Starting Over

Sarah and me going to the fistula clinic in the capital

Horns honking, bright lights, and greetings in French. Living in the capital is much different than living in a village. I work on a computer everyday. I have to dodge traffic as I cross the street (paved streets, I might add). Mind you, some things are the same: children yelling "anasara," or "white person," and women selling fari masa, donut-like sweets, and rice and beans on the streets. But the nightsky has become a bit of a disappointment, and I am no longer greeted by people that know me. No more "Ina kwana, Baraka?" as I step outside my door in the fresh still morning.

There are very few familiar faces. At times, the city feels lonely and cold. Yet, the breath of vitality and pace stir up inside of me a zest for my work and my life. Since coming only a week ago, I have been to several concerts. I have danced with a traveling African dance troop. I have met interesting people such as an Australian photojournalist who has traveled the world and opened a restuarant in Niamey. I have eaten a croque-monsieur at a Lebanese-owned sandwich shop. I bought a pair of jeans at the grand-marche for only two dollars. Obviously, life is different. I am getting to taste a new flavor of Niger, figuratively and quite literally.

I've realized how within a country, there are so many cultures, layers of society, and often when we travel, we only get to see one layer, and even then there's more to it. Even in America, I have never lived in a rural area. I have no concept of everyday life for farmers in Northeastern Colorado.

So, here it is. A chance to see it all. Now, in my third location since starting Peace Corps, I can once again compare/contrast the nuances of the cultural layers. From Tama, a socially conservative, isolated village to Guecheme, a more developed community rooted deeply in animism, and now, Niamey, where I am trying to learn some Zarma (spoken more in this region than Hausa) and settling down once again amidst the hustle and bustle.

Saying Goodbye to my Village

Salaamatou, a witch doctor, and my friend

Moving to the City

After a year in my second village, I am picking up and moving again...this time to the capital. I will be living in a house with a stove, toilet and ceiling fans, a plush life for a Peace Corps volunteer. It will be quite a change transitioning from watching quiet sunsets and writing in my journal everyday to hearing honking taxis and the hustle and bustle of the grand marche. But with change comes opportunity for growth and new adventures, so here's hoping for a smooth ride for the last nine months of my service. My new address is:

Kathryn Evans, PCV
Corps de la Paix
B.P.10537
Niamey, Niger
West Africa

Photos

Traditional Wrestling in my village

Peace Corps Dinner

Host Family (Village Chief and his two wives)

My cat, Zirga, and me

My farming hat

Hair experiment

Fulani celebration with hyena

View from my house

As the Sun Sets

As the sun sets amidst the Baobob tree silhouettes,
the sky becomes ablaze with an orange sorbet glow.
Smoke curls from fires cooking nighttime meals emitting a salty smell into the air.
Bats navigate the sky searching for a fruit tree where they can perch for the night.
As dark swallows the light, mosquitoes emerge along with a plethora of crawling creatures who will skulk away at sunrise.
The trees shimmer drinking in their last sips of the day's light.
Leaves flutter like ballerinas, dancing in the gentle winds.
A chorus of frogs begin to croak, crickets chirp, the call to prayer resounds in the town.
The sounds envelop the ears.
As day melts into night, there lies a sweet peace, one that softens the soul, enlivens the spirit, and puts breath into the body.

Ramadan

On August 11th, Muslims started fasting for Ramadan. From sunrise to sunset, they do not eat, drink or even swallow their own spit. Without much thought, I decided it would be a rich cross- cultural endeavor to fast with my villagers. So, I commenced fasting the following day. I thought that day was never going to end. My stomach felt like it was going to collapse and my mouth felt parched like a desert wind. I tried to occupy myself by sweeping my house, doing several sudoku puzzles and reading. Finally at 7:10p.m. I broke fast with my host family. "Barka da sha ruwa!" they greeted me (meaning "Greetings on drinking water"). Then, one of the women handed me a cup of tea, followed quickly by juice, then water and lastly a porridge millet drink. I already felt full, and we hadn't even eaten. So, then I took a few deep breaths before eating. Spinach and peanut butter. Then bread and meat. Rice and sauce. Pineapple. I have never eaten better in Niger. I could barely walk to my house after the meal.

