Goodbye Winditan

I took a bus Thursday morning to go back to my village, pack, and say goodbye. I had asked Sangare (my APCD) to call and warn my village about my leaving, but I knew they wouldn't really believe him until I was there telling them myself. It felt as though we had sped up the two years I was supposed to stay, and doing all the things we would have waited to do until next December. I sat with Fati (Alpha Wande) and her new baby Abdul Rashid in her house before I ever made it to my concession. All the women came there to greet me. After I explained what was happening, and a lot of sad, quiet conversation and avoiding eye contact, they told me to go home and rest and start packing. I said I would come back to see them and they said they would come over later.

I heard the radio playing from my shade hangar before I walked in, and all the men had already met in my concession to greet me. I put my bag down and sat with them while one of them went to town to buy ingredients to make tea.


We chatted for a while and then Haouate sent food over, and I ate with just the men for the first time, from the same bowl, since arriving in Niger. After we ate, and took pictures, and made plans for them to visit me in Kiota they told me I should start packing and getting my stuff ready. I agreed, walked them to the door. And turned around to face my two huts, shade hangar, bathroom and toolshed: all completely lived in, all completely un-ready to be packed. I started with the big things, it felt easier. I brought the chairs and stools to a pile. I unhooked one of the beds. Then I saw that all the women were walking over.

Haoua asked how her cooking had been when she fed the men and me. Delicious, I said. And we laughed that she had cooked for me like that. This gender role thing...it is impossible to label. I tell them I'm a woman but not a Nigerien woman. As I was leaving the next day the men told my boss in Zarma that I was a man. And then they said, actually, she's two things. She's a man and she's a woman. And that was that. I digress. So the woman and I sat and talked about everything, mostly avoiding the topic that I might never see them again. We kept saying it isn't far to Kiota, it isn't so far to get there. I took a picture of them too, which they set up themselves and went home to get their head scarves so they would look good enough for it. In Niger if a person is smiling in a picture they say, oh that picture didn't work, they were laughing. It can take a million tries to get the picture just right because of how much laughter is actually happening. But occasionally you can really nail the picture-perfect Nigerien photo where everyone looks certainly serious, and nearly miserable. It isn't easy.


The women left around seven, right before the sun went down. I packed a little more and went back to Mari's house at eight. She said she was sorry that noboday had any food tonight to feed me. It's okay, I told her, and my stomach rumbled right then. I was hungry, I didn't have any food either.

It was dark but the other women saw my flashlight and we spent the next few hours lying on a tangara laughing hysterically and taking pictures in the darkness. Once we had all started to fall asleep we finally decided to go home to bed. The only flashlight I had that worked was my cell phone, so I spent the next couple of hours with a cell phone in my mouth trying to see and pack in the dark, emotionally overwhelmed to say the least. I woke up early the next morning to pack with the sunrise.


I finally got sort of organized and went over to Haouate's house for more goodbyes. Mari and I walked into town to greet the Maigiri, say goodbye, and pass out letters of condolence from the Peace Corps to give to him and Adoum's family about Adoum's death. When we got back the men had come over again. Agri, the agriculture extension agent had come by. I brought cards out we began waiting for Sangare to come on the bus to pick me up. I taught them how to open combination locks. It was very confusing; we laughed a lot. After a few hours I called and he said he was going to be a couple hours later. Since it was Friday the men said they needed to go Juma, do the Friday prayer. Oumarou looked at my back pack still sitting in the corner of the shade hangar where I put it down the day before and laughed. "Did you ever even open that since you got here?" I hadn't really. They left and after eating the plain white rice someone brought over for me I took a brief and much needed nap.



When the bus pulled up, we loaded all my giant amount of stuff onto it. Sangare held an un-installation meeting telling the village, "Zeinabou doesn't want to leave, but we are making her leave. She wants to stay, but she cannot stay." And I tried not to cry. The men told me I had to have one last cup of sweet chai before getting on the bus, so I did. And then I walked away leaving them all in my concession. The women waved and walked home. And we were all saying, "kala hanfo, kala hanfo," see you sometime.

Spring go ka, insha'allah, and with it something new.

2.17.09

Cross Country Excursions and Why I’m Homeless



I was picked up at the hostel last Monday to make the trek out to Hausa land with Chris, the PTO, Bawa the new education APCD, Souley, the health PTA, and Amadou our driver. Unfortunately, my cell phone slipped out of my pocket right as I was leaving so I spent the week away from texts or calls. It ended up a refreshing escape from the previous two weeks in Niamey of seeing friends and meeting new volunteers as they streamed in and out of the hostel in the usual Niamey PCV traffic.

