Every village of sufficient size has one day every week when the market area, built of wooden shade hangers and old, beaten trees fills past its limits with people selling everything imaginable. People come on foot, in bush taxi, donkey or cow cart, or in the back of trucks from near and far to haggle for the things they need. Some markets have only animals, and others only sandals and raw meat. But most, like my market, are a wonderful sight full of options and have a wonderful bustling energy. Farmers and herders come from far away with cucumbers, okra, potatoes, sweet potatoes, yams, sugarcane, hot peppers, salt, spices, herbs. City folk come out with medicines in boxes for every possible ailment, they bring from the market-rich regional capitals tomatoes, bananas, pineapples, mirrors, string, cell phones, oranges and watermelons. Herders, often of the Fulani ethnic group, dressed in winter hats and interesting vests, bring cattle, donkeys, goats and sheep. One might also find a camel for sale or a horse.
However, one does not go to the market expecting to find all of these things. They always have certain staple items but produce is hit-or-miss in almost every market, and prices have varied even over the four short months I have been here. At market nothing has a price of its own. Bardering is a skill learned very young, as well as selling for a profit. Kids spend a few hours out in the fields every day collecting weeds and other shrubs to bring back into town and sell as animal feed. Being a person who, because of my whiteness, is obviously chalk full of money, at least enough to have come here in a plane to begin with, I tend to encounter some ruthless bargainers. But those of you who know me well can see me walking away from many a sale instead of being ripped off and setting the stage for future rip-offs. My favorite line when given an obviously inflated price is "even for a Nigerien?" You scoundrel. We both smile and either I ask him to lower his price "because of Allah" and he does, or I find a different seller. One good advantage of markets here is that there is always more than one person selling any one item.
There is one man I am anxious to get to know, the Medicine Man. He has tinctures and teeth, pelts and poisons! When I get my language down I will discover his training, his lineage, his mysterious salves and perfumes! It took all my restraint not to buy the rock python skin, head and fangs included. It was beautiful. Who would have thought that my biggest predicament this week would be whether to buy a snakeskin or an oscillating fan...
Niger
Millet Fields in Rainy Season
Sunday, October 31, 2010
A Traveler No Longer
From October 6th, 2010:
It has been a little more than six days since my arrival at post but things have changed a lot in that short time. I was installed third out of four people scheduled to be installed that fateful Thursday. After hours of protocol, meeting regional and departmental level government figures, gendarme captains and heads of education we arrived at my site at 7pm. We unloaded everything off of the snorkel-equipped land cruiser and examined my new house. It is humongous! Five rooms and a space for washing as well. All the rooms have 12 to 13ft ceilings, the walls are made of concrete and the roof is sturdy tin. Instantly, I began imagining the myriad ways I might furnish and equip my house. An oscillating fan maybe, a couch of sorts, some tapestries...but what to do with all the rooms? A kitchen, yes, another one a bedroom, maybe a relaxation room or a lounge? So many possibilities. Later that night we had a meeting with all of my neighbors and some of the leaders of the women's groups and young people's organizations near my neighborhood. A Peace Corps official helped me communicate my needs and my ground rules regarding important topics like kids, water, food, and visitors. It was amazing. Another warm reception by the people of Niger, wonderful people.
I still have no couch as of today, or fan, or stove or gas tank, but I have a bed and a water filter, which is good. The lack of stove means that I have been eating food with my neighbor Halidou and his family. We don't eat 'with' the family, but they are around. I will assure everyone who has ever studied hospitality in the States that the level of hospitality endemic to the culture of Niger exceeds anything I have ever experienced. The first day upon going to the market Halidou bought me fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, kuli kuli (peanut butter without the oil, like hard biscuits) and bananas. He would not let me pay for anything. I tell him I love apples, too. But we found none. That night he knocks on my door and brings me scrambled eggs with tomatoes, onions, and peppers! I was in heaven. Long story short I was forced to get over my discomfort at all the money he was spending on my food because every day he brought me something better than the day before.