Each morning since then, I have awoken at 5 to the towncrier drumming and chanting to wake people to prepare and eat breakfast prior to the first call to prayer. Drowsiness and darkness and a lack of appetite discourage me from preparing real sustenance, so I shovel a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter in my mouth, wash it down with a glass of water and return to bed. Some days of fasting are harder then others. Bright sunshine brings sweat and thirst. But rain and clouds give me respite and make the thirst much more bearable. I try to rest for the hottest hours in the mid-afternoon. This replensishes me just enough to maintain a friendly disposition. Otherwise, crabiness lurks around 5p.m. and all it takes is one annoying youngster chasing me on the street for me to start yelling....well, this has only actually happened a couple of times.

To my surprise, the most challenging aspect of Ramadan has not been thirst, hunger or exhaustion, but rather answering the brigade of questions. "Are you becoming a Muslim? Do you pray? Do you pray at the mosque? Will you continue fasting after you return to America? Does your family know you fast?" As I said, I hadn't put much forethought into participating in Ramadan, so their questions caught me a little off guard and made me really ponder why I am fasting and what I can learn from it. More than anything, I have appreciated the commradery with my villagers and breaking fast with my host family has brought us closer together. They greet me on my efforts and I have a little more understanding of their committment to Islam. Ramadan has reminded me that food, water, health and family are, regardless of creed and beliefs, true blessings and things that should never be taken for granted in America, Niger or anywhere in the world.

Girl's Conference

In ten days, six volunteers (myself included), traveled to five villages to lead a young girl's conference for selected middle school students. Despite rain, rats and raging ants, the conferences were a success. Each of us presented different subjects to the girls with the overall objective of encouraging the girls to continue their studies and to set aspirations for their futures. Through mediums of theater, music, games, lectures, demonstrations and guest speakers from the respective communities, the girls were engaged and active in discussing women's issues and in forming bonds with each other. My personal favorite was playing duck duck goose, or as we called it, "kaza kaza zabo" (meaning "chicken chicken guinea fowl"). The girls sprung up from the ground after hearing "zabo" and ran with gusto and speed, even in their long skirts. Personally, I had trouble running with the same brisk agility in my skirt.

We split the day up into four sessions: self-esteem/peer support, study skills, health and role models/future goals. The girls started the day discussing characteristics of an ideal Nigerien woman: smart, patient, fat, obedient and caring were among the most popular adjectives. Then, the girls acted out skits with prompts that we had given them representing challenges that girls face while trying to continue their studies. From early marriage to housework, the girls discussed solutions toward alleviating these cultural obstacles.

For my session, I discussed health issues such as nutrition, hygiene and family planning. With Niger having the highest fertility rate in the world (on average, a woman has 7 children), I focused most of my session on family planning, a concept that evokes shame amongst some conservative Muslims. I asked the girls how many children they wanted. One girl replied "bakwai" (seven), so I put seven "babies" (water balloons) in her arms. Another said three, so she got three. Then, the race began. An obstacle course representing life, in which I had the girls run while carrying(caring for) their balloon "babies." The girl with seven babies struggled and dropped three along the way, while her peer who had three easily finished ahead. I asked the girl who chose to have seven babies if she still wanted seven children. She shook her head no and gave a little smile, acknowledging the difficulty of caring for seven babies.

After the health session, women from the village talked to the girls about the importance of schooling, working and being independent. One was a perfume vendor, there were also teachers and nurses, and one woman who taught women how to sew goods to sell. I got chills listening to the women speak with such passion and poise. They are role models in their communities and reflect the start of a shift for women to become financially and socially independent. They will act as role models for these young girls long after each volunteer leaves his/her village. I will carry their stories with me for the rest of my life and be grateful for my opportunities and choices as a woman.

After the women spoke, we gave each of the girls certificates and thanked them for attending. The opportunity to interact with these smart, passionate girls inspired me. I hope that, in exchange, each of them took away something from the day. Even though I will never really know the impact we truly had, I take solace in knowing that if even one out of the 122 girls felt inspired in some way the way I did, the effort was well worth it.

Dressed in their Sunday Best

All dressed in their Sunday best, families walk to church. From my porch, sitting quietly in the morning, I can sometimes hear the congregation singing hymns. American missionaries, who lived in my village twenty some years ago, built, among other things, three evangelical churches and converted many people in town.

