My new address for the next two years is:
c/o Corps de la Paix
B.P. 641
Zinder, Niger
West Africa
Be sure to write "Par Avion"
Please please send me your letters!
Sunday, December 19, 2010
KARATU, FARKON KA MADACI, KARSHENKA ZUMA
One volunteer put it well (and comfortingly) this past weekend: “Going to the bush to learn Hausa is like going to the backwoods South to learn English.” Oh, good.
Language immersion was, as I expected, a huge challenge. Communication was top on the list of frustrations, as well as the predictable frustrations that come from being with the same two ladies every hour of the day for two weeks. But I made it, and even though I was counting down the days for half the time, my Hausa did improve and I had a very realistic glimpse of what it will be like to be a volunteer in a small bush village. I must say, I don’t think I could have done it without the guavas and sugar cane. I’ve had many a guava juice or tropical juice mix in my time, but at 24 I had my first fresh guava, and they are simply heaven-sent. Sugar cane is a delightful afternoon snack that graces Niger with its abundance in the cold season--you sit around gnawing off chunks of the peeled stalk, sucking out the sugar juice and spitting out the desiccated stalk, chatting about the chilly weather.
The village was in the Maradi region, and even though it was on the paved road, there was no electricity or running water—a bush village but for its accessibility. There were a couple thousand villagers, a clinic, middle school, a very nice mosque, and a market. Mornings were spent in front of a chalkboard and afternoons were spent talking to village VIPS like the tailor, the shop owner, the blacksmith, the mayor, the bush taxi guy, etc.
Walking through the fields outside the village was an almost daily activity. I was fascinated by my language facilitator, a city gal from Niamey who showered three times a day and was terrified of ever being alone, who knew the name of every single tree and shrub. She even could identify a tree by its seedpod if we brought it home. At the end of our stay we planted a few trees with some kids, probably aged about 8-10. We accidentally mixed up the seeds and ended up handing them the extracted mesquite seeds, calling them tamarind seeds, and without even hesitating they called out our mistake. These kids really know their plants, and they were so excited to be planting their own trees. I can’t say I met any kids like that doing environmental education in Portland, just sayin…
Yesterday morning I was up like a spring at 4am full of anticipation because it was site announcement day. Now, nerves at ease, am happy to report that I will be a volunteer in the Zinder region, the region that had been my preference. The specs on my village are much as I had expected, around 750 people, a 2k walk to transportation and another 2 hours to the regional capitol, no electricity, and no running water. I am pleased, and now I am eager to get out to post and see my new home. A volunteer has lived in this village before, so I am lucky to have a fairly detailed report of what I can expect, who are known movers and shakers in the village, and information about what resources will be available to me.
One thing about Hausa that still trips me up is wants and needs--pretty important stuff to communicate. There is not a way to express the nuances of needing and desiring…which might be the foundation of American manners. If you say “dan allah,” the closest thing to “please” in Hausa, you will be laughed at because it is a term only used for begging. That being said, Hausa is such a positive-sounding language, if that makes any sense. For example, “yawwa!” means “alright!,” and “ya yi kyau!” means “good!” and I am almost certain, what with the long a’s and emphatic intonation, that it is actually impossible to utter these word without relish.
Many of you have asked me how I could be eating so much rice in Niger, considering that most of Niger is in the Sahara desert. Millet and sorghum are the principal cereal crops grown here in the Sahel, and millet is the Nigerien diet’s underpinning. The rice is imported from Pakistan and Thailand—“broken rice” that their markets reject but Nigeriens prefer. A lot of rice is also donated to Niger from the US and Europe and it is sold on the market. At this moment rice is less expensive than millet, however about 80% of Nigeriens are subsistence farmers so they are usually eating tuwo (prepared millet and also a general term for food.) Peace Corps gives our host families food to cook for us: rice, beans, oil, and some sauce ingredients. Interestingly enough, in the Niger river basin farmers do grow rice, but it is apparently highly valuable rice and it’s sold to European markets at a higher price than it could ever get here. There.
I am particularly tickled by this Nigerien tradition I just learned of: If a boy is born after four girls in the family, he will be named Gumbo. If a girl is born after four boys, she too will be named Gumbo. I learned this after meeting both a male and a female Gumbo in the same village. I bet this isn’t all that uncommon in Niger considering Niger has the highest birthrate in the world and the average woman has 7 children…I met an al haji just last week who has 50 children! Even if he made an acronym for all his kids’ names, the acronym would still be hard to remember.
Update: moringa apparently not nitrogen-fixing. Duly noted and damage control now underway amongst the ag/nrm trainees.
