As promised, I continue my week of productivity with some thoughts and stories that I've accumulated over the past month. Typically, I like to pair these in positive and negative experiences, the positive usually following the negative to avoid any lingering distaste with humanity. This is no different, despite the fact that the following negative experience occurred a few weeks after what I will relate in the next post. The chronological continuity thus gets a bit confused, but hey, it's my narrative art, and I'll manipulate it as I see fit! Anyway, onwards and downwards. I promise a more heart-warming tale in the next few days.
My stay in Valencia wasn't ruined by the American at the bar, though I must say she represented a jarring example of what I fear may be all too commonplace when I return to the USA (or, more specifically, to rural Indiana). Now that I've left Africa, I'm diligently working towards Peace Corps' third goal: Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans. I extend this goal to include a better understanding of other people by all people. The conversations I have whilst traveling are all pretty similar, as everyone I meet on the road tends to be of a certain mentality and tends to be interested in my travels, my work, Niger, Africa, and the sense of community and service that leads so many people to attempt to make the world just a little bit better. At the best of times, I meet other travelers who ask such pointed, complex, and interesting questions that I get a chance to step back and reinterpret my service, always gaining a new appreciation for what a life-changing, unique experience it was. At the worst of times, and this has been rare so far, I run into someone like her...
It was the night of the Holland/Uruguay World Cup semi-final match. With the Dutch win, I found myself winding down over a beer with two Americans beside whom I'd found myself standing during the match. With one, a friendly university student taking a bit of vacation in Spain after a semester spent abroad in England, I found myself reminiscing over my time there and recounting some of my lighter stories about Africa. With the other, an expressionless, plastic-faced, overtan girl on her first-ever trip overseas, I encountered new territory, territory I wasn't prepared to navigate whilst a bit tipsy.
To me, these two girls represented the perfect distinction between the traveler and the tourist. The first was a budding young traveler, living abroad for the first time in her life and ready to go after every new cultural experience with a relish that will drive her friends up the wall when she gets back stateside (I should know, I was the same way). Her friend, however, was the type of conservative, stubborn, uninformed American the likes of which I haven't seen in a long time. (A somewhat delayed preliminary note: this is in no way an attack on Americans. Every country has people like this, people who never leave home but think, despite this, that they know how other people live.) We got off on the wrong foot almost immediately after a conversation about religion (she believed in "the devil" as a personified entity taking an active role in the temptaions of daily life), and though I disagreed with her on many issues, I relish a good conversation with anyone who has an open mind and an ability to listen.
Oh, an open mind! What a wonderful thing indeed! Here was the main sticking point separating the two into their respective tourist/traveler camps, because while the traveler accepted the differences around her as cultural learning opportunities, her friend the tourist questioned everything, compared these differences to American norms, and more often than not found the differences wildly inferior to what she was accustomed.
Thus it was one innocent comment, one phrase I've uttered many times before without any incident, that sparked one of my worst conversations in recent memory with one of my fellow countrymen. It was this, which I still hold to be true: I believe, despite all the hardship and poverty, that my friends in Tanka Lokoto, my village in Niger, were actually happier in many ways than many of us in the developed world. Nigeriens don't suffer from depression, suicide; they don't need a new drug for every perceived problem because they struggle with more basic concerns such as food security and clean water. They appreciate what they have around them and the relationships they build and maintain to help them through life.
Well this touched a nerve, in no small part because this tourist took "the developed world" to mean "America" (she refused to drink the tap water, in Spain, a country that ranks in the top 15 of the most developed countries in the world!). This tourist took my comment as a slight against her country (which is also my country), and decided that any such insult to her country must be countered, vigorously. I honestly wish I could remember how much of this conversation went, but I'll boil it down to it's salient points.
1. America is the greatest country in the world. If this African country you lived in or whatever has been independent for what? fifty years? why isn't it a world power? Why can't it get it's shit together?
