes are dug at a time, in the interest of improving large swaths of land. The crescents are aligned to catch rainwater that would otherwise race off, giving it a place to soak in and hang out for awhile. In time, seeds of grasses and shrubs also get caught in the crescents, take root, and spread. The effect is impressive; you can look out on acres upon acres of the demi-lunes and see bright green, lush crescents standing out against the otherwise rusty beige color of hardpacked earth.

We have over 9,000 demi-lunes in my immediate area; all of them were dug in the last 3 years by the men, women, and kids of my village and a couple of surrounding villages. It's back-breaking work- imagine chopping at a parking lot for a few hours in the sun. Blah. When I arrived last year, people were in the midst of a big demi-lune project, and I joined in to dig three big pits of my own. Each one took me about 2 hours, I think, and I had to wait a week between each of them for my patheticallly soft, blistered hands to heal enough for me to go back. The project was paid for by an Italian NGO, COSPE, which paid 250CFA per demi-lune (about 50 cents).

Hardpan

2009-03-02T06:22:00.000-08:00

At the edge of town

The combination of strong wind, lack of vegetation, baking heat, and overgrazing have the unfortunate effect of turning what may have once been tillable soil into a solid, impenetrable surface called hardpan. You can't do much with hardpan- it's as hard and smooth as a parking lot, and extremely difficult to transform into something arable. Wind blows away any seeds or sediments that could potentially rehabilitate the soil, and heavy rains in the summer run off the polished surface, sometimes carving out big gouges in the landscape but never soaking in.

Sweet homecoming (Part 2)

2009-02-27T07:19:00.000-08:00

1/14/09
So, yeah it's pretty sweet to be back. The stress of dividing up gifts and handing out treats (which is expected of any returned traveler, not just me) was outweighed by the pleasure in people's faces when they received them. Thank you--you know who you are--for helping me pick out all of the kids' clothes, candy, bracelets, flashlights, beads, lotion, pencils, everything. I've seen more delighted, surprised faces in the last two days than in a whole decade of birthdays. And I tell you, for folks who don't have a mirror to see themselves in, getting a photo of themselves is one of the most exciting and beguiling things imaginable. It's hard for me to know what it must be like; many people seem to recognize themselves in photos only by their clothes. I guess that's how it is if you haven't had many opportunities to see yourself.

The guys--those who are still here are probably a tenth of the normal number; the rest are on work exode--are especially into talking about the snow and coldness right now. (One of the times I called Ayuba while I was in Oregon was during a huge snowstorm, and he was super interested). They also want to know all about Obama, how long it takes me to get home, and whether or not I'll take them with me next time.

The gals are all preoccupied with whether or not I got married while I was home. Apparently many of them are convinced that was my primary objective of the trip--and to be fair, I had joked about it a couple of times. It's been too bad to disappoint them with my ongoing unmarried status, but I have comforted them somewhat with photos of my guy friends (all of whom are "hot!" according to 100% of poll-takers.)

These village men were happy to give advice before I left ("Teach your parents Hausa!"), and even happier to see me return.

Sweet homecoming (Part 1)

2009-02-24T07:07:00.000-08:00

Moussa, driving the Land Rover

January 18, 20009
I've been back in the village for just 2 1/2 days and it already feels like I never left. In the days before arriving here: on the plane, in Niamey, then Konni, my head was a jumble of people and places. Parents, family, brothers, friends, dogs...Oregon, Wisconsin, Ohio...as I got closer and closer to this home, another crowd started mingling with that ever-present smorgasbord of America. Enter Niger: adoptive parents x 50, adoptive family x 100, brothers and sisters x 500, friends ('cause everyone here is your friend) x 40 gazillion. I spent a few days feeling pretty homesick, but gradually the loving hum of my village got louder and louder, and finally I arrived. The "welcome back" process has been like no other, a constant barrage of "How's your family? How are your parents? Your dad? Your mom? Your little brother? Your older brother? Eliza? Anika? Lucy? Their moms? (They've taken a special fond interest in my little-girl relatives; I explained "Fairy God Belayer" and it came across like I'm a child-crazy witch.) People I hardly know at all--some whom I've never talked with, much less recognize--are coming up to welcome me back. It is really, really cool.