We went through Dosso, Konni, slept in Maradi, continued to Zinder, stayed there one night, spent the next night in Laura’s village, the next back in Zinder, and the following two in Maradi before making the long drive home getting in late Sunday night. Spending 12-14 hours a day in the car, and covering a good 2,700 km in total; we felt we had earned our exhaustion by the time we finally fell asleep back in our respective Niamey beds. Along the way we stopped in different PCV villages doing site-visits so the CYE (community youth education) volunteers could meet Bawa (their new boss). It was great to see so much of the East. I feel like I’ve lost all my Zarma and picked up a lot of ‘sannu-sannu.’

On Friday, Mary (the country director) sent word that she had met with the embassy and had news on our consolidation status. Before I learned the finer details on Monday morning I was told that the 11 of us consolidated were being given three options: 1) COS-close of service early and go back to America. 2) Return to our villages after agreeing to a new set of living and travel regulations. 3) Relocate to a new village somewhere and start over. I planned right away to go back to my village, until I saw the extent of the new regulations (which would potentially stay in place past the end of my service). Essentially because the embassy is most worried about the safety of traveling, they wanted to give us the option to stay in our homes while minimizing the amount of time we spent on the road. That translates into us being able to leave our villages only once every month or two, not being allowed to work on group projects in order for there not to be multiple PCV’s in the same place at the same time, and no visitors allowed to our sites except for occasional exceptions. Not to mention that if we got sick we would have to take care of ourselves in our huts with extra medicine we would stock up on since we’d have much less access to the med bureau. And in addition to all this, daily phone calls with our APCD’s to ensure PC Headquarters we were still alive. Also, once we are done with our service, PC plans to completely close our cluster, so no new volunteers will continue the projects we start. As you can probably imagine, the circumstances felt sub-par in terms of living conditions, and far from productive in terms of successful PC projects. Especially for those of us who are newer to country, it makes much more sense to start from scratch in a new region where we have more free reign to work with other PCV’s, and have access to Niamey for project proposals, etc.

I should interject here that I still feel largely numb to the bulk of what has happened. I love my village, I love my neighbors, I love my house, and I am completely unprepared to up and move. I haven’t told them anything yet because I simply don’t have the words to say, “not only am I leaving, but due to safety problems in the area you will have no future volunteers to help fix your grain bank, get new potato seeds, and work and your tree grafting projects. Good luck.” As of right now, PC doesn’t even want us to go back to say goodbye or pack up our houses. They want to send public cars out without us and toss our stuff in the back. It is not pleasant to imagine someone else, rushed, packing all your belongings while your heartbroken neighbors stand watching.


*I got sidetracked in the midst of everything that’s going on: One Week Later…

2.24.09

City Living



I have been living in the Niamey hostel for about a month now, save my trip east and a quick two nights in my new village.

To recap major events as objectively as possible:

I’m moving to Kiota. Kiota is a city. I will have electricity. Still no running water. I am switching from an agriculture volunteer to an education volunteer. I will be writing and performing weekly radio shows in Zarma and French called “Practical Life with the Peace Corps.” Tuesdays from 5-5:30: they will quick sensiblizations through skits and conversations on subjects like AIDS, nutrition, family planning, health, women’s rights, etc. I may also be working on teacher trainings, English clubs, literacy classes for kids not in school, and other related projects. I don’t move in until March 30th, after our inter-service-training (IST), which is only sort of relevant to me now as it is the Agriculture and Natural Resource Management IST.

Kiota has one of the most important Sheikhs in all of West Africa. (Read more about him and his mother (mamma) here.) People come from all over the place to visit him and be in his presence. I will sort of be considered the sheikize, the sheik’s daughter. This is probably the most religious and conservative place in all of Niger. I am to wear long skirts and cover my head at all times. I have a hard time with this, and in the 3 days I went and stayed there I already wore pants and didn’t cover my head a few times, but I will get better.

As I am writing this my phone rings. It is my neighbor from Winditan calling to see when I am coming home. I tell him I will come Thursday to see everyone. He is so happy. He says we have been waiting so much for you to come home! I realize PC must not have called them yet to explain I am not going to be living there anymore. I have told them twice now that I can’t come back for good, that Peace Corps doesn’t think it is good for me to stay there because of the white people who got stolen, and they pretend they don’t hear me and say see you soon.