Then, last night he shows up at my door. "I've been looking for you all day." He says, and hands me a bag full of apples and guavas!!! First I thought they were miniature pears, but no, delicious ripe guavas. I didn't quite know how to eat a guava so trial and error ensued. I cleaned them and ate one after cutting off the nubs at each end, they were a rich pink inside and there were some really crunchy seeds. Later I asked if I had done rightly in eating the skin and was affirmed. Guavas are one of my new favorite fruits.
So my first dilemma was: why do I even leave my house if my food is brought to me and neighbors come visit every once in a while? The answer is obvious but has wild unforseeable consequences. I must go out and get to know the ville, starting with the people. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the first days are an exaggerated caricature of what every day will be like after the villagers get used to seeing me walking around. They say volunteers often experience the 'fishbowl effect.' Due to the preposterous amount of handshaking that goes on here in Niger, some of which last 60+ seconds, I will rename it the 'petting zoo effect.' A long handshake is now something I really enjoy and I realize it is indeed a sign of respect and admiration. But I must say, at the beginning it takes a lot of mental energy to understand how it works. I shook more hands in my first three days at ville than I did in all 4 years of college! I realized quickly that the market area, which straddles the road which goes all the way from Niamey in the West through Dosso, Maradi, Zinder, and to Diffa in the East, is the most overwhelming place I can go. Unfortunately, it is where all the social circles mesh and interact, mixing and combining, losing key players then dispersing, re-forming new circles around people and places of interest and intrigue. I, of course, attract a fair amount of attention. Who is this French-looking man with the cap, beard, and strange small backpack? What is he doing here? He seems to know Hausa, how peculiar. I learned by osmosis that wearing the backpack makes people think I am a traveler, which I am no longer. So I decided to leave behind the backpack when I'm out on 'getting to know people' walks.
There is a certain psychology of sitting which is for some Westerners very hard to understand. In villages all over the world people sit to enjoy each other's presence and experience, together, the passage of time. Westerners often perceive sitting as wasting time, which it is not. Its value is not quantifiable however, cultivating social relationships is culturally paramount in most villages around the world. That which I have written above is a nearly direct translation of a quote by a man named Andreas Fulegang. I wrote it from memory because I couldn't find the original. The quote, for me, reinforces a subtle but potent feeling I have been experiencing over the past few days while realizing the value of sitting with people, in silence or conversation. The feeling is a sort of mutual respect, to be accepted by people in your community, to listen to each other, and to not worry about where the conversation is going or how long it will last. Some of these people are much older than I am and to feel worthy of their time and presence is much more powerful for me than any accomplishment. And when the barrage of questions about my future, my Hausa skills, my home, my family, and just what the hell I am doing here has ended, the silence that insues is the most brilliant, calm, and reassuring silence that one can hope for in this life. We sit in silence and listen to the sounds, without trying to comprehend them.
It has been a little more than six days since my arrival at post but things have changed a lot in that short time. I was installed third out of four people scheduled to be installed that fateful Thursday. After hours of protocol, meeting regional and departmental level government figures, gendarme captains and heads of education we arrived at my site at 7pm. We unloaded everything off of the snorkel-equipped land cruiser and examined my new house. It is humongous! Five rooms and a space for washing as well. All the rooms have 12 to 13ft ceilings, the walls are made of concrete and the roof is sturdy tin. Instantly, I began imagining the myriad ways I might furnish and equip my house. An oscillating fan maybe, a couch of sorts, some tapestries...but what to do with all the rooms? A kitchen, yes, another one a bedroom, maybe a relaxation room or a lounge? So many possibilities. Later that night we had a meeting with all of my neighbors and some of the leaders of the women's groups and young people's organizations near my neighborhood. A Peace Corps official helped me communicate my needs and my ground rules regarding important topics like kids, water, food, and visitors. It was amazing. Another warm reception by the people of Niger, wonderful people.