Language immersion was, as I expected, a huge challenge. Communication was top on the list of frustrations, as well as the predictable frustrations that come from being with the same two ladies every hour of the day for two weeks. But I made it, and even though I was counting down the days for half the time, my Hausa did improve and I had a very realistic glimpse of what it will be like to be a volunteer in a small bush village. I must say, I don’t think I could have done it without the guavas and sugar cane. I’ve had many a guava juice or tropical juice mix in my time, but at 24 I had my first fresh guava, and they are simply heaven-sent. Sugar cane is a delightful afternoon snack that graces Niger with its abundance in the cold season--you sit around gnawing off chunks of the peeled stalk, sucking out the sugar juice and spitting out the desiccated stalk, chatting about the chilly weather.
The village was in the Maradi region, and even though it was on the paved road, there was no electricity or running water—a bush village but for its accessibility. There were a couple thousand villagers, a clinic, middle school, a very nice mosque, and a market. Mornings were spent in front of a chalkboard and afternoons were spent talking to village VIPS like the tailor, the shop owner, the blacksmith, the mayor, the bush taxi guy, etc.
Walking through the fields outside the village was an almost daily activity. I was fascinated by my language facilitator, a city gal from Niamey who showered three times a day and was terrified of ever being alone, who knew the name of every single tree and shrub. She even could identify a tree by its seedpod if we brought it home. At the end of our stay we planted a few trees with some kids, probably aged about 8-10. We accidentally mixed up the seeds and ended up handing them the extracted mesquite seeds, calling them tamarind seeds, and without even hesitating they called out our mistake. These kids really know their plants, and they were so excited to be planting their own trees. I can’t say I met any kids like that doing environmental education in Portland, just sayin…
Yesterday morning I was up like a spring at 4am full of anticipation because it was site announcement day. Now, nerves at ease, am happy to report that I will be a volunteer in the Zinder region, the region that had been my preference. The specs on my village are much as I had expected, around 750 people, a 2k walk to transportation and another 2 hours to the regional capitol, no electricity, and no running water. I am pleased, and now I am eager to get out to post and see my new home. A volunteer has lived in this village before, so I am lucky to have a fairly detailed report of what I can expect, who are known movers and shakers in the village, and information about what resources will be available to me.
One thing about Hausa that still trips me up is wants and needs--pretty important stuff to communicate. There is not a way to express the nuances of needing and desiring…which might be the foundation of American manners. If you say “dan allah,” the closest thing to “please” in Hausa, you will be laughed at because it is a term only used for begging. That being said, Hausa is such a positive-sounding language, if that makes any sense. For example, “yawwa!” means “alright!,” and “ya yi kyau!” means “good!” and I am almost certain, what with the long a’s and emphatic intonation, that it is actually impossible to utter these word without relish.
Many of you have asked me how I could be eating so much rice in Niger, considering that most of Niger is in the Sahara desert. Millet and sorghum are the principal cereal crops grown here in the Sahel, and millet is the Nigerien diet’s underpinning. The rice is imported from Pakistan and Thailand—“broken rice” that their markets reject but Nigeriens prefer. A lot of rice is also donated to Niger from the US and Europe and it is sold on the market. At this moment rice is less expensive than millet, however about 80% of Nigeriens are subsistence farmers so they are usually eating tuwo (prepared millet and also a general term for food.) Peace Corps gives our host families food to cook for us: rice, beans, oil, and some sauce ingredients. Interestingly enough, in the Niger river basin farmers do grow rice, but it is apparently highly valuable rice and it’s sold to European markets at a higher price than it could ever get here. There.
I am particularly tickled by this Nigerien tradition I just learned of: If a boy is born after four girls in the family, he will be named Gumbo. If a girl is born after four boys, she too will be named Gumbo. I learned this after meeting both a male and a female Gumbo in the same village. I bet this isn’t all that uncommon in Niger considering Niger has the highest birthrate in the world and the average woman has 7 children…I met an al haji just last week who has 50 children! Even if he made an acronym for all his kids’ names, the acronym would still be hard to remember.
Update: moringa apparently not nitrogen-fixing. Duly noted and damage control now underway amongst the ag/nrm trainees.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Babu sanyi
This blog post is obviously a few weeks out of date, but I didn't have internet access when I was expecting it. Blog update about how the immersion went plus more! coming soon.