So to back up again, Thursday I will go to Winditan to say my goodbyes and pack my stuff. Friday my boss will come and collect my belongings. Saturday I will come back to Niamey. I am the only one out of the 5 of us being relocated allowed to go say goodbye. I live closer and on a safer road. I hope I can prevent myself from crying in public. My neighbor had a baby boy while I was gone. I’ll get to see him for the first time! It will be hard to see the way my neighbors will stoically accept, the way they do with all the hardships in their lives, that something like the help of a peace corps volunteer was of course too good to last. That if God wills for their friend to be taken away, and their chance of getting money to be taken away, then so be it. We will not waste time talking about how unfair this whole situation is for everyone. There is no unfair in Zarma. It will just be, ‘kala ni kayan, insha’allah.’ ‘God-willing, see you when you come.’ And I will not be allowed to come.

I watched Milk. Great movie. I’m excited to move to San Francisco. The hot season is starting. I have bacteria again, thank god for Cipro! I’m learning new ways to look great in a head scarf. I’ve thought about buying a camel instead of riding my bike. There are palm trees on my new road. I will have PCV neighbors less than 10 km away. I might have to travel east again to stay with some CYE PCV’s and learn a little bit about my new job. I have to learn French. I am trying to tell myself everyday, you can do this, you can be great at this. Some days I know that’s true, some days I am just so tired. I have met wonderful people while traveling around this country, and I have made some great friends. I know I need to at least try this next step.

Hope everyone back home is doing well! Sorry this post is so jumbled; I unjumbled it as much as I could. The stuff in my head is all a little disorganized right now. Kala suru. Thank you for letters and phone calls. Missing you.

Did the groundhog see his shadow? I didn't hear.

The hot season is beginning early. We were hoping it would hold off until March, but the thermometer has already gotten to 110˚F. It’s dry though, the heat, so not painful yet. I’ve been telling my villagers I will die once we’re really in the throws of hayniwati, the hot season.

So I should back up, and cover a little of what I have avoided having to write about. Today marks 2 weeks since we were originally put on standfast. Standfast is the first step in the EAP, the Emergency Action Plan for the Peace Corps. It’s kind of like a yellow alert for our security code at home. And it means you can’t go anywhere at all. So instead of all the volunteers in my region coming into Niamey to celebrate my training group (stage)’s completion of our first month at post, we stayed put. I found out from my neighbor he had heard that some anasaras (white people) had been kidnapped. This was Thursday or Friday, January 23rd or so.

That Tuesday morning I got the terrible news that my chef-du-group, (stand-in maigri and official counterpart) who had been in a coma for a couple weeks after a terrible motorcycle accident, had passed away. His name was Adoum and he was one of the kindest, warmest and most charismatic people I have ever met. He was the guardian for the Center (the fancy building in my village where the garden trainings are supposed to happen). He had two wives and many children and always wore a turban with aviator sunglasses, and was always smiling. When my neighbor came over to tell me the news I was eating breakfast and tried to keep my composure. But just yesterday, I wanted to say, just yesterday they said he was doing better! But I could not say anything, I nodded my head, and turned around to walk into my hut and cry into a towel for five minutes. Then I put on a long skirt and clean shirt and splashed water on my face to feel more ready.

I went with my neighbors to town to pay our respects to his family. I think my best friend in village is related to him because she was already there. I was so grateful to have bought a head-scarf (hijab) my last trip to market, because I needed something to cover my face. We are not supposed to cry in public, or to show very much emotion at all in public. And this man was the closest to a father-figure for me in my village and I did not know how to stoically greet everyone as if it was just another day. “How is your health?” “Fine.” “How is your family?” “Fine.” I was constantly hiding my face behind the embroidered blue scarf which went from my head down past my waist, because I could not stop crying. We sat on the mats in his family’s concession (divided by gender) silently, grieving. Mari, my closest friend, the 33 year old mother of my favorite little boy in the village, sat behind me drained of any of her usual spark. I couldn’t look at her without crying, and she kept having to hide her face to cry in her scarf as well. I thought I was keeping it together pretty well until an older woman walked over to join us, and was suddenly seized with grief. I at first thought maybe her ganji (the spirit inside her) was coming out or possessing her. She started shrieking with her hands in the air, screaming and stomping and wailing. It was as if she was begging God, just begging him to take it back, to send Adoum back. Like how could we physically continue to live without him—it would be too painful. I hid my face back under the hijab trying to stay as silent as I could. I heard Mari behind me give a little yelp, as if she’d been slapped in the face by this woman’s mourning, and she jumped up and ran out of the concession unable to contain her grief. The woman finally got it all out, or had nothing left to scream with, and collapsed on the dirt beside me. Someone brought her a cup of water. Then in turns the women began standing up to pound millet together. Stiff bodies slamming the pestle into the mortar in groups of three. Boom boom boom, one-two-three, boom boom boom one-two-three. I watched the catharsis of it, the hurt leaving their arms and faces as the beat the hayni. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep that rhythm. I would have tipped the mortar, spilled everything in the sand, fallen to my knees. These women have strength. Finally it was time to walk back home. We ran into Laribou, Mari’s husband as we walked through town down the paved road. “Zeinabou, ni go bani? Mate gahamo?” You have health? How is your body? I turned away mid “bani samay walla” so it would not be awkward to hold eye contact while my voice cracked. He looked fancier than I’d ever seen him. A red plaid button down shirt over tan pants. “Kala suru,” Haouate said to me as we approached the door of my concession. Have patience. I nodded. I felt like I had so much growing up to do. The thing is…the thing that’s hard, or harder, is I think he would have lived in America. Our hospitals could have saved him. Just knowing that, it did no good, not just to know that.