I went to one service, curious to see what a Christian service, conducted in Hausa, within a predominantly Muslim country would look like. The pasteur stood confidently at the simple wooden pulpit, dressed in a shiny white robe, delivering his sermon to the engaged mass, women on one side and men on the other (I sat in the middle, oblivious to the gender seat assignments). After the sermon, the altar boys passed around the eucharist, a sweet biscuit and some pungent fruit drink. The service closed with the men and women singing in succinct harmony. In fact, except for the fact that the service was in Hausa, it felt like any other Sunday church service I have attended.

In contrast, yesterday after the four o'clock call to prayer, wearing their Sunday best, crowds of people walked to the edge of town for a spirit possession ceremony. Filled with anticipation, I crouched on a mat, crowded by women and children, but protected from the scorching sun by the shade of a towering tree. There next to me in the circle of people, three drummers used sticks held together by colorful pieces of cloth, to beat the outside of calabash bowls. Behind them one man shook a gourd filled with beans and another glided a branch across a string producing a fiddle-like melody.

Two women and three men entered the circle, wearing red and black cloth, headscarves and leather belts decorated with dangling tassled cowry shells and mirrors. They began to circulate the space, pulsating their upper torsoes while throwing their arms up in the air, haulting occasionally to scream. After they all congregated to the center of the circle, encompassed by geometric designs that had been etched into the sand, they started sobbing. Their weeping wails intensified with each pulsating movement, until one of the men fainted onto the hot sand. Simultaneously, several women from the crowd of onlookers, rose in a trance-like state, pulsating their heads with their eyes shut. One of the women who rose, took long strides around the circle, periodically diving onto the ground landing on her knees. Then, with a breaststroke motion began shoveling sand onto her face and rubbing sand in her eyes, as if she was bathing in it.

A cloud of dust emerged and enveloped the trees and clouded the glowing sun. In the hazy mist, villagers removed the belts and scarves off the bodies that had been possessed. Their faces, drenched with sweat and tears, had stopped twitching, their bodies stood still as they greeted the crowd and then finally left the circle.

Minutes later, evoked by the drums, villagers started dancing. I was invited by my friend, Salaamatou, to enter the drumming circle. As I did, a flood of nerves made me nautious, particularly with hundreds of eyes watching to see whether or not their new foreign villager, had a shred of rhythmic capability. With two quick steps I started flapping my arms and pushing out my rear, in an effort to simulate what I had learned in Africa dance classes years prior. No more than thirty seconds of dancing, and a mob of women and children closed in on me, smiling brightly and greeting me on my movements. Overwhelmed and unable to move, Salaamatou grabbed my hand to lead me out of the circle. Finally able to take a deep breath, I realized that the mob, like me, had also followed Salaamatou's lead. So, she ran over to a fence, grabbed a stick and held it in the air threatening to beat the followers. Effectively, they all ran away. Then, as the sun set, Salaamatou held my hand and smiled, dancing in her step. As I tapped my feet in unison with her, I felt relieved that I made it through my first spirit possession ceremony.

Coming Home

I was so anxious about going back to my village after being at training for a month and only having spent one month prior to that in my new town. I didn't feel like I had deeply integrated into the community quite yet. I wondered if, in fact, my villagers would even remember my Hausa name or why I came in the first place.

Yet, after the journey from Niamey, I got out of the taxi and was immediately greeted by my mayor and the soda guy. So, I sat on a bench with them and sipped my cold coke and laughed as they teased me that my neck had grown to resemble that of a horse after eating in plenty at the training site for three weeks. Then, walking home from the market, I exchanged many greetings and warm smiles with my villagers. They all asked "Kin zo lahiya?" (Did you return in health?) In health, I replied. They told me they were happy about my return and may Allah give me good luck on my work here. What a relief. ..they remembered me and seemed pleased upon my return.

Now, as I am sitting watching the sunset and listening to the guinea fowl squawk while Zirga, my cat, is curled up in my lap, I feel like I am home for the first time in my new village.

Rhythms of Niger

5:30 A.M. I wake to the melodic call to prayer, boys in the streets beating their drums, women pounding millet and corn, and even the crickets chirp in rhythmic unison. The rhythm of daily life in Niger has become part of my heartbeat and soul. At first, the rhythms sounded deafening. Now I feel as if I have become part of the song. I sometimes enjoy the sounds of kids chasing me down the street, the loud squaks from the guinea fowl who rest along my concession wall at dusk, and the shrilling wimpers of a nearby donkey. The symphony of animals, children and villagers compose a song, shaping the melody and the heart of Niger. A song that I am learning to dance to in rhythm with the language, the people and the culture.