One of my favorite moments of my whole time here was when Moussa drove me up to my house. You can hear cars from quite a way off, and there are seldom any around, ever, so people in town knew that someone was coming. They also all recognize Moussa's car-- a standard white Land Rover--so they knew it was me coming. Driving through the village was like being in a parade: a one-car parade, with throngs of kids shouting my name, and adults leaping out of courtyards to wave and join in the bustle. I wanted to throw candy, it was so festive.

And then, the kicker--we pulled up by my house and I spied Narba across the crowd She was all wrapped in her red shawl, carrying a bowl of sweet potatoes on her head. I got out and pushed through everybody to reach her, and she gave me a hug. A real hug. I may not have mentioned this before--villagers don't hug; I've never seen a single hug this whole time. Never, not in sad times or happy times, ever. But Narba gave me one!

I cried, obviously.

My relationship with dogs

2009-02-20T06:57:00.000-08:00

It is a 9 mile walk to get to the paved road where I can catch a bush taxi when I need to get to Konni. This dog likes to follow much of the way, and it's nice to have the company.

1/8/09
My relationship with dogs, as you can probably guess, is different from that of most Nigeriens. Like them, I steer clear of all dogs I don't know, and I don't attempt to treat any dog here like I would an "American dog." However I am quick to curl up with the handful of dogs that I trust. There are four of those: two in my village, and two in Konni at the hostel. It's nice to bring that side of me out; dogs, after family and friends, are the coolest.

At the hostel in Konni, chilling with one of the dogs (and clutching some cheese from a care package)

Camel tracks

2009-02-14T05:13:00.000-08:00

Photo: Alex Gva

Camel tracks look like big hearts.

Dog owners in Niger

2009-02-12T06:46:00.000-08:00

1/8/09
There are dog owners in Niger, but this is almost always for watchdog purposes and not for companionship. It is common for people to have a few dogs for hunting, too, if they live in rural areas. "Dog ownership" here means that you feed a dog; it doesn't mean that you touch it. Puppies, as an exception, get toted around by kids, and there are exceptions to the "no touch" rule, but definitely the understanding is that dogs are not for hanging out with. They aren't leashed, and tend to spend their time wandering around town, napping in the shade, or begging in the vicinity of a butcher. For the most part, people just leave them alone, and they learn early on to do the same towards people. On the occasion that a dog gets too close to a person or to a person's food, you can expect something to be thrown at said dog (flipflop, rock, sand). Otherwise, dogs are pretty much ignored. There are stray dogs too, especially in the city, but in the villages usually any dog you see belongs to one family or another.

I haven't gotten to see any hunting dogs in action, but I hope I get to. A guy in a nearby village has three or four dogs he uses to hunt rabbits; he said I can accompany him someday, as long as I can run fast to keep up. Not sure what that suggests...do I have to catch the dog? An injured rabbit? I will let you know.

Dogs

2009-02-08T07:28:00.000-08:00

This is the dog that likes to follow me out of town.

1/8/09
A bit about dogs. Most of the dogs here look like a distinct breed. I've only ever seen two or three exceptions to this seemingly standard dog; fortunately the canine majority is not only an attractive sort, but also is generally sweet-tempered and affectionate. Probably a dog or two has shown up in random photos that I've sent home. It most certainly looked like this: skinny and tall with the lanky, lean form of a greyhound or a saluki, a long snout, eyes lined in black, giving it a Disney character/Egyptian look, with a tan or reddish body.*

When healthy, these guys are gorgeous: shiny and strong and fast.