Well it's more complicated than that. There are several different ethnic groups, and you have to remember that America wasn't a true superpower until about 1948.
What are you talking about? America beat Britain. Britain was the superpower, America beat it and then became a superpower.
Tenuous grip on American history eh? (I didn't actually say this, I was very polite throughout.)
2. I can't believe you hate America so much. I'm ashamed to call you an American. You're what's wrong with America's reputation abroad.
What? What are you talking about? Peace Corps is what's wrong with America?
You're what's wrong with America. You hate America. You know, I'm going to kiss the ground when I get back to America. I'm going to kiss the ground every single day that I'm home.
I'd really like to see that. Could you send me a picture every single day you're in America. (I actually did say this, little more tipsy at this point.)
3. America is the greatest country in the world. I don't know how you don't see this. It's the greatest country in the world, and will continue to be the greatest country in the world. Forever. I don't know how you don't see it.
(This is where I got myself in trouble.) I'm pretty sure that's what the Brits said in about 1890. Or what the Romans thought in 470. Or the French in 1812. The Spanish in 1570. The Germans in 1943. (Her friend is just shouting STOP at this point...) Or what about the Songhai in 1550? The Ottomans in 1810? I could go ON AND ON!
So you can make your own judgement. We parted ways shortly after this tirade, without a handshake and confident we'd never cross paths again. If I had to say something about the whole experience, I would nicely call her a bit ignorant, but I have to stress that I don't think this would be an issue if she were actually trying to understand the world, accept that people and cultures are different, and that there's so much to learn. But she wasn't. So ya, a bit ignorant. A few more of my creative friends would call her a dipshit. I'll let you draw your own conclusions. Until next time.
Showing posts with label Integration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Integration. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Work, Work, Work
Alright, so I know I haven't been very good at posting lately. Let me offer this up as excuse. In the two months since my last post, I have been out of my village a total of ten days. That's not a lot for most Volunteers, and in fact, the responses I've been getting all seem to revolve around the amazement that I was out that long. Indeed, I only came in to do a session for the new stage and because I had run out of money, food, and a bit of sanity.
So what have I been doing in that time? Well, it's rainy season, so the work has really started. We planted in late May, but the rains didn't come again for three weeks, so everything died. Not a great thing when food stocks are already low to lose all your seed. I came in to Niamey in mid-June for a Perceptions workshop with bureau staff and other Volunteers, and the rains came. My villagers planted in my absence, including my fields, which mysteriously more than doubled in size. I had to ask where it began and ended, and the answer I got just shows the different culture of hand farming compared to any others. But first, a tangent.
We met a couple guys in Benin who were traveling West Africa overland from Cameroon to Senegal. One of them stopped by Niger and came up to visit me. As we walked through the fields, he noticed that the fields were an irregular patchwork of shapes all over the countryside. I recounted the dialogue I had with my friend Seyni as to how my fields were distributed:
"So, you start at this tree, and you follow this rock line. It's 75m to this clump of trees. Once you hit these trees, you go on a diagonal back and around until you reach this tree."
"Which tree? This tree?"
"No, this tree here, the one with all the thorns."
"The little bush? Not the big tree?"
"No, not the big tree. This little bush. Then it comes over to these trees, takes a diagonal toward the ox cart path, but doesn't reach the ox cart path. It comes to this rock here and then back to the dry creekbed."
"Wait, rock? Which rock?"
"This rock."
"Which? This?"
"Yes, this rock. How do you not understand. Out of all the rocks in the field I have chosen this one to mark the field."
"And if someone moves this rock?"
"Don't get smart."
Okay, so it's not an exact, verbatim reenactment, but it may be excused through the translation. Anyway, the original point of this story was to emphasize that my field size more than doubled in one fell swoop. As a result, I spent fifteen days in the field, from 8 am to 6 pm by the time I'd walked there and back. That was only the first weeding as well! When I go back to village tomorrow, I'll start again on the second (and hopefully final) round of weeding before harvest.
