Peace Corps Niger Celebrates 45th Year

Peace Corps Niger has the honorable distinction of running for 45 years without disruption. Accordingly, we duly celebrated this occasion in September with a visit from Director Ron Tschetter from Washington and an open house at the Niamey Bureau.

Much work was exectuted to present the history and successes of the five current program sectors, Natural Resource Management, Agriculture, Community Health, Education, and Municipal and Community Development. Many volunteers came in from their posts to prepare for the event with their best foot forward. For me and my fellow NRM volunteers, that meant making a life sized paper mache giraffe (or giraffasauras as our Program Director likes to call her!) Buying supplies in the market was a memorable trip and several eyebrows were raised as my friend Barbara and I tried to draw and explain our construction diagram to the perplexed woodcutters.

One of the coolest parts of this anniversay was meeting returned Peace Corps volunteers who served in the sixties and seventies and decided to come back to visit their villagers. Hearing their stories made me feel like kind of a wimp for all the conveniences I can access now! Some of them had to travel for several weeks to get to their post from the capital Niamey, and many spent 6 months or more at a time out in the bush. Listening to them reminded me of what I hoped to find when I got here, and gave me resolve to head back to the bush for a good chunk of time. I've had enough of the "big city" life.......see you at Christmas!!

(photo index: Ambassador Bernadette Allen, Peace Corps Director Tschetter, Country Director Mary Abrams; building Girtie the Giraffe; Jamie and I with Girtie)

Orchestra Natura

The nightime sounds of the rainy season are a caucaphonic symphony. Just after dusk a cicada will pop out of its deep burrow that I envision to be a city of square tunnels under my concession. He warms up with a first few notes, a warning to me of what's to come. With the high rapid pitch of a piccolo, he starts the concerto with a series of fast notes, almost beeps that do more than make noise, but move the air around in waves. So as I come ever closer to scare it back into its hole, the loud deafening sounds seem to reverbrate my eardrums and threaten to pierce their sensitve membranes. Perhaps this is how Beethoven learned to compose his symphonies, by being with nature and matching the vibrations to each instrument.

Here at night it is as if each of the noises come alive and not only the thing that produces them, but the music itself moves throughout the air. The crickets with their constant rhythms, both high and only slightly lower are like violins and violas sending light vibrations all around. Then suddenly a bat will move large swaths of air with its wings, flitting in and out of the hut with rising and circling crescendo of a faintly echoing bass drum. The wind outside is a low hollow flute as the slow creak of the open window has the subtle grace of a grand bass. The air is alive and the threat of the storm further rises as the snare drums tease with a short quick spattering of rain on the metal door. Faintly, in the background, as if you were on stage or in the pit, the scratching of a dung beetle sounds of a turning page of sheet music. The stretching of air on the wings of a clumsily falling blister beetle are playfully blown on the reeds of a trombone. The frequent nasal honking of a guinea hen, impashioned plea of a donkey, and occasional frustrated ney of a distant horse round out the wind instruments.

Like the suspense of a symphony reaching its climax, a pause will settle over the air as if everything, including me, is holding its breath until the skies open and the torrents pour down, compelling silence and instilling quiet with reverence for the storms power.

(photo index: hedgehog; chameleon; some kind of cool insect)

Rainy Season in the Sahel

I have a love/hate relationship with the rainy season. On one hand, the country has never looked so beautiful. There is green ground cover and wildflowers are growing all over. The tall stalks of millet rise up with bursts of dark green beans between them, waiting to be harvested in October. The rain itself drops the temperature down to the seventies, often a forty degree difference from the hot midday heat. And the lake has grown enormously, looking so beautiful as it reflects the fields of millet, different types of tress now in full bloom and the bright colors that reflect off the clouds at sunset, as well as the occasional full rainbows that arch across the whole sky.

Sometimes the lake looks like glass and the picture of two men gently paddling their boat across the water brings me peace. I have also found catharsis in rising early to join my neighbors at their fields, working my body into a sweat as we hand plow the millet sprouts. But many of my most pleasant mornings have been sitting with a cup of coffee and my journal, the BBC tuned in on my short wave radio to the background of a gently falling rain outside.

But then the other side of this season weighs down with each drop. The nights when I am awoken to lightning overhead, unannounced and many hours after I've fallen asleep gently under a clear star filled sky. Abruptly racing to bring my flashlight, pillow, blanket, book, chair, table and water bottle inside. I return to snap down the lines of my mosquito net and bundle it up shut, mattress and all, to the dry shelter of my mud hut, hoping the net doesn't rip any big holes as it snags on my millet stalk bed frame.