When I got back I had missed a call from our country director. I was running out of money and couldn’t call her, so I texted and she called me again. She said because of the kidnappings we were being consolidated, step two of the EAP. She said to make sure to tell my counterpart that we would be in Niamey for at least 10-14 days. I told her “okay.” Then lost it again. “Okay, except he died this morning, so I’ll tell my neighbor. I’ll come in tomorrow.” It was terrible having to leave my village like that. They looked as though they understood that I too might never come back. Like of course they could expect any terrible news now. “It’s better,” they said, “to be where you’re safe.” Mari was still in town and she came by that night while I was packing. Her tears had dried. After we exchanged greetings she asked, “You’re leaving tomorrow?” “I’m leaving tomorrow," I told her. "I don’t know when I can come back.” She nodded. Said goodnight. And in the morning I took my bags, locked my doors, found a bush taxi and left for the capital.

Now here I am, still in Niamey, and consolidation is only being extended. There have been two kidnappings since mid-December. You may have read about them in the news. The first was two Canadian officials, and the second was four European tourists. They both took place in a sort of triangle between the Malian border, my road, and another road, so the 11 volunteers on those roads are all here now. It was originally assumed it was related to the Tuareg rebellion in the North, but no one has claimed responsibility and they are all still missing. It is now being linked to a North African sub-group of Al-Qaeda most likely kidnapping Westerners for ransom. We are waiting for more info before knowing whether we can go back to our villages. Right now the Embassy has said that it is not safe for PC staff to drive in private cars (like the ones being targeted) on those two roads; so subsequently the PC doesn’t not want us to be at post if they are not allowed to drive to us in an emergency (regardless of how safe we actually are when just in our villages). It is possible that Americans are specifically not being targeted as America is famous for refusing to pay ransoms, and if that is the case maybe we can go back soon. As of now we are just waiting, and doing odd jobs in Niamey.

On Monday I’m leaving with Chris, the PTO (sort of Ass. Country Director) to drive out East to Zinder to do site visits for the Hausa speakers. I’m excited to see some more of this country, and see some of my friends who have been posted further away. My village calls me almost everyday and sends me messages asking when I will be able to come back. I hope my cats will find enough lizards so they don’t starve to death. With everything still pretty fairly up in the air, I suppose all I can say is Insha’allah things will go back to normal soon. I hope we will all be able to return to our villages, and (unlike the Malian volunteers) none of us will get Interrupted Service (and sent back to America until further notice).

I feel very safe, it has been nice to see my friends here (while they were in for our one-month party) and get some internet time. I miss the solitude of my village. I miss my neighbors and reading and reading and reading. I hope my garden is not all dead when I return. It was a strange way to end my first month.

Most of my friends are not consolidated, and have returned to their posts. One of my best friends in-country, Colin, ET’d and went back to the states. We miss you Colin! And on a side note, my friend Kristen (who was back at post yesterday) had to come back to Niamey because she got attacked by a random cat in her bed in the middle of the night and needed to get another series of rabies shots! So safety is relative, I suppose. So far she promises she has had no urges to bite any of her friends, but we’re keeping an eye on her.