In the meantime, I've also started the school garden project which some of you may have been contacted in regards to donating money. For everyone who did, thank you very much! For those who didn't, don't worry, there may be another project in the short future to donate to if you so desire. I collected all the supplies in mid-June, held several meetings with the babas (the kids' fathers), and have been gardening with the kids for almost a month now. They're coming on a completely Volunteer basis (because of their fieldwork during rainy season), so I get anywhere from fifteen to over forty kids at a session. There are some adults that help out, but again, according to the work they have to do, sometimes I get four adults to help, sometimes there aren't any. As you can imagine, one 24 year-old kid with forty-plus kids under fourteen can be a bit of a handful. Actually, it's like trying to round up all the animals after a circus fire. But we get along. So far we've had lessons on building garden beds, composting, and soil. When I go back we'll transplant and do lessons on natural pesticides and nutrition. The group leaders, who have their own positions within their own organization, have had a few more responsibilities and a lot more lessons. I've worked with them about managing their teams, keeping track of members, and general accounting for their own money. Every week, all the kids are expected to bring 25 cfa (about a nickel) to add to the caisse. This money goes to buy seeds and manure, and when they sell their vegetables, they should be able to make a small profit for each member. That's the hope anyway. The reality is yet to be seen.
So it's been a lot of time in the village, and a lot of pressures with new language and new responsibilities. I applied to extend in Niger (sorry for all of you who've been asking me if I'm home yet), but I was not chosen for the position. As I can't stay in my village due to the kidnappings almost six months ago, I will probably be forced to leave in December. I can already tell it will be hard, as it's hard to leave almost any place you've lived and loved for two years. You may rejoice that I'll be coming home, but you'd be mistaken again, as I'll be traveling around a bit beforehand. I promise I'll come home eventually, but just how long I stay there is up in the air. I have nothing in the works, but, you know, once you've started wandering, it's kinda hard to quit. Anyway, again apologies for not posting in quite a long time, but it's been a busy time in Niger for me lately. Even now, I have to cut this short so I can go buy some equipment for the school garden and meet with my supervisor to discuss small projects I can do in my remaining five months at post. Until then,
Kala Tonton!
So what have I been doing in that time? Well, it's rainy season, so the work has really started. We planted in late May, but the rains didn't come again for three weeks, so everything died. Not a great thing when food stocks are already low to lose all your seed. I came in to Niamey in mid-June for a Perceptions workshop with bureau staff and other Volunteers, and the rains came. My villagers planted in my absence, including my fields, which mysteriously more than doubled in size. I had to ask where it began and ended, and the answer I got just shows the different culture of hand farming compared to any others. But first, a tangent.
We met a couple guys in Benin who were traveling West Africa overland from Cameroon to Senegal. One of them stopped by Niger and came up to visit me. As we walked through the fields, he noticed that the fields were an irregular patchwork of shapes all over the countryside. I recounted the dialogue I had with my friend Seyni as to how my fields were distributed:
"So, you start at this tree, and you follow this rock line. It's 75m to this clump of trees. Once you hit these trees, you go on a diagonal back and around until you reach this tree."
"Which tree? This tree?"
"No, this tree here, the one with all the thorns."
"The little bush? Not the big tree?"
"No, not the big tree. This little bush. Then it comes over to these trees, takes a diagonal toward the ox cart path, but doesn't reach the ox cart path. It comes to this rock here and then back to the dry creekbed."
"Wait, rock? Which rock?"
"This rock."
"Which? This?"
"Yes, this rock. How do you not understand. Out of all the rocks in the field I have chosen this one to mark the field."
"And if someone moves this rock?"
"Don't get smart."
Okay, so it's not an exact, verbatim reenactment, but it may be excused through the translation. Anyway, the original point of this story was to emphasize that my field size more than doubled in one fell swoop. As a result, I spent fifteen days in the field, from 8 am to 6 pm by the time I'd walked there and back. That was only the first weeding as well! When I go back to village tomorrow, I'll start again on the second (and hopefully final) round of weeding before harvest.