Yesterday marked the momentous 5 week mark in training. The excessive typos I just found in my previous post have not cowed me--I am back and updating, probably with just as many typos as last time. Last week, we made our acquaintance with Niamey. All the trainees are like the country mouse in the city, getting giddy about an hour of molasses-speed wifi and the prospect of a cold beer. For almost all good things in Niger you must wait a very long time. Cheese pizza (oh my, cheese?!)? 2 hours after ordering. Beer? well, 1 month. Alcohol in Niger, as in most Muslim countries, is highly stigmatized. The few men who drink do so au cache-cache, scampering off to another town to imbibe. In the Nigerien “Cheers,” sometimes you wanna go where nobody knows your name. Women who drink are presumed to be prostitutes, as are women who smoke. Western women are mostly exempt from this assumption in the cities, but it would be very poorly advised for a PCV to drink at all in her village.
I must not forget to mention that at the tail end of the awful bus ride from Maradi after Demyst, I saw a group of wild giraffes nibbling on some trees outside of Dosso. I can check that off my Niger to-do list, now.
I can also check off eating grasshoppers, intestines, esophagus, stomach, kidneys and liver, as well as seeing rams being sacrificed, (these are the things you add on to your to-do list, though, after you’ve already done them just so that you can check more things off, shhh..). Last week was Tabaski, a two-day long meat-eating celebration of Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Ismael. For the families who can afford to, they sacrifice a ram. One third is meant to be for the family, one third to share with friends, and the last third to give to the poor. Again for those who can afford to, kids get new Tabaski clothes, and the women henna their feet and paint their babies’ eyebrows and foreheads. Many of the kids got Obama shirts the like of which I have never seen in the U.S. There is even Obama fabric, which people use to make their skirts and Nigerien garb—where does it all come from? Tangent: also puzzled by ubiquitous AIG jerseys. Have heard tell of markets where clothing donated to Niger from America is sold, so called “Dead Man’s Market” because why else would someone get rid of their clothes? Have yet to confirm with own two eyes... Anyway, For Tabaski, we had delicious couscous and onion tomato meat sauce, a special treat mainly because it wasn’t rice and sauce. My uncle and little brothers sacrificed the two rams, skinned and eviscerated them in about an hour. They splayed the carcasses above coals and smoked the meat for several hours. In the meantime, they started deep-frying the intestines. I actually only have a vague idea of just which organs I ate… They cook ram all day long to preserve the meat for many weeks to come (is anyone still wondering why Peace Corps Niger boasts highest rate of dysentery in Peace Corps?) On the second day, kids go around with trays of meat on their head to share with their friends and neighbors, and the children from the Quranic school come around begging for meat which is gladly offered. Surprisingly, other than this excessive meat eating, Tabaski was just like two days off of language training.
My garden is going well—I have several tomato, pepper, eggplant and lettuce plants, as well as experimental peanut and cassava plots. I have also started my tree nursery with moringa, tamarind, acacia, baobob, and gum arabic trees, plus orange trees for rootstock. Some fellow plant nerds in my stage claim that the moringa tree fixes nitrogen because we found mychorrizal (sp?) nodules on its roots, (think Alnus). Exciting discovery, however none of the dusty literature we have around here can back this up. Does anyone have any information about this? If you aren’t familiar with the moringa tree, wikipedia it—all the agroforestry development workers get stars in their eyes just at the mention of its name.
The anticipation grows as the date of site announcements draws nearer. My only requests for my site are: being able to do beekeeping and being within a half-day of another volunteer. I will likely be either in the Maradi or the Zinder region, both a very long bus ride from Niamey. I have heard that Maradi’s PC hostel has a great library, second to Zinder’s. Tomorrow we split up into small groups and go on language immersion in the bush for two weeks, which will vastly improve my Hausa and likely also drive me crazy. We’ll see, and above all, I will “sai hankuri,” the Hausa mantra to be patient. After that we only have about two weeks left of training before swearing in.
Cold season is upon us, and I am so amused by the Nigeriens who complain about the cold, wear winter jackets and hats in the 90 plus degree heat in the morning and just after the sun sets. A few nights ago, my host mother Biba was making fun of me for thinking that the weather is hot, so in response I went to grab pictures of my parents’ home after a Chicago snowstorm. There is no word for snow in Hausa (no surprise) but they were floored, and I pretty much blew their minds. Biba relented, “okay, okay, at your home, it is cold.”
Yesterday was Thanksgiving, a bittersweet occasion to have a true feast. Turkey (sub chx), cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie were the only alimentary staples missing. Thanksgivings away from home are like a consolation prize, but especially in a country like Niger, I’m more conscious of for what I am thankful. You know, like horseradish cranberry sauce.
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