Mama and puppy in Hamdallaye

*[This breed may be known in Europe and the US as the Sloughi, or is at least very closely related to it. KB]

Henna in Niamey

2009-02-02T08:43:00.001-08:00

Here are some photos of the henna I had done in Niamey in December.

Henna

2009-01-27T07:02:00.000-08:00

Habi gave me some really cool henna at the end of Ramadan.

1/27/08

There are several ways to experience the art of henna, and all of them involve a lot of sitting down and waiting. In rural villages, the leaves of the lale plant are picked, dried, and pounded into a fine powder, then mixed with a little water to make a soft paste. You spread the paste (or have someone help you) all over the bottoms of your feet; you can also stencil in designs using electric tape. That sounds confusing-- I will explain-- see, you peel off a bunch of tape, stick it to a metal bowl, and then use a razor to cut out the design you want. Then you stick the strip of tape along the side of your foot or on your hand, and put the henna paste on top of it. It's also typical to dye the tips of your fingers and the palm of your hand. Next, paste in place, you tie plastic bags over your hands and feet, to keep in the moisture. Then you sit and sit and sit, until your skin becomes a satisfactory orange. This takes an hour or two. If you have really thick callouses, the color shows up very well; I guess the dead skin can soak it up better. Next, you untie yourself, and wash off all of the leafy paste. You mix wood ash and ammonium salt with water, which makes a black, smelly paste. This gets smeared on the same places, you get tied up again, and then you sit some more. Eventually your henna will turn black! Very cool.

In cities, there are more modern ways to get henna done. I just tried one new kind, which turned out so beautifully...I wish it could last longer! In this technique, a very creative, steady-handed, Mysterious Woman squeezes black goo onto your hands and feet, making gorgeous designs of your choosing. In my case, I just pointed at other women around and asked for designs like theirs. After said Woman has finished, you sit for a long time. No plastic bags required, a bonus side to this type of henna. Then, you wash off all of the black goo (what IS that black goo?), and think "oh my God it didn't work" because the designs are so faint. But wait! Mysterious Woman has another trick up her sleeve. Now, you stick your arms into a giant clay jar, which has burning coals in the bottom. The mouth of the jar is stuffed closed with cloth, so that all of the smoke stays inside and swirls around your hands. After a few additions of more smoky coals, your henna turns dark, delicious black, and you are awestruck by your sudden beauty.

A scene on the airplane

2009-01-22T07:19:00.000-08:00

1/8/09
The flight from Casablanca to Niamey: while we loaded the plane I was sitting in my seat observing everybody come on board. There was a whole crowd of 20 or 30 people who were on their way back from Mecca--mostly men, but several women, and a few kids. Most of them were dressed in giant floating white robes, and shawls, and many were carrying golden tea kettles and urns. It was quite a scene, all of these pristine white-gold beings filling in the aisles. The magic of it all, however, was then compromised because the seat-assignment regime on airlines is not familiar to people who are accustomed to clawing their way into any available space in the back of a truck. I could tell this was becoming an issue because they each sat in the first empty seat, and no one was looking at their tickets...and then it seemed that many of them were not literate, so they had no way of knowing their seat number anyway.

Everyone handled the whole situation really well--those of us who can read and who know how seating works, helped get people into the right places. It was pretty awesome--and frankly very entertaining--to see this crowd adjust to a completely foreign situation. I especially loved how the women were balancing their suitcases on their heads and still navigating the narrow, crowded aisles. Seeing that gives me courage. It's a reminder that it's fine to do what you know, to not let being different get in the way of doing what you want to do.

Konni hostel

2009-01-16T07:56:00.000-08:00

Konni volunteers, at least some of them

Net-covered beds at the Konni hostel

Volunteers in my region come in to the Konni hostel once a month or so to pick up mail, write grants on the computer there, check Peace Corps email addresses, and of course, to catch up on one another. Sometimes there are workshops at the hostel. Hopefully, budget cuts won't eliminate the hostels...they are on the chopping block.