In the meantime, I've also started the school garden project which some of you may have been contacted in regards to donating money. For everyone who did, thank you very much! For those who didn't, don't worry, there may be another project in the short future to donate to if you so desire. I collected all the supplies in mid-June, held several meetings with the babas (the kids' fathers), and have been gardening with the kids for almost a month now. They're coming on a completely Volunteer basis (because of their fieldwork during rainy season), so I get anywhere from fifteen to over forty kids at a session. There are some adults that help out, but again, according to the work they have to do, sometimes I get four adults to help, sometimes there aren't any. As you can imagine, one 24 year-old kid with forty-plus kids under fourteen can be a bit of a handful. Actually, it's like trying to round up all the animals after a circus fire. But we get along. So far we've had lessons on building garden beds, composting, and soil. When I go back we'll transplant and do lessons on natural pesticides and nutrition. The group leaders, who have their own positions within their own organization, have had a few more responsibilities and a lot more lessons. I've worked with them about managing their teams, keeping track of members, and general accounting for their own money. Every week, all the kids are expected to bring 25 cfa (about a nickel) to add to the caisse. This money goes to buy seeds and manure, and when they sell their vegetables, they should be able to make a small profit for each member. That's the hope anyway. The reality is yet to be seen.
So it's been a lot of time in the village, and a lot of pressures with new language and new responsibilities. I applied to extend in Niger (sorry for all of you who've been asking me if I'm home yet), but I was not chosen for the position. As I can't stay in my village due to the kidnappings almost six months ago, I will probably be forced to leave in December. I can already tell it will be hard, as it's hard to leave almost any place you've lived and loved for two years. You may rejoice that I'll be coming home, but you'd be mistaken again, as I'll be traveling around a bit beforehand. I promise I'll come home eventually, but just how long I stay there is up in the air. I have nothing in the works, but, you know, once you've started wandering, it's kinda hard to quit. Anyway, again apologies for not posting in quite a long time, but it's been a busy time in Niger for me lately. Even now, I have to cut this short so I can go buy some equipment for the school garden and meet with my supervisor to discuss small projects I can do in my remaining five months at post. Until then,
Kala Tonton!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Isolation and Vacation
Hello all. Apologies for the inexcusable lack of posts lately. I've been back in village hiding from the terrorists. Would you know it, the village hasn't gotten around to installing wireless yet. Lazy is what I say. Though maybe they need the electricity and the running water before they start worrying about checking their email.
I never introduced the restrictions, and for that I apologize. I actually lost the sheet that spelled them all out. What it basically comes down to is that I have to maintain as low a profile as possible. That means, to the American embassy, that I cannot leave my village more than once a month. I can go to market because it is only a kilometer away. I cannot go to any of the other villages along the road, or go to see my friends at the French government site. I'm not allowed to go north or west of the paved road, which is unfortunate because it means I cannot explore the mesas looming over my village, and I will have to find new fields come rainy season. (But I have been cleared if I farm with my villagers, which could be fun. I might take that into consideration.) Only Nigerien staff members can visit my site, and only if they take a bush taxi. No American government vehicles are allowed to go up my road. This includes diplomatic missions, Peace Corps, and USAID. In addition, no Volunteer is allowed to visit, and the two younger Volunteers, my closest neighbors were both forced to relocate villages in the Dosso region. So I am now 120km away from anyone, not allowed to go anywhere, nor allowed to see any other Americans for weeks at a time. It's just me, my village, and my villagers.
So how's it been? Surprisingly, not as bad as I had thought. My integration has skyrocketed. Indeed, it had no choice but to get better as I never see anyone else. I only speak English when my family calls or when I talk to myself (which happens disturbingly often these days. I really hope my villagers don't think I'm schizo or possessed by spirits or something). My Zarma has gotten pretty strong. I'm confident in it, and I've begun relearning French. This is a bit harder because the African accent tends to chew all the words together.