Where Happiness Lies

Never have I felt pangs of hunger. Never have I not known where I would lay my head to sleep at night. I have always had nice clothes and things. I have had the time and the means to get an education. Why me? I was fortunate to be born in a country where, even though I am a woman, I can go to school and marry whom I choose and when I choose. I have lots of choices, opportunities and access. One of the villagers in my town spoke to me about his wife, Zenibou, who cooks over smoke for hours each day and then goes to the water well twice a day and waits in line for hours sometimes to fill her buckets with water. In the U.S., I eat and drink everyday never really appreciating the access I have to these basic necessities. I have never faced the hardships that my neighbors, friends and colleagues have faced all of their lives.

Upon reflection, guilt creeps over me, like a dark shadow. To compensate, I find myself making it a point to express to my villagers that I have school loans and that Peace Corps does not give me a lot of money since I am a volunteer. The reality is that I have more money than most of the people in Niger, just from my living stipend. Many villagers tell me that they want to go to America, where there is money and education and opportunity. I respond by telling them that Niger is wonderful and they should stay in their country. Who am I to tell them they should want to stay here?

Yet, despite a lack of money, opportunity and access, most of the Nigeriens I have interacted with appear and say that they are genuinely content with their lives. My Nigerien friend, Rabi, very poignantly told me that people in Niger are happy because they have so few possessions and things in their life. They focus on family, religion, and greeting people in their community. Maybe they can process more, feel more and understand more about themselves and others because they do not have things to clutter their lives, to detract from what is important. After this conversation, my pangs of guilt that I have felt before morphed into a feeling of envy. I found myself wishing that I could live a day when I do not think about things or money or wanting something, rather than just being content with all that I have.

I have been struck and surprised by the fact that Nigeriens are very willing to give their things to others, demonstrating a genuine generosity despite the fact that most of the Nigerien population has very little in terms of material goods. I think their kindness and generous spirit has evolved from their lack of attachment. I hope to absorb the genuine spirit of generosity, let go of thoughts of things, thoughts that detract from being content with the moment and human interaction as well as everyday experiences. Maybe happiness lies within each of us. The key to happiness could be as simple, yet as difficult, as just being.

Photos

Life and Death

At 5:30 am, I awoke to wailing. A woman and her children sobbing hysterically across the street. The old woman, referred to as "tsohuawa"-meaning old woman in Hausa, who lives there with her daughter had been ill with a cold. I found out that afternoon she was having difficulty breathing and went to the hospital. When I went to visit, the woman laid in agony, curled up on a bed as her friends and family sat on the cold ground beside the bed listening and watching her attentively. After sitting there a while, waiting outside the old woman's room, a nurse invited me into a room across the courtyard where a young woman curled up on a bed breathing quicker and quicker with each contraction. Just a few steps from where a woman is fighting to live, another is birthing life. As the sun set, I left the hospital. I will wake in the morning wandering if a child was born and if a woman died. As life comes and goes, Nigeriens digest it all. Since they believe that Allah controls life and death, mortals cannot control the cycle. The next morning, when I opened my gate, a cluster of men sat in silence in front of tsohuawa's house. I saw them and knew the woman had died in the night. Traditionally, when someone dies, men sit in front of the house and women gather in the concession, waiting for people to come pay their respects. I kneeled before the men, bowing my head slightly, as I greeted them. "Ina kwana" (how was your sleep), followed by "Allah ba mu hankuri"- "May Allah give us patience"- the phrase I remembered reading in my Hausa study manual that one utters after a death. After greeting the men, I entered the concession. Even after knowing the old woman only a few weeks, it was strange to not see her sitting under the tree and shelling peanuts as she had done everyday. Instead, ten women, heads down, greeted my coming. I kneeled and returned their greetings. Death, such a big part of life. A difficult part of life, but one that is engrained in a country where the average lifespan is 45 years old and children die everyday from malnutrition. We know not when or where or who. All we can do is appreciate the moments that grace us each and every day no matter where we are.