Contemplating the turkey, sadly, at the Konni hostel, Thanksgiving, 2008

Just a little later...big dinner prepared by PCVs on Thanksgiving, 2008, at the Konni hostel. There are a bunch of great new volunteers in the area.

Home cooking

2009-01-10T10:06:00.000-08:00

I eat dinner with Narba's family three or four times a week. It's usually tuwo, sometimes wake (cowpeas), and a couple of times we've had dankali (sweet potatoes). Narba and I sit together, a bowl of food shared between us. The rest of the time, I cook for myself. I eat breakfast while sitting on the front stoop of my hut (usually oatmeal if the store in Konni is selling it). Lunch is usually couscous or noodles with available veggies. I buy couscous in Tahoua, noodles from Ibrahim or Ado, and vegetables from the Illela market if they've got any.

A meal of dehydrated potatoes & veggies, cooked over my propane stove

From May through August, I couldn't find any fresh veggies, and relied heavily on those that I dried previously and dehydrated veggies from home. Dinner is the same. Sometimes I have company for meals; anyone who comes over while I'm cooking is subject to it! They like a lot of what I make, but nothing tops hura.

What we eat and how it's made

2009-01-06T08:54:00.000-08:00

In the couple of weeks that I've been home for Christmas, I've gotten a lot of questions about what I eat in Niger, and about what everybody else eats, on a normal day. The curiosity is mutual! People in my village are also keen to know what it is that we eat in the States, and I am asked about it all of the time. They guess that Americans eat a ton of meat, bread, and rice- a pretty accurate guess if you ask me! I'll try to shed some more light on the typical diet for rural Nigeriens, and also on mine.

So, first: as alluded to in previous letters, Nigeriens eat millet, every day. In my area, it is usually the only thing eaten. It comes in two main forms: as hura or as tuwo. Hura is a millet+milk=water porridge that is drunken from midmorning until night- basically, whenever you're hungry or thirsty, you take a few gulps of hura. Tuwo is a thicker millet meal that is hardier and more solid than hura; it's served with sauce made from any available ingredients (usually dried okra, dried tomato, garlic, and salt, plus any dried leaves gathered in the fields). Tuwo isn't made every day; it takes longer to prepare than hura.

The making of either hura and tuwo for a family of 10 people takes anywhere between 3 and 4 hours when the labor is shared by two or three women. A really long time. In the example of hura, you have to: 1. Carry a bundle of millet stalks from your granary to the threshing area (threshing areas are communal spaces, usually on the edge of the village, where women work together with women from other families). (10-20 minutes) 2. Beat the stalks with a stick to separate the millet from the stalks. (20-30 mins) 3. Beat the millet chaff off of the seed using a large pounder or a long stick. (20-30 mins) 4. Separate the chaff from the seed by using the wind to blow away the chaff. (20-30 mins) 5. Take the seed from the threshing area to your home. (10-15 mins) 6. Pound the seed to remove the husk. (20-30 mins) 7. Wash the husk away in water, which is then given to the animals to drink. (15-20 mins) 8. Pound the husk-less seed (the germoplasm) into a course flour. (15-20 mins) 9. Roll the coarse flour into large balls and boil them to soften them up. (15-20 mins) 10. Pound the boiled flour balls with a little bit of water until they make a solid lump of dough. (10-15 min) 11. Mash the dough in a bowl of cow's milk, add water and hot pepper, and voila! It's ready.

The sound of millet being pounded is a constant one; I can hear it before the sun comes up every morning. I'm sure you wonder what it actually looks like, so here's some video of Zuera and Mariama .

Visiting home!

2008-12-30T10:53:00.000-08:00

Grandpa and me, a few minutes after the surprise. We are soooo happy.

