Allahou Akbarou

As normal, she awoke seven minutes before the cry of her alarm. For whatever reason it was always seven minutes. She could accept this as a sacrifice. She was content that after only three weeks in country she could sleep through the first call to prayer, you know, the one at five AM. The first day in her village was the only time this immunity failed her. Granted, she was not accustomed to the loud speaker that screeched and crackled. If, “Allahou Ahkbar…” were the words she were to wake up to she would have much preferred to hear her neighbor’s deep, flowing voice like in Hamdallaye.
She flopped over, momentarily surprised when she didn’t hear the creak of her Hausa bed beneath her weight. Then she remembered, “I’m in Kollo now. I have a real house and a REAL bed”. A sleepy smile crept across her face. She most certainly did not miss having to set up her bed every day. Chalk it up to American laziness following her to Niger. However, sleeping outside had fascinated her for at least the first few weeks in country.
In Hamdallaye, she would carry her mattress out of her hut and place it on the twin sized Linkin’ Logs set also known as a “Hausa bed”. She would unfold her sheet, lay her pillow down, and throw anything else in that she didn’t want to try and hold when she would eventually squeeze under her mosquito net. Most days she was diligent about performing this task before night fell and the insects emerged. Crickets were the worst. They would fling themselves recklessly onto her half raised net, her clothes, and (wretch) her hair.
After the masa incident her third week of training, crickets were public enemy number one. She had ventured to the market that rainy morning craving the millet griddlecakes with sugar AND tonko. With her prize in hand she walked up to the training site, her mouth watering the whole way. If she had been in America she would have devoured the bag on her walk. But, in Niger, eating while walking was considered a faux pas most likely due to the social nature of mealtime.
She finished most of the masa in the refectoire but took the rest with her to French class. As soon as she put the cake into her mouth she knew something was different. She pulled the stiff, prickly culprit off of her tongue and examined it. Wedged between her thump and pointer finger was the leg of a cricket!! “Please let me find the rest of this,” she repeated rapidly in her head. Sure enough, a legless cricket (most likely steamed to death) lay at the bottom of the plastic bag. She looked to her teacher for sympathy. The woman was scared of caterpillars for goodness sake. Yet there was no sympathy to be found. In its’ place was a stifled smile. She had nearly choked on the one thing the teacher was not afraid of. Go figure, the irony tickled her pink. Maria was not scared, she said, “Because we eat crickets here.”
Chuckling at the memory, she turned onto her back and sat up, the fan blasting her in the face. In two swift sweeps she gathered her hair, having slightly dampened from perspiration during the night, from her neck and into a hair tie. Mornings were her favorite part of the day, even more so during the month of Ramadan. She would walk to her inspection, the heat would be minimal, and her villagers would be in full swing. Their stomachs were still full from having gorged between 4:30 and 5:30 AM. Fatigue wouldn’t set in until at least eleven when the heat began to oppress.
With each day she was more confident with her greetings. “Mate ni kani? … Mate gaham? … Mate goyo? … Mate fu?” She loved the way they threw the greetings together, barely waiting for the response of, “samay samay” (fine, fine). It felt like a competition and she was just glad she could finally be a contestant. If only she had a 100 CFA piece for every time she’d heard, “kala suuru” (have patience). In reality, language was the largest barrier. As an education volunteer she needed French but as a member of her village she needed Zarma. Her situation was a little more complicated than most. At the start of training she had been a Hausa speaker. Once again, this change in plans turned out to be a worthwhile sacrifice. But it was the times when she couldn’t find the words in either Zarma or French when she suffered in silence, literally. These moments, even though rare, deeply affected her identity … my identity.

She's coming to Americ-uhhhh

I’m coming home (for a little while anyways). There are only 131 short days until I step foot in Ohio. I believe that I have reached the point of integration. The “When There is no PCMO” (Peace Corps Medical Officer) handbook says there are 4 stages of cultural adaptation. The first is being fascinated and excited by the things that are new. The second is when this excitement is replaced by frustration. The third stage is when you are in your post and you are taking the first steps to integration i.e. practicing your language as well as trying AND failing at cultural activities. The final stage is when you can successfully navigate your community and culture.
So I can only imagine that I will have to go through these four stages again when I get back to America. Only this time I will be on warp speed. I mean I only have three weeks to re-adjust … momentarily… to American culture. I’ve already accepted the fact that I will probably end up crying at least ten times. I started reading a book by Brigid Keenan titled, “Diplomatic Baggage”. Granted I am NOT an ex-pat wife but I can completely understand her angle of uprooting herself and then having to question her decision she is faced with something new and most of the time scary.
I got to thinking that I’ve really handled the situation well. I’ve been very lucky in that I live in a relatively Westernized area of Niger. I mean, I’m only thirty kilometers from Niamey. I have indoor plumbing (ignore the fact that my water has been cut off for two months) and I don’t have to wear typical Nigerien woman garb unlike some of my peers. Today I was very amused when I started listing off the things that I’ve seen and done that some people would never imagine.
How many people can say that they drink their morning coffee or tea out of a plastic bag? How often do you see a donkey cart trotting along beside a car? And camels? Well, I mean, where do you see them other than in a zoo or on the side of a cigarette carton? Here’s some Western versus Eastern perspective for you:

Each morning I wake up to my cell phone alarm (W)
I ride my bike to my job (W but more eastern since it’s not a car)
I buy my breakfast food from a woman sitting on the side of the road and it comes in plastic bags (E = open cook stoves are not the same as street vendors and how many street vendors do you see in Westerville, OH?)
Every woman around me is covered head to toe in beautiful (HOT) fabrics even though the temperatures almost always surpass 100 degrees F. (E)
Donkey carts (E)
Lack of power and or cell phone coverage from noon until 4 PM (E)
Street children singing in Arabic trying to earn some food (E)
Handicapped and mentally ill people wandering the streets with no help (W/E)
Buttas (for those of you not yet acquainted with this word: it is a plastic tea kettle used to hold word for abolitions during prayer, as well as washing your hands and private parts after using the toilet) (E)
Marriages where the bride and groom aren’t even in the same city (E)
Men mumbling along to American songs thinking they’re all that but you can’t help laughing because they don’t know 1) how to pronounce or 2) the meaning of the words they are attempting to sing. (E)
Eating with my hands (E) but that is cancelled out by the fact that most of the time I am given a spoon.
“Fofo, anassara” – would it ever be acceptable in America to walk down the street and say “greetings white person” … I don’t think so (E)
“Cadeau, cadeau” (E) Westerners like giving gifts but in day-to-day life most things are given as exchanges.
Leemu haari – plastic bag popsicles aka pieces of heaven (E)
Yogurt in a bag (E)
Frarma and franglais (E) people here are so much better with languages.
Items in the market are more expensive for me therefore I have to send a child with my money to shop for me (E)
The obvious nature of communication. “Hey you’re riding your bike to work” … thanks for pointing out what I already know. (E)
Having slow internet is more frustrating than having no internet at all (E)
No markets are indoor except for in regional capitals (E)
Bush taxis = cars that defy all laws of safety yet still manage to get you where you need to go (E)
Tea making requires three cycles with a mini tea pot (E)

The list is funnier in my head but granted, I’m the one who really understands what all this feels like. I try to explain it but without living it a little bit the experience is kind of lost in translation. Kai, quelle dommage! One of my biggest fears is not having anything to talk about when I get home. I mean, I’ll have stories but I don’t know how many of them will be interesting outside of the Peace Corps community. That’s why I hope all of you look at my pictures. Then you can start preparing interesting questions for me to answer (so much easier than me just rambling on).
The things I most look forward to generally revolve around the sharing of culture. I can’t wait to watch a LONG slideshow of all my Africa photos thus far. I can’t wait to give out my souvenirs (jewelry, figurines, clothes, toys), and I especially am very excited to burn CDs of my favorite African music for all my friends.

My arms hurt from the crutches!

Another week in Niamey… I hate coming into the city so much but usually I can get in and out without having to spend too much time away from Kollo. This week I am in town for training. I have a volunteer friend who has now extended into a third year of service and she is now working for an NGO called PRAHN. They are associated with CBM. The organization started off servicing the blind in third world countries and eventually came to encompass many other disabilities. I have been really intrigued by the material and I’m hoping I can work on inclusion in Kollo. When I was doing my school observations I noticed that there were some handicapped children, mostly physical handicaps. I know that there are many more children in my village and I wonder why it is that they don’t go to school. The reasons are actually very obvious. The culture that I live in is very influenced by public opinion and shame. There’s a lot of superstition which is something I’ve found very hard to combat.

Unfortunately, I had to miss part of the training today. After 8 months in country I have finally experienced amoebas … dun dun dun … It’s actually not as bad as what I’ve heard. I mean everyone’s different. Apparently, I have iron stomach. I think I’ve actually been sick for awhile but only now was it serious enough to give me cause to check it out. I started my medicine today and aside from stomach cramps I’m doing alright. I’ve stayed most of the day inside our bureau. It was a much better option than the hostel. I mean it’s air conditioned and today it was really quiet.

I am a little more tired today which is no fun. On the rare times I do overnights in Niamey I have dinner at the same place. It’s a little “diner” called Continental Breakfast. I know the whole staff there and most nights we play cards until the place closes down. Tonight I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay out. For one, I’m exhausted and two, they don’t have ANY sort of bathroom, latrine or anything so if I have to go to the bathroom I’d have to make the walk back to the hostel.

This weekend I am taking my friend Ricky back to Kollo with me. That means I’ll probably also follow him back to his village. I have been there before but it was only a twenty minute stop. I’m a nervous traveler (the first time I go anywhere) and then I’m fine. We’re going to hang out with my neighbors and make neibit (rice and beans … delicious). We’ll probably have tea and stay up most of the night. I hope my amoebas don’t block that too much for me!