I've also started real work in village. My gardens all died while I was away because my gardener friend didn't bother to water them. I guess he thought I wasn't coming back. But I've been working with my women's group to improve their large garden, and I have also started work on a school garden. By July, I'll be teaching small children gardening, health, and nutrition. I don't know why they allowed me near children, but it's pretty hard to warp minds in a different language. Rainy season will be busy, what with the women's garden project, the school garden, and my fields.
But for now, it's hot season. It hasn't been too bad, but the seasonal calendar basically eliminates any work for an agriculture Volunteer at this point in time. If my gardens hadn't died I could still have tomatoes and peppers, but there's no use crying over dead plants. I've not been doing a whole lot. I occasionally take morning walks around Damana, but it's getting too hot for much activity. I had one run-in with heat stress which basically shut down my body's internal thermostat. Not too fun. So I've just been chillin' in the shade, visiting my friends, and chatting. I've started playing soccer with the teachers and older students in the evening. You want a workout, try playing football/soccer with anyone in a developing country. They're so freaking good. Playing in the desert is about like snorting sand, but you get used to it. Anytime a large chunk of cow sh*t can change the outcome of the game, well you know you're bound to have fun.
And now I'm in Niamey because I'm going on vacation in three days. I'm so excited. This is my first vacation. I've been in village for over a year now. (!) My how time flies. Three of us are going down to Benin, Togo, and Ghana, with a return trip through Burkina Faso. We'll escape the Nigerien heat, as all these countries are cooler because of the coast. We'll also be in the mountains, on the beach, in Ghana's lake district, Togo's coffee country, and Benin's voodoo regions. All this and slave history to boot. Don't you wish you could come along?
Well that's about all I have the patience for right now. Hope everyone out there is safe and happy. Until next time.
Sterling
I never introduced the restrictions, and for that I apologize. I actually lost the sheet that spelled them all out. What it basically comes down to is that I have to maintain as low a profile as possible. That means, to the American embassy, that I cannot leave my village more than once a month. I can go to market because it is only a kilometer away. I cannot go to any of the other villages along the road, or go to see my friends at the French government site. I'm not allowed to go north or west of the paved road, which is unfortunate because it means I cannot explore the mesas looming over my village, and I will have to find new fields come rainy season. (But I have been cleared if I farm with my villagers, which could be fun. I might take that into consideration.) Only Nigerien staff members can visit my site, and only if they take a bush taxi. No American government vehicles are allowed to go up my road. This includes diplomatic missions, Peace Corps, and USAID. In addition, no Volunteer is allowed to visit, and the two younger Volunteers, my closest neighbors were both forced to relocate villages in the Dosso region. So I am now 120km away from anyone, not allowed to go anywhere, nor allowed to see any other Americans for weeks at a time. It's just me, my village, and my villagers.
So how's it been? Surprisingly, not as bad as I had thought. My integration has skyrocketed. Indeed, it had no choice but to get better as I never see anyone else. I only speak English when my family calls or when I talk to myself (which happens disturbingly often these days. I really hope my villagers don't think I'm schizo or possessed by spirits or something). My Zarma has gotten pretty strong. I'm confident in it, and I've begun relearning French. This is a bit harder because the African accent tends to chew all the words together.
I've also started real work in village. My gardens all died while I was away because my gardener friend didn't bother to water them. I guess he thought I wasn't coming back. But I've been working with my women's group to improve their large garden, and I have also started work on a school garden. By July, I'll be teaching small children gardening, health, and nutrition. I don't know why they allowed me near children, but it's pretty hard to warp minds in a different language. Rainy season will be busy, what with the women's garden project, the school garden, and my fields.
