Shooting Stars

I left for Niger about five months ago. In that time, I have completed training, moved to a village, evacuated my village, lived in Niamey and am now preparing to move to a new village. In that short time, I have met so many interesting people, both fellow volunteers and Nigeriens. It's remarkable the way people come in and out of our lives. Some people who we have only spent a few mere moments with can forever change the way we see the world, like the people of Tama. I have only a few photos of them and will never see them again. Yet, they are forever in my heart, their faces etched in my mind. I won't forget the way Fatchima, the old woman from next door, greeted me every morning at 8, and the way Maryama would grasp my hand when I said something that made her laugh. I won't forget Bori from the hospital who joked that he would give me an airplane and 100 camels for my hand in marriage. I treasured moments drinking tea with the guard at the mayor's office, holding Issoufou, Maryama's baby, and listening to BBC news on the radio with the old men that sat outside of the mosque. These people were shooting stars, glimpses of brilliant light that made me realize that the world is beautiful and people are kind. Even though I only spent two months in Tama, a speck in the spectrum of my life, I will never forget the patience, kindness and strength that the villagers exuded.

Photos

Photos July-December 2009 in Niamey and Tama

New Town

I am moving to my new village in a week. I am excited to start anew and am hopeful that life in my new village will be fulfilling and adventuresome. I will be posted in the Dosso region. Here is my new mailing address:

Kathryn Evans, PCV
Corps de la Paix
B.P. 144
Dosso, Niger
West Africa

Hands of a Nation

Their touch tough and coarse like the mud houses in which they live.
Calloused and dry like the sandy rocks making up the narrow pathways of their village.
Splintered by the wood they use to pound the millet stalk.
Wrinkled, weathered and worn from the sun and the sand.
Jagged pieces of skin, adrift from the palm like a rusted nail emerges from rotted wood.
Charcoaled and crisp like the rocks that sizzle under the cooking pots.
Hands weathered from the 'wahala' of women's work.
Dawn til dark, the women pound the millet, carry the wood and buckets filled with water, farm millet and corn, and tear branches from the trees.
Their hands constantly in motion, constantly at work,
The same hands that gently latch their babies to their breasts for milk.
The same hands that come together to pray five times a day.
The same hands that glide through the soapy water to wash their sequined scarves.
These are the hands that feed the nation.

Barka da Salla

Today was Tabaski, the biggest Islamic holiday of the year. Muslims buy their sheep months or even a year before the holiday to take care of the animal before killing it. By raising the sheep and then killing the animals themselves, Muslims believe they gain an appreciation for the blessing because they have not only cared for the being but also seen the pain that it endured when being killed. The streets were filled with sheep carcasses roasting over massive fires. The smoke formed a mist of smoke that draped over the city. The women dressed in fine clothing with lace and sequins. Little girls smiled in their flowery dresses and little boys in suits. Men lit charcoal to heat water for their tea. Piles of sheep heads stacked aside the flames. The heads will be prepared and cooked tomorrow, and the bodies today. One of the houses I went to for the celebration had three skinned sheep bodies leaning against a mud wall. My friends and I had the priviledge of carving the meat with a butcher knife directly from the bodies. The shoulder meat was tender but a little tough, like jerky. I prefered the brain meat over the shoulder, which was juicy and tender. Then, I sampled the heart meat, and that surpassed them all. It had been coated with a spicy marinade and was cooked to perfection. I did not eat much of the fried intenstinal parts, and I particularly did not like the liver. With my belly filled to the brim, I watched the sun set amidst the black tree silhouettes, hovering over the Niger River, encompassed by a fire haze. Barka da Salla! (Hausa for "Happy Holiday.")

Get Up and Go

Two weeks ago, I had to leave my village for safety reasons after there was an attempted kidnapping north of my village. I was not allowed to return and could not say goodbye to the people who I had grown close with and who had shared their lives and homes with me for two months. After digesting the initial shock of the situation, I have decided that I want to continue serving in Niger. PC has been in constant communication with Washington Headquarters and the US Embassy and has decided it is safe for Peace Corps volunteers to continue work in the rest of the country. I am now in Niamey, waiting to be reassigned to a new village. City life is fast, and I have realized that I had grown accustomed to country life, where I never had to look for cars before walking and where I could greet everyone on the street as I strolled to the mayor's office. Now I have to wait and "Sai Hankuri" until I have a new village to start a brand new chapter. So, until further notice, please send any mail to the following address:

Kathryn Evans, PCV
BP 10537
Niamey, Niger
West Africa

Lost in Translation

Lost in translation-sometimes I do feel lost. Hausa and English are very different and it is difficult at times to not only be understood in language but in emotional expression as well. Hausa and English are starkly different languages both in terms of structure and in essence. Thank you. A pharse that Americans utter frequently. Hausa people, for the most part, do not say "thank you," and when I say it, people grin or even laugh at me. NO Hausa word for "please." Hausa is direct, "give,"come" "take" and "go." Quick, short, to the point. As Nigeriens shoot off one or two word phrases, I stumble through asking "Is there water?" "I am thirsty," skirting around what Nigeriens would say, which is "give me water." I feel uncomfortable demanding water without a "please" or "may I?" It sounds so abrupt, rude even. No polite way to cushion a demand. English has so many words to convey politeness to soften what we say. Words that convey how we feel, what we think and what we want or like. There are times when I find myself searching for a word, a way to express how I feel about something...but the words are not there. I get wordy, and I can read on the person's face to whom I am speaking that they have become lost in my Hausa, and not just the words, but why I feel the need to say what I am saying. Yet, Nigeriens say things that are glaringly obvious. When I arrive, they say "you are here." When I smile, they say "you are smiling." And, when I eat, they report to me, "you are eating." I think in my head "Of course, I am eating. You told me to eat and put the food infront of me." But instead I respond with "Yes, I am eating right now." Nigeriens paraphrase ideas in four, five or more ways. I was lost initially, lost in the jungle of words. I have realized though that if I understand the first sentence, I can understand it all.

It is frustrating to not be understood when speaking. Sometimes, despite my best efforts, the person listening to me stares at me with absolutely no recognition of what I am saying. It makes me feel alone, like I am screaming and waving my arms, yet no one can see or hear me. Language enables connection and recognition. To understand others and to be understood. To learn and to teach. Language can liberate. Language can demean. Sometimes, a villager will say to me "Babu Hausa," meaning "You don't know any Hausa." I immediately feel defeated and lost. Then an hour laterm I might hear "akwai Hausa sosai," meaning she hears Hausa very well. Ahh. My head perks up and I feel practically Nigerien. The power of words, expression, bringing people together and to life. As I continue to learn Hausa, I hope to draw a bridge so that I can find my place, feel better connected to the people, the culture and my community.