I still have no couch as of today, or fan, or stove or gas tank, but I have a bed and a water filter, which is good. The lack of stove means that I have been eating food with my neighbor Halidou and his family. We don't eat 'with' the family, but they are around. I will assure everyone who has ever studied hospitality in the States that the level of hospitality endemic to the culture of Niger exceeds anything I have ever experienced. The first day upon going to the market Halidou bought me fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, kuli kuli (peanut butter without the oil, like hard biscuits) and bananas. He would not let me pay for anything. I tell him I love apples, too. But we found none. That night he knocks on my door and brings me scrambled eggs with tomatoes, onions, and peppers! I was in heaven. Long story short I was forced to get over my discomfort at all the money he was spending on my food because every day he brought me something better than the day before.
Then, last night he shows up at my door. "I've been looking for you all day." He says, and hands me a bag full of apples and guavas!!! First I thought they were miniature pears, but no, delicious ripe guavas. I didn't quite know how to eat a guava so trial and error ensued. I cleaned them and ate one after cutting off the nubs at each end, they were a rich pink inside and there were some really crunchy seeds. Later I asked if I had done rightly in eating the skin and was affirmed. Guavas are one of my new favorite fruits.
So my first dilemma was: why do I even leave my house if my food is brought to me and neighbors come visit every once in a while? The answer is obvious but has wild unforseeable consequences. I must go out and get to know the ville, starting with the people. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the first days are an exaggerated caricature of what every day will be like after the villagers get used to seeing me walking around. They say volunteers often experience the 'fishbowl effect.' Due to the preposterous amount of handshaking that goes on here in Niger, some of which last 60+ seconds, I will rename it the 'petting zoo effect.' A long handshake is now something I really enjoy and I realize it is indeed a sign of respect and admiration. But I must say, at the beginning it takes a lot of mental energy to understand how it works. I shook more hands in my first three days at ville than I did in all 4 years of college! I realized quickly that the market area, which straddles the road which goes all the way from Niamey in the West through Dosso, Maradi, Zinder, and to Diffa in the East, is the most overwhelming place I can go. Unfortunately, it is where all the social circles mesh and interact, mixing and combining, losing key players then dispersing, re-forming new circles around people and places of interest and intrigue. I, of course, attract a fair amount of attention. Who is this French-looking man with the cap, beard, and strange small backpack? What is he doing here? He seems to know Hausa, how peculiar. I learned by osmosis that wearing the backpack makes people think I am a traveler, which I am no longer. So I decided to leave behind the backpack when I'm out on 'getting to know people' walks.
There is a certain psychology of sitting which is for some Westerners very hard to understand. In villages all over the world people sit to enjoy each other's presence and experience, together, the passage of time. Westerners often perceive sitting as wasting time, which it is not. Its value is not quantifiable however, cultivating social relationships is culturally paramount in most villages around the world. That which I have written above is a nearly direct translation of a quote by a man named Andreas Fulegang. I wrote it from memory because I couldn't find the original. The quote, for me, reinforces a subtle but potent feeling I have been experiencing over the past few days while realizing the value of sitting with people, in silence or conversation. The feeling is a sort of mutual respect, to be accepted by people in your community, to listen to each other, and to not worry about where the conversation is going or how long it will last. Some of these people are much older than I am and to feel worthy of their time and presence is much more powerful for me than any accomplishment. And when the barrage of questions about my future, my Hausa skills, my home, my family, and just what the hell I am doing here has ended, the silence that insues is the most brilliant, calm, and reassuring silence that one can hope for in this life. We sit in silence and listen to the sounds, without trying to comprehend them.
Post
It has been a little more than six days since my arrival at post but things have changed so much in that short time. I was installed third out of four people scheduled to be installed that fateful Thursday. After hours of protocol, meeting regional and departmental level government figures, gendarme captains and heads of education we arrived at my new home at 7pm. We unloaded everything off of the snorkel-equipped land cruiser and examined my new house. It is humongous. Five rooms and a space for washing as well. All the rooms have 12 or 13ft ceilings, the walls are made of concrete and the roof is sturdy tin. Instantly I began imagining the myriad of ways I might furnish and equip my new house. An oscillating fan maybe, a couch of sorts, some tapestries maybe? But what to do with all the rooms? One, a kitchen, another a bedroom, the others well maybe a relaxation room and a lounge? So many possibilities.