As the rainy season progresses, the weaknesses in my mud roof become more apparent. Just as I climb into my mosquito net inside and grow used to the sound of the indoor crickets, I am forced to rise to follow the slap slapping of water on my concrete floor or metal trunk and put a cup or bucket safely underneath to catch the drip. It is not uncommon for mud walls and homes to become saturated and collapse, as was the case for several people in my village and for me. I stood in my latrine one September morning and heard the hollow crashing of a twenty foot wall of my concession come down in one piece on top of my outdoor bed, my trees and my small vegetable garden. It is all a part of this African experience I told myself as my neighbors and I carried away the mud bricks to try and save some of the squashed tree seedlings underneath.

(photo index: looking into my concession where the wall once stood, a day in the millet fields with my friend Kevin, Lake Tabalak at sunset)

Plants, Patience & Perseverance

As one of the poorest countries in the world with a literacy rate that is estimated to be only 15% of the population, Niger offers very little with regard to modern income opportunities. Furthermore, women have one of the highest birth averages in the world at 10 children each leaving little time, energy and income to start their own small business enterprises. Accordingly, it is one of my personal goals as well as a Peace Corps program objective to develop sustainable income generating activities for women and girls. Many women in Niger, as well as the women of Kehehe, have formed cooperatives that are legally recognized NGOs who can apply for small microloan credit. Most of them operate a bit more informally by running a caisse system where each woman makes a weekly donation to the caisse that can then be loaned out to a number of women in need for things such as medical expenses or a son's dowry. They also use this money to help get projects started.

Such was the case in our Kehehe Women's Garden project. Informal conversations with many of the village women and the three leaders of the women's cooperatives revealed a great interest in obtaining a plot of land and materials to specifically start a women's garden. With some hemming and hawwing, the village chief finally agreed to loan us a plot of land and maybe, in the future, if the women raise the money, they can buy it off of him. Well, this promise turned out to be empty and I quickly learned that my chief is not always honest, nor supportive of the women in the village. The land he promised was claimed by a Tuareg man who said he earned it in some sort of dispute settlement. Oops! The chief forgot this minor point so we sought out other landowners in the village and with the help of an incredibly generous elder, were given a plot that the women can use in perpetuity.

Working closely with the village women's leader who is now one of my closest friends and a person I have grown to admire for her humor and grace, we held several meetings where 75 women attended to express their interest and sign up for work. In the following weeks we prepared the garden beds, obtained new varieties of seeds to introduce to the region and after the second big rain, gathered at the field to plant our starter beds of lettuce, tomato, okra, watermelon, hibiscus and moringa, a fast growing tree rich in vitamin A.

The project has not been without several bumps, however. After preparing the second plot of land we were given and getting ready to plant the seeds, the women informed me that the lake could possibly rise up to the level of the garden, flooding out part of our work. We took steps to mitigate this along the way, having to move our plot altogether, transplant tomatoes and trees and come up with a quick fix so the crickets wouldn't eat everything, but in the end, we had so much rain this year, that the lake flooded out our entire garden as well as several villagers millet fields.

And while this project sounds like a failure, so much grew out of it! The village women were consistently enthusiastic and gracious. While they were disappointed that their work was lost, they still remain eager to start up again in the cold season when the lake recedes. At moments when I was on the brink of tears for not being able to explain myself clearly, for being angry at the chief for his lack of support and for not having any more ideas to save our plants, I would look around at the resilience and perserverance of these fantastic women and know that their patience would carry us forward.

(photo index: my women's leader, Shouda and her friend standing in our flooded garden. See the water to their left?! women taking a rest as we prepared garden beds in June)

Party Corps

With Niger being on the UN Development Index as the poorest country in the world, known by Peace Corps Washington as the "shittiest" country because of the frequency of intestinal distress experienced by volunteers, and normal daily temperatures in the 120s, sometimes volunteers just want a cold beer!

Many of us came here expecting to explore our Puritan roots and try our hand at born again virginity only to find out that even the poorest countries in the world serve up a Jack Daniels, brew their own beer and offer a classy disco once in a while. Several times a year volunteers will descend upon the capital city Niamey or the regional hostels for a training session, a swearing in ceremony or any superfluous holiday like Summer Solstice, giving friends from all parts of the country a chance to catch up and toast to surviving the bush. Its a nice break to be able to strip down to a bikini or dress up in heels and revive that party girl, lets-dance-til-dawn person I didn't completely leave behind!