But for now, it's hot season. It hasn't been too bad, but the seasonal calendar basically eliminates any work for an agriculture Volunteer at this point in time. If my gardens hadn't died I could still have tomatoes and peppers, but there's no use crying over dead plants. I've not been doing a whole lot. I occasionally take morning walks around Damana, but it's getting too hot for much activity. I had one run-in with heat stress which basically shut down my body's internal thermostat. Not too fun. So I've just been chillin' in the shade, visiting my friends, and chatting. I've started playing soccer with the teachers and older students in the evening. You want a workout, try playing football/soccer with anyone in a developing country. They're so freaking good. Playing in the desert is about like snorting sand, but you get used to it. Anytime a large chunk of cow sh*t can change the outcome of the game, well you know you're bound to have fun.
And now I'm in Niamey because I'm going on vacation in three days. I'm so excited. This is my first vacation. I've been in village for over a year now. (!) My how time flies. Three of us are going down to Benin, Togo, and Ghana, with a return trip through Burkina Faso. We'll escape the Nigerien heat, as all these countries are cooler because of the coast. We'll also be in the mountains, on the beach, in Ghana's lake district, Togo's coffee country, and Benin's voodoo regions. All this and slave history to boot. Don't you wish you could come along?
Well that's about all I have the patience for right now. Hope everyone out there is safe and happy. Until next time.
Sterling
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Culture and the Balance of Emotion
29 October 2008
3:10 pm
It's cool and at least somewhat heartening how quickly things can turn around. The past few days I've been pretty down and listless. It's a form of laziness, but it's also been just a complete apathy to working, socializing, or even moving, and I have to admit it's been hard. Without any American neighbors close by, I've had no one to talk to about any of this, so it just continued for several days. But, with one or two small things, I've realized that a great day can be ruined, or a bad day can turn out really good. Last night was better. I went over to my neighbor Djodi's house to chat, as I occasionally do. I got over there and one of the guys was messing with his phone. Now, there isn't an electronic in Niger that doesn't suffer horribly, but this phone was a true piece of crap, even by Nigerien standards. It look like it was about five years old, it was missing its keypad, the screen didn't work, and the clock said it was 14h00 rather than 10 pm. The best part about this is he was trying to fix the clock from memory of how to run through the settings.
So everyone was getting a big laugh out of this guy's phone. One of the biggest came when it nearly died and he told us he'd charged it that morning. I asked him where he'd gotten such a terrible phone:
"Did you find it on the side of the road?"
"No, why?"
"Because it looks like someone got frustrated with it and chucked it out the window of some bush taxi."
Now Nigeriens love a good burn. They love it even more when the white kid who is still learning the local language can join in and torch a guy in Zarma. He told us that he'd dropped it in water, which none of us much understood as it's hard enough to even find water in this country, let alone find enough to ruin your phone. I told him he'd be better off using a rock, and after the clock reset itself to 2:37 am, I picked up a rock, pretended to make a call, and said, "It's for you, a brand new phone. It's much better than the one you have now. Just make sure to keep it charged." This, of course, caused an uproar as this poor guy just couldn't catch a break. An important lesson: in Niger, if you think you're going to get off light with something ridiculous (i.e. a bad haircut or a broken-down phone), think again. They are merciless, not in a mean way, just that they love to laugh, and people do a lot of ridiculous things here.
After we calmed down a bit, we talked about the stars. One of the greatest things about Niger is the lack of electricity means there's almost no light pollution from cities and towns. On clear nights, you can see the Milky Way and all the stars in the sky. I found an Audobon Society star guide here, and I've been learning the constellations. I told them about the Pleiades, and how the Polynesians believe that they used to be one bright star that boasted of its brilliance so much that the gods threw Sirius, the dog star, at it and shattered it into the pieces we now see. The younger guys didn't know the stories, but Seydou, an older man, knew them all, and I have to admire him. He told all of us that the Zarma equivalent of the Pleiades were called "Gorndariaze" - the hen and her chicks. When it's crests the sky, in mid-October, the rains are over and won't come again until next year. It's a connection with nature that we just don't have in America anymore. He doesn't seem very bright, but that's because he never had any schooling. He didn't even learn to write letters until he was 28 and living in Cote d'Ivoire. Everything that he lacks in academic learning, he makes up for in experience and age.