I still have no couch, or fan, or stove, or gas tank, but I have a bed so that's good, and a mosquito net. The lack of stove means that I have been eating food brought to me by my neighbor and host-country supervisor at the Mairie's office, Halidou. I will assure all of my fellow Hospitality majors that the level of service and hospitality here in Niger exceeds anything I have ever experienced. The first day, Halidou and I went to the market and he bought me fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, kuli kuli (peanut butter w/o the oil, like hard biscuits), and bananas! I tell him I love happels, too. But we found none. That night he brought me scrambled eggs ($$$) with lots of peppers and tomatoes mixed in. I was in heaven! Long story short, I was forced to get over my discomfort at all the money he was spending money my food because every day he brought me something better than the day before. And he would NOT accept any money, only small gifts of food. Such is the cultulre here.
Then, last night he shows up at my door with a bag full of apples and guavas!!! First I thought they were like little pears but no, delicious guavas. I learned about how to eat guavas by trial and error, eating the whole thing and chewing the extra hard seeds, then asking whether I should peel it, or de-seed it, then finding out that eating the whole thing was the way to go.
So my first dilemma was, why do I leave my house if I have all this delicious food brought to me? The answer is obvious but has unforseeably wild consequences. I must go out, get to know the ville, starting with the people. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the first days were an exaggerated caricature of what every day will be like after the villagers get used to seeing me walking around. They say volunteers often experience the 'fishbowl effect', everyone looking at you, inspecting you, admiring you, (not to mention overfeeding you) but here it is more like the 'petting zoo effect.' I shook more hands in my first three days at site than I had in all my years at college. Some of these are long 60 second handshakes, which take a lot of forced relaxation. I realized quickly that the market area, which straddles the road that goes from Niamey all the way across the country to Maradi, Zinder, and Diffa, is the most overwhelming place I can go. Unfortunately, it is where all the social circles mesh and interact, mixing and combining, losing key players then dispersing, re-forming new circles around people and places of intrigue and interest. Needless to say, I attract a fair share of attention as the only identifiable foreignor out of 50,000 or so Nigeriens in the area. Is he french? What's in his backpack? What about that shiny metallic water bottle, maybe he'll give it to me. They're always surprised when I tell them I'll be in my ville for two years. They are used to white foreignors coming for a few days, asking questions, doing some work and leaving. I learned by osmosis that the backpack makes me look like a tourist or a traveller, which I am no longer. So I have decided to leave the books at home when I'm out to see friends.
There is a certain psychology of sitting which is for some Westerners very hard to understand. In villages all over the world people sit and enjoy each other's presence and experience, together, the passage of time.
I still have no couch, or fan, or stove, or gas tank, but I have a bed so that's good, and a mosquito net. The lack of stove means that I have been eating food brought to me by my neighbor and host-country supervisor at the Mairie's office, Halidou. I will assure all of my fellow Hospitality majors that the level of service and hospitality here in Niger exceeds anything I have ever experienced. The first day, Halidou and I went to the market and he bought me fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, kuli kuli (peanut butter w/o the oil, like hard biscuits), and bananas! I tell him I love happels, too. But we found none. That night he brought me scrambled eggs ($$$) with lots of peppers and tomatoes mixed in. I was in heaven! Long story short, I was forced to get over my discomfort at all the money he was spending money my food because every day he brought me something better than the day before. And he would NOT accept any money, only small gifts of food. Such is the cultulre here.
Then, last night he shows up at my door with a bag full of apples and guavas!!! First I thought they were like little pears but no, delicious guavas. I learned about how to eat guavas by trial and error, eating the whole thing and chewing the extra hard seeds, then asking whether I should peel it, or de-seed it, then finding out that eating the whole thing was the way to go.
