I wish I would have updated this site more often but sadly there is no undoing time and now here I am a RPCV (although the R = returned) is not quite so true. I am still in Niger but within a week I will be back with a Nigerien fiance by my side. But, I do plan on backtracking a little with the help of my journal as well as this recent motivation for writing. I think I have become inspired by all the African memoirs I have been reading lately, not to mention the extra amount of spare time I have had lately. Thus, "The Day I..." was conceived and I envision it being a (re)collection of short stories from my experiences in Niger. So here's an excerpt from my own personal African memoir which in truth I write for myself since memory is infallible but I would be lying if one day I didn't hope to publish it. But for now it remains in my ever expanding notebook, in my journal, and in my heart.
"The Day I Got Rained on Inside a Bush Taxi"
Whoever would willingly choose to enter a bush taxi on a rainy day is either stupid, desperate, or just really bored. Already most of the seventeen passenger vans are ill-equipped to still be on the road. This scenario is worsened by the fact that these taxis often hold more than 17 passengers, are usually piled high with baggage (sometimes even doubling the height of the vehicle) and are most often seen going at breakneck speed.
On this particular day I was just too stubborn to let the rain ruin my plans of spending the day in the capital. When I left my house the rain had abated yet the sky was still threatening with its black clouds encroaching on the white fluffy and hazy blue clouds to the east. I waited for a bit as I expected I would since rarely do taxis make the trip all the way to my side of Kollo, and even more rare do they make this extra 2 kilometer trip while it is raining. Luck was with me and I didn't have to wait more than 5 minutes when a taxi rolled up. I squeezed myself into an additional seat in the aisleway. It wasn't the most comfortable position as the hip of the large lady next to me were pushing firmly against my own hip. Once we arrived in the center of town a few people descended and I could move to a much more comfortable spot, a move which would prove to be a little bit foolish.
I didn't realize until the rain started to pick up again that the left side window was not complete. What should have been two sliding windows was only one and the woman behind me and the girl sitting to my left quickly pulled it towards her so the rain wouldn't hit her but would slap me in the face and completely soak the front of my clothes. I couldn't really protest because she had got there first and putting the sliding window in a different position might only splatter the raindrops differently across my face. In these situations there's not much one can do. I put my bag behind my back, leaned forward and as out of the line of fire as possible and then I took in the sights of my last rainy season in Niger.
In between Kollo (my village) and Libore (a neighboring village) there is a strip of land that has now been flooded with live sustaining water. Normally this strip is a barren sand bed but now it is lush with all kinds of greenery. Grass, corn, and millet are beginning to stand taller than I do. They lean in the wind and the rain pushes down on their leaves. I love seeing camels appear out of nowhere to graze or drink. They are a welcome site as compared to the more often seen cows, goats, and sheep. The water is so swollen today that even the little sand bars where the women come to wash their clothes and dishes is completely submerged. There is only two small children today braving the rain to wash dishes. They let the dishes float onto the water and they quickly submerse them in the water. It looks deeper than it must actually be otherwise they would surely lose these dishes. But their experienced hands work fast and they don't even look bothered by the rain. They are half clothed and I wonder if their skin has goosebumps as bad as mine does.
"The Day I Got Spat on"
There is a common misconception during the month of Ramadan, a holy time of fasting and prayer, that while abstaining from drinking one must also constantly spit so as not to DRINK! I have heard some debate among villagers as to what this means. Most believe you must only spit if your mouth is full and there is phlegm. Others spit almost every other minute, pausing only to chew on sticks which supposedly help them curb their hunger. I stand adamantly on the side that says it is NOT necessary to spit. We salivate naturally and for a reason.
This stance is now even firmly upheld after returning from the market last week. I was walking into the motor park, where all the bush taxis wait. I was taking a shortcut to my inspection when all of the sudden a man turned and spat on me. He was just as surprised as I was although I feigned not noticing so he could save face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him prepare to grovel and apologize but I just kept walking. It's funny how after two years in a country, certain things no longer phase you. I knew it wasn't intentional but all I wished I could have said to him was to look both ways before unloading a mouthful of spit.