3:10 pm
It's cool and at least somewhat heartening how quickly things can turn around. The past few days I've been pretty down and listless. It's a form of laziness, but it's also been just a complete apathy to working, socializing, or even moving, and I have to admit it's been hard. Without any American neighbors close by, I've had no one to talk to about any of this, so it just continued for several days. But, with one or two small things, I've realized that a great day can be ruined, or a bad day can turn out really good. Last night was better. I went over to my neighbor Djodi's house to chat, as I occasionally do. I got over there and one of the guys was messing with his phone. Now, there isn't an electronic in Niger that doesn't suffer horribly, but this phone was a true piece of crap, even by Nigerien standards. It look like it was about five years old, it was missing its keypad, the screen didn't work, and the clock said it was 14h00 rather than 10 pm. The best part about this is he was trying to fix the clock from memory of how to run through the settings.
So everyone was getting a big laugh out of this guy's phone. One of the biggest came when it nearly died and he told us he'd charged it that morning. I asked him where he'd gotten such a terrible phone:
"Did you find it on the side of the road?"
"No, why?"
"Because it looks like someone got frustrated with it and chucked it out the window of some bush taxi."
Now Nigeriens love a good burn. They love it even more when the white kid who is still learning the local language can join in and torch a guy in Zarma. He told us that he'd dropped it in water, which none of us much understood as it's hard enough to even find water in this country, let alone find enough to ruin your phone. I told him he'd be better off using a rock, and after the clock reset itself to 2:37 am, I picked up a rock, pretended to make a call, and said, "It's for you, a brand new phone. It's much better than the one you have now. Just make sure to keep it charged." This, of course, caused an uproar as this poor guy just couldn't catch a break. An important lesson: in Niger, if you think you're going to get off light with something ridiculous (i.e. a bad haircut or a broken-down phone), think again. They are merciless, not in a mean way, just that they love to laugh, and people do a lot of ridiculous things here.
After we calmed down a bit, we talked about the stars. One of the greatest things about Niger is the lack of electricity means there's almost no light pollution from cities and towns. On clear nights, you can see the Milky Way and all the stars in the sky. I found an Audobon Society star guide here, and I've been learning the constellations. I told them about the Pleiades, and how the Polynesians believe that they used to be one bright star that boasted of its brilliance so much that the gods threw Sirius, the dog star, at it and shattered it into the pieces we now see. The younger guys didn't know the stories, but Seydou, an older man, knew them all, and I have to admire him. He told all of us that the Zarma equivalent of the Pleiades were called "Gorndariaze" - the hen and her chicks. When it's crests the sky, in mid-October, the rains are over and won't come again until next year. It's a connection with nature that we just don't have in America anymore. He doesn't seem very bright, but that's because he never had any schooling. He didn't even learn to write letters until he was 28 and living in Cote d'Ivoire. Everything that he lacks in academic learning, he makes up for in experience and age.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
A Fete for All
So I've decided to cheat a little bit and steal entries from my journal. I've come into Niamey and broken my exile because we had to write our reports for this trimester to send to Washington, and I was told I really had no option in the matter. So here I am, and here are a few of my entries.
30 September 2008 7:42 pm
Today marked Id al Fitr, the celebration ending Ramadan, and it was one of the best days I've had yet in country. First, let me say that this was the cleanest I have ever been or may ever be in village. I shaved, trimmed my hair, and scrubbed myself down for the festivities. I'm so glad I did too. I wore my outfit from swear-in, a long, dark green, embroidered African complet. It's the first time my villagers ever saw me in it. They were impressed, but I couldn't hold a candle next to some of the stuff they had. See pictures on facebook if you're interested. Everyone was decked out in his/her finest. Even the kids were scrubbed and in clean, non-tattered clothes. That was a shock to say the very least. It was like I was in a different place. A place that wasn't one of the world's poorest countries.