So my first dilemma was, why do I leave my house if I have all this delicious food brought to me? The answer is obvious but has unforseeably wild consequences. I must go out, get to know the ville, starting with the people. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the first days were an exaggerated caricature of what every day will be like after the villagers get used to seeing me walking around. They say volunteers often experience the 'fishbowl effect', everyone looking at you, inspecting you, admiring you, (not to mention overfeeding you) but here it is more like the 'petting zoo effect.' I shook more hands in my first three days at site than I had in all my years at college. Some of these are long 60 second handshakes, which take a lot of forced relaxation. I realized quickly that the market area, which straddles the road that goes from Niamey all the way across the country to Maradi, Zinder, and Diffa, is the most overwhelming place I can go. Unfortunately, it is where all the social circles mesh and interact, mixing and combining, losing key players then dispersing, re-forming new circles around people and places of intrigue and interest. Needless to say, I attract a fair share of attention as the only identifiable foreignor out of 50,000 or so Nigeriens in the area. Is he french? What's in his backpack? What about that shiny metallic water bottle, maybe he'll give it to me. They're always surprised when I tell them I'll be in my ville for two years. They are used to white foreignors coming for a few days, asking questions, doing some work and leaving. I learned by osmosis that the backpack makes me look like a tourist or a traveller, which I am no longer. So I have decided to leave the books at home when I'm out to see friends.
There is a certain psychology of sitting which is for some Westerners very hard to understand. In villages all over the world people sit and enjoy each other's presence and experience, together, the passage of time.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Rama-dunzo.
Yesterday was the last day of fasting and today was a big party across the whole country. The market yesterday was the biggest and most crowded I've seen since we've been here. There were tomatoes and peppers, squash and sugarcane, bananas and ginger! The market was so big and so well stocked that I actually found a pair of flip-flops that fit me. After two full months of earnest searching. They happen to be made of denim on regular rubber soles, with fluffy white and blue patches on the straps. I also happen to believe that I was fated to buy them. People have been saving up for months to buy new outfits for themselves and their children in order to properly get down at this day-long feast. Prices at the market were a little high and bargaining was mostly futile. My sandals were 1000CFA, two dollars. A great deal. Fate, I say.
One often sees very small children dressed in wonderful clothes, scaled appropriately from the adult models. There is something very peculiar that happens in your brain when you see small children dressed in miniature models of adult clothing. I think it's a similar thing to seeing a nice-looking (preferably small) dog dressed in a T-shirt and hat. The human mind adores these unique phenomena. Why, I ask? Though I can safely say that no dogs, or cats, wear coats...even in the coldest weather.
Along the same lines of cultural compairson, women here carry babies on their backs secured with a 1x2 meter stretch of fabric wraped around the child and tuck-tied in the front. A fellow volunteer has pictures of her sister with her new baby. Within these pictures is one of her sister with a fancy-shmancy baby carrier with straps and buckles, et cetera. The young girls laugh and ask us sincerely if there is something wrong with the baby that he needs so much...support. We all laugh and then talk about how much it costs, and we laugh again. 20 dollars would be a bargain for one of those baby carriers, and 20 dollars what most village families make in a year. Also children tend to complain, cry, and whine much less that children in the states or say, as did I when I was a child. I have much more anecdotal research to analyze about this family dynamic. Stay tuned.
One often sees very small children dressed in wonderful clothes, scaled appropriately from the adult models. There is something very peculiar that happens in your brain when you see small children dressed in miniature models of adult clothing. I think it's a similar thing to seeing a nice-looking (preferably small) dog dressed in a T-shirt and hat. The human mind adores these unique phenomena. Why, I ask? Though I can safely say that no dogs, or cats, wear coats...even in the coldest weather.
Along the same lines of cultural compairson, women here carry babies on their backs secured with a 1x2 meter stretch of fabric wraped around the child and tuck-tied in the front. A fellow volunteer has pictures of her sister with her new baby. Within these pictures is one of her sister with a fancy-shmancy baby carrier with straps and buckles, et cetera. The young girls laugh and ask us sincerely if there is something wrong with the baby that he needs so much...support. We all laugh and then talk about how much it costs, and we laugh again. 20 dollars would be a bargain for one of those baby carriers, and 20 dollars what most village families make in a year. Also children tend to complain, cry, and whine much less that children in the states or say, as did I when I was a child. I have much more anecdotal research to analyze about this family dynamic. Stay tuned.
Journey
There once was a volunteer in Niger,
Who arrived with some clothes and a lair,
He then trained on the rock,
And decided to transfer to Marocc,
And then he left with Amoebas.