I love you all. I can’t believe I’ve been here almost four months! Also, I caught most of the inauguration on my short wave radio, though it cut out before the end. We’re keeping our fingers crossed here for the economy. We feel it only minimally. With budget cuts we only get a few shuttle cars a year (to help us bring groceries, bikes, etc. out to post) instead of the usual monthly shuttle. But we still have our jobs, so we are grateful. Talk to you all soon. Call when you can. Kala tonton.

Journal Excerpt: 1/14/09

Wednesday night.

The men are at my house with Agri. We are talking inventory, about the magasin, about animal count, and carts and who still hasn’t paid when Fati calls something over the fence to Oumarou. I am surprised she would interrupt us. I cannot catch what she says. With it, the air changes. Everyone looks behind us, out to the bush, and the men are on their feet, flashlights click on, and they are all running into the bush, except Agri. “Ifo?” I ask him, “Ifo?” What? I don’t understand the Zarma so he says, “pleurer. Crier. Boro crier.” And then I hear it: the wey wey wey of mourning. It’s more than one woman; voices together crying out into plain darkness. The moon hasn’t even risen. You can see dots of light coming through the grass from all directions following the cries.

We are on our feet now, walking to the pump where Fati is. We are searching into the night for some hint of who? what? Agri wants Tata’s number. “Tata?” I ask. “Alhassan,” he says. Before now I don’t know his nickname. Tata answers, but no news yet; they do not know yet. Agri asks Fati for a mat. “Ay ma jingar,” he says, I should pray. I remember the speakers in town went off while we were meeting. We didn’t stop for the seven o’clock prayer. Haouate is there now, her eyes somewhere else. I think, “I hope her ganji doesn’t come out tonight.” Everyone is leaving. “Ay go ga ma jirbi,” she tells me with a stern voice. I don’t understand. “Tired? Or you’re cold?” I ask because she’s shaking, and there is wind tonight. “No,” she says, “scared.” And next to me her teeth chatter and her body vibrates. Is she joking, I wonder? Haoua is always joking. But her eyes say, don’t wonder that. I want to put my arm around her, for her, for me; but I think, they don’t do that, they don’t hug. So I lean into her. I show her I am standing straight and strong and know her well enough for our arms to touch. I want to ask, what’s happening? I don’t understand what’s happening. We stay a few minutes like that: her body, wrapped in a zara, shaking into me; and then she moves away. While we listen to the wails, and the dogs’ bark coming across the grass, I feel like all the leaves that touch my ankles are snakes, and every fly a spider on my face or neck.

Oumarou calls while Agri prays in my concession with an update I can’t understand. People the whole time asking, “Was someone sick over there?” People answering, “Always.” Mari’s children come bringing food for me and the men. Maybe Mari hasn’t heard? She must have heard. I tell them to leave it on the bench beneath the Garbai tree. Abdul Karim, tied with a pagne to Hadiza’s back, has been crying. Maybe it’s just the cold, or tiredness. We cannot cry. I cannot ask questions. I want to say, just speak in English, please, speak English!

After he prays, Agri sees the tassas of food, but says he must go home. “Without eating?” Fati says, “You should eat.” He nods down, excuses himself, mumbles he must go. I offer my light to get him to his poporo, but he declines and finds the bike in the dark. We hear him kick the engine to life and ride off following his one dim headlight.

At the pump we stand waiting. Our bodies are stiff, bracing ourselves. We wait until we see the lights of the men jogging back. “You see,” says Haoua pointing, “I go ka.” They are coming. But when they arrive there are a few muttered words, and nothing. Fati says we should bring the food back to Mari’s. We will all eat there. I pick up a tassa and carry it to the men’s spot before joining the women. Voices are hushed so the children can’t hear and now I am a child. We eat millet with sauce; spoons reach into the bowl angry. Now and again I hear, “Agri didn’t eat?” “He should have eaten.” “Did he go home without eating?” And through the cracks I hear, “whose child?” and “his mother’s brother, or was it sister?” The men finish and carry food to town for the elders, for their mothers, to hear what people in town are saying. When the conversation changes to every night dinner talk, I feel my breathing resume normally. I put my spoon down having not eaten much. “I’m tired,” I say, “I’m going to bed.”

Now at my desk, writing by lamp, I think there is really wind tonight. I hear cries again, followed by dogs barking everywhere. Did it start again? Is it grieving? Maybe just the usual circus of animals speaking through the night. Tonight an edge to everything. The tall grass, the torn millet stalks, they are whispering. I cannot decipher the hum. The chairs still in the sand where the men sat, ghosts, pushed back at odd angles.