(photo index:Natalie, Brooke and I at the after party for our Gender & Development Fundraiser; me and the girls dancing at Club Krystal; my staging mates enjoying their first Biere Nigers)

The Prime Minister and his Entourage

After an early summer shake up in the Nigerien government, the parliament gave a vote of no confidence to Prime Minister Hama Amadou and his cabinet, effectively recalling their appointments. This government shut down came on the heels of news that $9m of European Aid for education programs was mishandled. The replacement selected is Seyni Oumarou who reinstated half of those ministers dismissed and began a junket around the different regions of the country.

One of his stops was in my village, Kehehe, to observe the ribbon cutting of a large scale aqueduct project to pump water from the lake and provide year round opportunities for gardening. All the elected counselors in the commune, the mayor and his assistants, many of the traditional village chiefs and village elders came to the outskirts of town to applaud the Prime Minister's arrival.

With an entourage of approximately 25 SUVs, the PM shook everyone's hands, let me snap some photos and gave a short speech followed by a tour. The event concluded rather quickly and then two months later it was announced that the government did not have enough money to proceed with the project. So in pure African fashion, the meters and meters of PVC were left in a pile, the cleared land went without millet for a season and the local officials held their breath that an NGO would come up with the necessary funds.

(photo index: Prime Minister Omarou; me with Mayor Maraba decked out in full Tuareg garb, sword and all!)

My Walk to the Well

It is the quintessential photo of a Peace Corps volunteer, holding a bucket of water on her head as she is dressed in clothing similar to the natives. My experience is no different as I make the trek once or more daily and share in this Peace Corps rite of passage. A quarter of a mile away, the round trip walk can take anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes depending on who I run into on the way or at the well. Occassional sand and tree dirt makes its way into the water, but for the most part it's clear and clean enough to swim in. On days when the heat is unbearable, I've daydreamed of rappelling the 30 feet for a cool dip!

Slowly I've worked my way up to carrying a full 20 liter bucket on my head. Unlike the women and girls who have been carrying water everyday for their whole lives, I have to employ the use of al least one hand to keep the bucket steady. Over long distances, it truly is easier to balance heavy materials on one's head and I am amazed at the ease with which the Nigerien's do it. Sometimes they use a padding of cloth between their head and the bucket, but oftentimes they won't. I've seen women make quick 180 degree turns without spilling a drop, and trot past me at a speed short of a jog. All the while holding their water pulling bag in one hand with a baby tied onto their backs. The chore for me definitely does not come with such ease, but I've learned to navigate sharing the path with a herd of a hundred horned cattle, stopping to have conversations along the way and reluctantly offering a hand to the dirty children who come running up to greet me.

The main paved road runs between my hut and the well, so I frequently receive cheers and jeers from people in the cabs of passing semi-trucks, passengers of bush taxis and the occassional driver who pulls on to the shoulder to share a laugh with the "anasara" (white person) carrying water on her head. The regional finance minister even turned his Mercedes aroudn to find out where I was carrying my water to.

As with all chores, though, sometimes you just don't want to do it. Of course at these times when I'm forced to go because my water filter is empty or the gunk at the bottom of my water pot is dirtier than the arms I want to wash, the elements of frustration seem elevated. I'll arrive at the well to find a gaggle of three young teenage girls who will each in turn grab at my bracelets or earrings, reach to take my water pulling bag for themselves, or try to rewrap my sarong, telling me I've done it wrong. All the while shouting in my face, thinking the louder they are the better I'll understand them. If it were a movie, they'd have their own creepy theme song everytime they entered the scene! Cursing them out calmly with my favorite English swear words makes it a little more enjoyable.

The strong harmattan winds have also tested my patience by blowing my cloth padding both into the well and into the black mucky water around the well before I could get the heavy bucket securely rested on my head. Whatever the direction the winds seem to be coming from, they always manage to blow my sarong open, leaving me to alternate balancing the bucket with one hand while keeping my knees from showing with the other. Just when you think your patience has depleted, you take a deep breath and dig deeper for more!

On the days when the peak temperature hits 120, I can return home to dip my sarong in the cool water, wrap it around my body and take a nice long nap in the shade. The steady breeze kisses my shoulders and the clear blue sky disappears under my eyelids, leaving me to dream that instead of being in one of Africa's sandboxes, I'm somewhere in the Caribbean, soon to wake to a cabana bar and cool turquoise sea. Who says you can't live off daydreams?!!

Women's Work

I am awoken each day by the rhythmic vibration and hollow sound of my neighbor pounding her wooden mortar into a large pestle, the weight of her body turning millet into flour. Some days it seems that I can feel the ground shake first, rather than hear the deep beats over the wall. But as I slowly rise out of my slumber, echoes of the same sound drift in from concessions all over the village. This is typically how each women's day starts, with her husband rationing out millet or sorghum grain to the household to be turned into a thick porridge called tuwo or mixed as flour into goat or sheep milk making a milkshake type drink called hura.