Okay, so the morning began with a walk to the edge of town. I thought we were going to the big mosque in the neighboring village, but as I looked back down the road, I knew that the mosque couldn't hold the hundreds that were walking to pray. We turned off the road at the edge of the village and onto a path through the bush. We walked a bit to a large section of field that had been cleared for the occasion. The sun was out and it was hot, but we rolled out the prayer mats and the alfa (a religious leader) of my neighborhood led the prayer. I did pray with my villagers, in the front row between a very old Fulan and a very small boy. I didn't know what I was doing, and it was nerve wracking, but I don't think my villagers minded that I followed their lead and faked my way through the service.
After the big prayer, we walked back to the village chief's compound and basically feasted. Many of the men were singing prayers the entire way back. There was so much food, and everyone in town was there. My neighbors Djame and Abu gave me two full pots of macaroni. I ate so much I had to spend most of the afternoon sleeping it off.
The best part of this holidy was how communal it all was. My friend from market, a cloth seller, actually thought to call me just to say "Kay Yesi" (Happy New Year). My counterpart Adamou's little girls came and visited me all by themselves. They're very cute and I couldn't believe they thought to come by. He called the next day from Ivory Coast, where he is doing migrant work as an animal trader. His daughters had on their matching outfits and their mother had braided their hair with bright, colorful beads. I didn't have any change (the typical small gift you give children who wish you a happy New Year), so I gave them some peanut M&Ms and took their picture. This was one of the most integrated and loved I've ever felt in my community. It was my best day so far in Niger. Only two more months until I get to do it all again for Tabaski!
30 September 2008 7:42 pm
Today marked Id al Fitr, the celebration ending Ramadan, and it was one of the best days I've had yet in country. First, let me say that this was the cleanest I have ever been or may ever be in village. I shaved, trimmed my hair, and scrubbed myself down for the festivities. I'm so glad I did too. I wore my outfit from swear-in, a long, dark green, embroidered African complet. It's the first time my villagers ever saw me in it. They were impressed, but I couldn't hold a candle next to some of the stuff they had. See pictures on facebook if you're interested. Everyone was decked out in his/her finest. Even the kids were scrubbed and in clean, non-tattered clothes. That was a shock to say the very least. It was like I was in a different place. A place that wasn't one of the world's poorest countries.
Okay, so the morning began with a walk to the edge of town. I thought we were going to the big mosque in the neighboring village, but as I looked back down the road, I knew that the mosque couldn't hold the hundreds that were walking to pray. We turned off the road at the edge of the village and onto a path through the bush. We walked a bit to a large section of field that had been cleared for the occasion. The sun was out and it was hot, but we rolled out the prayer mats and the alfa (a religious leader) of my neighborhood led the prayer. I did pray with my villagers, in the front row between a very old Fulan and a very small boy. I didn't know what I was doing, and it was nerve wracking, but I don't think my villagers minded that I followed their lead and faked my way through the service.
After the big prayer, we walked back to the village chief's compound and basically feasted. Many of the men were singing prayers the entire way back. There was so much food, and everyone in town was there. My neighbors Djame and Abu gave me two full pots of macaroni. I ate so much I had to spend most of the afternoon sleeping it off.
The best part of this holidy was how communal it all was. My friend from market, a cloth seller, actually thought to call me just to say "Kay Yesi" (Happy New Year). My counterpart Adamou's little girls came and visited me all by themselves. They're very cute and I couldn't believe they thought to come by. He called the next day from Ivory Coast, where he is doing migrant work as an animal trader. His daughters had on their matching outfits and their mother had braided their hair with bright, colorful beads. I didn't have any change (the typical small gift you give children who wish you a happy New Year), so I gave them some peanut M&Ms and took their picture. This was one of the most integrated and loved I've ever felt in my community. It was my best day so far in Niger. Only two more months until I get to do it all again for Tabaski!
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