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.