A poem by Daouda D. Former PCV
Who arrived with some clothes and a lair,
He then trained on the rock,
And decided to transfer to Marocc,
And then he left with Amoebas.
A poem by Daouda D. Former PCV
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Pseudobaptism / Wurin suna
At 1:30am I awoke to a few raindrops on my face and arms. I am slowly learning to not react with anxiety to this situation. Every time it happens I am irritated for a slightly smaller period of time. I gathered my cell phone, head lamp, and shoes, pulled the four rip cords on each corner of my mosquito net, folded my mattress in half and carried it into my hut.
Five or so hours later I woke up and headed to the market to meet a few friends, after which we headed to David and Mark's house, otherwise known as Issa and Omar. We were told we would leave their house at 7:30am for a baby naming ceremony, a baptism of sorts. Along with Nigerien tradition we actually left at 8am and travelled as a group 400 meters across the road to David's first mother's relative's house, a veritable compound, with 20-30 mats rolled out all surrounded by chairs in a large square. There were already some very distinguished looking elderly men seated at on end of the square. We, the four men, were directed to sit next to them, which we did reluctantly. Soon thereafter we were directed to walk over to a room where the new baby was sequestered. Apparently only women typically go in and see or touch the baby, but our foreignor status cleared that cultural obstacle. The baby was very hairy, long, straight hair. After leaving the dark quarters of the women and baby, we sat again next to the older men. Here is where things got interesting. Being the first in the line of chairs that the distinguished gentlemen were occupying, we started shaking the hand of each new, well-dressed, elder entering the concession. When twenty or so people had come and twenty handshakes had been given, we were approached by the Chef de Canton, the traditional head of the village. We quickly stood up, shook his hand, and greeted him in Hausa. He responded in wonderful French. David and I looked at eachother and knew we should change chairs to sit with slightly less distinguished guests. We were consequently much more relaxed and comfortable. All the women were shuffled off into quite a small area near the baby, which must have been quite crowded.
Man, woman, and child shuffled in, some shaking our hands and exchanging greetings in Zarma, Hausa, and sometimes French. A pile of gifts started to grow in the middle of the square: bags of dates, bars of soap. A master of ceremonies was al the while spouting out phrase after phrase, pacing around the square religiously. I would catch and 'Allah' here and an 'Amin' there. Eventually he started repeating one phrase loudly and I suspected it was the announcement of the baby's name. I was unsure if this was the case and was deep in thought when the master of ceremonies snuck up on us and asked us for offerings for the new child. David, to my left, gave 1000CFA (2$) and I grabbed for my coins. As is scrambled in my pocket he waid something like "et les Francais...," thinking we were French. I gave him some coins and giggled, enjoying his misconception about our outrageous origins.
Soon things started to quiet down and the men were either laying their hands one on the other on their laps, facing upward, or holding them up, palms inward. It was a grand silent prayer. There was a wonderful silence and we couldn't help but give the child a small blessing of our own. Everyone was in their own head - in a box with God as it were. Soon after the prayer some dates were distributed and they were delicious, dried just enough to be chewy like sugary candy.
I learned quickly that in this culture, being in a chair means you have some sort of heirarchical respect, if only for being a man. Younger people always move and give up the chair, and women always give chairs up for the men as well. It is overwhelming at times and always thought-provoking.
Five or so hours later I woke up and headed to the market to meet a few friends, after which we headed to David and Mark's house, otherwise known as Issa and Omar. We were told we would leave their house at 7:30am for a baby naming ceremony, a baptism of sorts. Along with Nigerien tradition we actually left at 8am and travelled as a group 400 meters across the road to David's first mother's relative's house, a veritable compound, with 20-30 mats rolled out all surrounded by chairs in a large square. There were already some very distinguished looking elderly men seated at on end of the square. We, the four men, were directed to sit next to them, which we did reluctantly. Soon thereafter we were directed to walk over to a room where the new baby was sequestered. Apparently only women typically go in and see or touch the baby, but our foreignor status cleared that cultural obstacle. The baby was very hairy, long, straight hair. After leaving the dark quarters of the women and baby, we sat again next to the older men. Here is where things got interesting. Being the first in the line of chairs that the distinguished gentlemen were occupying, we started shaking the hand of each new, well-dressed, elder entering the concession. When twenty or so people had come and twenty handshakes had been given, we were approached by the Chef de Canton, the traditional head of the village. We quickly stood up, shook his hand, and greeted him in Hausa. He responded in wonderful French. David and I looked at eachother and knew we should change chairs to sit with slightly less distinguished guests. We were consequently much more relaxed and comfortable. All the women were shuffled off into quite a small area near the baby, which must have been quite crowded.