I came home for Christmas! I flew in a couple of weeks ago, all braided-and-hennaed up, and have a few days left before heading back to Niger. And what a trip this has been... my younger brother helped me buy a ticket in secret- we are so sneaky!- but I couldn't contain the secret for longer than a week, and I spilled the beans to my folks. We did, collectively, manage to keep the surprise for my grandpa, age 90, who also came out to Oregon for the holidays! Thank you, Bliss family, for coordinating all of this!

It's been wonderful to be home. Lots of walks and runs, lots of good food, lots of time with family and friends. It hasn't been strange or scary being back; it's been a warm, familiar reminder of what a strong and loving family I have backing me up. I guess next year it'll be harder, when I actually have to adjust to living here again. Before I left my village, I had a conversation with Narba about how excited we both were for me to see my other home, and how it was 100% positive because we all know that I'll be coming back to Niger for another year. We sobered up quite a bit to think about how, next December, my leaving will feel terrible. But for now- it's been a dream!

And...who could've IMAGINED...my dear and amazing cousin is coming out TOMORROW to see me! I still cannot believe it, but she says it's true so goshdarnit let's rock n' roll. To all of you secret keepers out there: you are so awesome.

Thank you again to everyone who helped me get home and who has been in touch through the last year. It means the world to me! Happy New Year- may this one bring you health and peace.

Back to the land of snow and cellphones.

On a walk with Mom, Christopher, Grandpa, and Eddy.
Not pictured: Dad (camera duty), Ben (Japan duty) and Reuben (smelly things duty)

Girls' education

2008-12-27T09:18:00.000-08:00

Hadiza's primary school

As for my role as her sponsor PCV, I will visit Hadiza at least monthly, help arrange a tutor, bring her a stipend each month, and start a journal/semi-biography with her. I am so curious to know her and to know what she thinks and feels and needs...I think it may take months before she will be comfortable being totally open with me. Now she treats me like quite an authority figure and probably would say whatever she thinks I want to hear.

I know, I know, education is one of the first steps to self liberation, development, women's rights; I'm not about to make a case against educating anyone: knowledge is power. But consider and recognize that the process, the logistics, even, of becoming educated in this country, especially for a female, are very very formidable. Hadiza has to leave home, alone; she's the only girl to do so; all of her girlfriends will stay in the village and continue their lives as usual. She has to adjust to a new village, family, and school. She'd have to be pretty enlightened already to be content with this situation: who at 13 is happy to leave their peer group? So there is that. Then consider the Nigerien school system: a French system, with all courses taught in French (not the language used in homes or anywhere else in the villages), where memorization and recitation are all you do, and critical/independent thinking and creativity aren't fostered. Corporal punishment is the primary form of discipline, not just for misbehavior, but also as a means of academic correction.

Now consider the long term social implications for an educated female in this country, where most women marry as girls, at age 16-18. Hadiza, if she succeeds amidst the challenges mentioned above, will have to face the stigma that educated women are less desirable as wives--the assumption being that they are too independent (willful and also financially independent), too strong-minded/stubborn/assertive, and too old to marry: all unattractive qualities to many Nigerien men.

Even as there are national campaigns to promote girls' education, there is not a "place," a culturally and socially appropriate, desirable place, for educated adult women. That takes time. An educated, open-minded Nigerien male friend of mine told me that in a recent TV campaign for girls' ed, several female "role models" were presented as examples of what you can become if you, too, go to school:
1. A pop singer (who dresses like a westerner, and therefore looks totally unpresentable and slutty.)
2. A teacher (unmarried, living at home with parents)
3. A woman with a high-powered government job (divorced, living at home with her parents)
So, as much as the ad was supposed to show "successful" educated women, it actually just reinforced the stereotype that educated women are unmarriageable, inappropriate, burdensome drains on their parents. So. In Niger, marriage is a huge rite of passage, celebrated as much or more as any holiday, and 1/2 of the ultimate achievement a woman can possibly make: having lots of babies.

I think maybe I've made my point...just that getting girls in school is tough, keeping them there is tough, and showing them that it is going to improve their lives is tough--and in the view of many, not even true.