Oftentimes, if there are multiple wives in a household (the Quran allows up to 4), the younger wives will do the pounding while older wives may help with the wash, sweeping or cooking, or leave the concession to forage for firewood or food for their sheep and goats. In many households, girls are kept home from school in order to help with the burden of the chores. Their schedules reflect the rising heat of the day, with the most strenuous chores done earliest and the mid-afternoons saved for rest and conversation under the largest shade tree.

It is during these rest times that many of my friendships have taken hold. As it is paramount in Nigerien culture to greet people, I have made it my habit to go around and sit with groups of women during these rest times. Unfortunately, many women have been cloistered by their husbands which restricts them to their concessions unless their chores require them to leave to fetch water or collect firewood. It is no surprise then, why women often linger at the well or plan long walks into the bush with other wives.

Nonetheless, however, it is true that firewood is very difficult to find freely and too expensive to be purchased regularly (50 cents $US for a daily supply). Many of the desirable fuel or home construction trees are protected in Niger, necessitating frequent full day hikes to collect the essential supplies. Reducing wood fuel usage is a project goal for Peace Corps Natural Resource Management volunteers for several reasons. Restoration of the land requires the planting and care of trees as opposed to stripping them from the already poor soils. Also, the less time women and children need to spend foraging for wood, the more time they have for income generating activities or attending school.

Accordingly, one project for moving toward this goal is teaching women to build improved cookstoves that use less firewood and burn more safely. I implemented this project during my first few months when a high level of Hausa language ability was not neccessary and mud was readily available as people repaired their homes before rainy season. Many women had already heard of improved cookstoves and a few had built them in their concessions. The way they work is to build a traditional three rock stove with the pot on it, wrap the whole thing in about six inches of mud mixed with manure, ash and millet shaff, and cut a door to set the wood in. All the villagers know how to make the mud and many have stories about how their children tipped over pots or their sarongs got burnt in the flame.

With the help of two women who have incredible effort and previous knowledge of building cookstoves, we taught thirteen women how to build and care for them. The success and sustainability of this project is evident in the number of requests we received from other women to train them and now we have plans to hold a competition with one trained woman paired with one untrained woman to demonstrate both their teaching and construction abilities. A new set of pots or a sarong will be the prize to the winning pair!

(photo index: Abu, her baby Rahila tied to her back and me making mud bricks for our cookstove; looking over my neighbors wall to friends pounding and cooking; Abu and Fatima with their finished cookstove)

Trail blazing in Tuareg country

After waiting with much speculation and excitement, March brought me to my new post and new home for the next two years. As the northern-most volunteer in Niger, I have opened up this region to the Peace Corps program and a region of the country that has been closed since 2001. Kehehe (ke-hay-hay) is a village of about 1500 on the main road to the ancient caravan city, Agadez. It rests in the basin of a watershed and has an enormous lake. Surrounding the lakeside villages, the terrain rises into rolling sand dunes, making it something of an oasis in the desert.

Kehehe is a comparatively diverse village of Hausa, Tuareg and Fulani ethnic groups. The three groups are marked by very different traditions and occupations. Hausas are found in the eastern half of Niger and share a common language with Nigeria. Families typically have multiple wives with an average of 10 children each, and are sedentary farmers trying to eke a successful harvest from poor soils. Fulanis are found all across the Sahel as they are nomadic herders and frequently hired to take peoples' goats, sheep and camels out to graze. The Tuareg have traditionally inhabited the northern part of Niger and are an ancient culture that spans the Sahara desert of present day Algeria, Libya and Mali. They speak an old and guttural language, Tamachek, and there is an active artisans workshop in my village where they make silver jewelry and swords as well as leather purses, books and boxes.

Large Lake Tabalak grows to be six miles long during the July to September rainy season and offers many work opportunties for the village. Because there is no dearth of water, most people hand dig thousands of acres of gardens in the fertile lake bed as the water recedes. There is also an active fishing industry on the lake that serves up fish in the likes of guppies and catfish which taste great fried up and powdered with red pepper, bones and all!

Proximity to the main road means the villagers are pretty current with news of the outside world, have greater access to business opportunities, and are very accepting of a single white woman living and working with them for two years as part of a project. It also means I get abruptly woken by the "POW" of a flat tire on a passing semi-truck, but I am absolutely thrilled to be living in such a beautiful and interesting place for the next two years and have loved being there so far!

(photo index: Lake Tabalak during rainy season, a Tuareg and his camel winning the race, me in my hut, my women's leader and family in the cold season gardens)