Man, woman, and child shuffled in, some shaking our hands and exchanging greetings in Zarma, Hausa, and sometimes French. A pile of gifts started to grow in the middle of the square: bags of dates, bars of soap. A master of ceremonies was al the while spouting out phrase after phrase, pacing around the square religiously. I would catch and 'Allah' here and an 'Amin' there. Eventually he started repeating one phrase loudly and I suspected it was the announcement of the baby's name. I was unsure if this was the case and was deep in thought when the master of ceremonies snuck up on us and asked us for offerings for the new child. David, to my left, gave 1000CFA (2$) and I grabbed for my coins. As is scrambled in my pocket he waid something like "et les Francais...," thinking we were French. I gave him some coins and giggled, enjoying his misconception about our outrageous origins.
Soon things started to quiet down and the men were either laying their hands one on the other on their laps, facing upward, or holding them up, palms inward. It was a grand silent prayer. There was a wonderful silence and we couldn't help but give the child a small blessing of our own. Everyone was in their own head - in a box with God as it were. Soon after the prayer some dates were distributed and they were delicious, dried just enough to be chewy like sugary candy.
I learned quickly that in this culture, being in a chair means you have some sort of heirarchical respect, if only for being a man. Younger people always move and give up the chair, and women always give chairs up for the men as well. It is overwhelming at times and always thought-provoking.
Big Bugs (for Sean Tierney)
I know now why Nigeriens don't take showers later than 8pm, besided the fact that Jinns live in bathrooms and dirty places and multiply at night. While stepping into my small square sanctuary to bathe I battled hordes of cockroaches. No problem though, just one of many small hurdles (no pun intended). It's worth it to look up at the stars and enjoy the cool water in the warm night air.
After the wonderful bucket bath I talked about the big bugs all around and pointed one out to my host mom, who's approaching 60 years young, and she immediately stomps it with the ball of her foot. Then a big beetle happens to come into view and she grabs it with here fingers, it's the size of a quarter, and then throws it over the concession wall, brushes he hands together like a dealer leaving the table, smiles and laughs. The family proceeds to tell me I can do it, too, then they laugh because they know I just let bugs do their thing - maybe after a few more months.
Since I'm talking about bugs I will say that depending on the size of the bug I may or may not kill it. Depending on my mood I will even search out and destroy its family. Big bugs seem to be harder to kill, emotionally and physically. Maybe I can't kill bugs that really fstartle me, i.e. big bugs. Especially the dive bombers. Once I stepped on a beetle in stride with my heel, and all my weight was transferred onto him. I felt terrible as it happened then when I lifted my foot, he ran away. Whew!!
After the wonderful bucket bath I talked about the big bugs all around and pointed one out to my host mom, who's approaching 60 years young, and she immediately stomps it with the ball of her foot. Then a big beetle happens to come into view and she grabs it with here fingers, it's the size of a quarter, and then throws it over the concession wall, brushes he hands together like a dealer leaving the table, smiles and laughs. The family proceeds to tell me I can do it, too, then they laugh because they know I just let bugs do their thing - maybe after a few more months.
Since I'm talking about bugs I will say that depending on the size of the bug I may or may not kill it. Depending on my mood I will even search out and destroy its family. Big bugs seem to be harder to kill, emotionally and physically. Maybe I can't kill bugs that really fstartle me, i.e. big bugs. Especially the dive bombers. Once I stepped on a beetle in stride with my heel, and all my weight was transferred onto him. I felt terrible as it happened then when I lifted my foot, he ran away. Whew!!
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