June: Waiting

The rain is late this year.

This would be bad news any year, but this one especially is hard. Those of you who are paying attention know we're already short on food. Corn is twice as expensive as it was in October. Rain fell last night, but it's still not enough for the whole village to start planting.

I came to Niamey a few weeks ago and spent four fourteen-hour days at the bureau, writing and reporting on grants, chasing down members of the bureaucracy for signatures and approvals, etc. Also got up before dawn to wait in line to grovel at the main police station in Niamey. The groveling, which I'm not good at, was so my "baaba" (so called because he has a daughter also named Sakina) could get an ID card so we can travel to Burkina Faso tomorrow. Yes, I shouldn't technically have to go along to get someone else an ID, but, you see, I am white. No, that's not fair. And it didn't even work.

Ay baaba is the super-motivated Moringa man in Tamtala, and I'm excited we finally got a travel card. We spent two days trying to get a National Identity Card for him, but apparently they only issue 15 a day. In the entire country. Photo IDs are required even if you want to travel on a bush taxi, otherwise you pay a fine (if the police don't get too bored checking other passengers' IDs before they get to you). Yet it's nearly impossible to get one when following 'normal' protocol. Since there are rules about how much Truth I can actually write on this public blog, I'll once again stop the story there and just let you all know that we did manage to find some sort of solution without bribing anyone, and insha'allah we will cross into Burkina tomorrow without too much hassle.

It's been hard in general to be back after having been in the States. The first couple weeks were really strange. I had nightmares. I also had no appetite, which is actually great for a girl who went home to everyone saying "you look so HEALTHY!" - American code for "oh, I thought you'd come back from Africa looking like a 1990s Somalian, and you've actually put on weight." Thanks guys. Really makes me feel better for getting fat in a country where people are dying of hunger.

I also had the chance to ponder my friends' and family members' comments, specifically about how much I haven't changed. At first I thought this was great; a confirmation of my hunch that I was a PCV before I became a PCV. But now I really wonder: oh crap, is it true that I could possibly NOT have grown while I'm here (or worse, that I have regressed)? I had some kind of fuzzy goals coming into Peace Corps about being present in the moment, and enjoying being in one place rather than being obsessed with the past and planning for the future. I wanted to become more patient and be kinder to people. Instead, when I went home, I treated people the way I always had, and this is no good. Even if I am better here, I don't want to lose that as soon as I get back onto American soil.

The difficulties weren't all of that nature, though. While in the States, I had more than 200 photos printed, many of which I brought back to the village to give as gifts. This was a HORRIBLE idea. Tamtalans don't often get the chance to have their picture taken, and whenever I take my camera out I get mobbed. Consequently there have been some beautiful shots that have remained uncaptured. But what's more - there are more than 800 people in Tamtala, and there's no way I can - or would want to - take every single one's picture. But somehow everyone thinks that was possible. They also can't tell the difference between my still and video cameras. What this all translates to is a genuine reluctance to leave my concession, because when I do, adults and children alike forget their manners and instead say "Hey, Sakina, man ay fota?!" which is, of course, "Hey, Sakina, where's my photo?!"

In a society where immediate profuse greeting is the name of the game, I have found myself lecturing Nigeriens on their own culture on a daily basis: "You don't even ask after my health! You don't know how to behave! You just see me and think 'photo!'." I'd return to my hut exhausted and hating myself for not having more patience - of COURSE everyone wants their own photo. This has been their only chance in their lives to get one (yes, most bush Nigeriens don't have that photo ID required for traveling. Shocking as that may seem, it is sometimes possible to talk and buy your way out of an official reprimand.). Of COURSE they can't tell the difference between my cameras, which each cost more than any of them make in a year.

So... I've been grumpy lately. I've also noticed that my normally jovial Nigerien buddies-at-large (because every Nigerien is just a friend I have yet to meet) have been kind of quick-tempered. The bush taxi passenger-wrangler guy, who usually keeps his patience when I lose mine, is angry. There have been several possessions in Tamtala since I've been back. I've seen two fights in the village in two weeks (as many as I've seen in the past year). I wonder if it's just me noticing the negativity, or if everyone - even if s/he is not actually directly involved in farming - is feeling the stress of the late rains and expensive food.

There have been those nice moments, though, usually in the too-short dusk after a day of work when I know I've done well. I know I'm supposed to be here. I know my work is not done, and I am working hard. I've had some great conversations with fellow PCVs lately about our roles in our respective communities and about development in general. There are two camps among PCVs - those who think we should throw up our hands and leave Africa altogether - all the NGOs, everyone - and force people to figure things out for themselves. People will die. But it might be the only way that anything development-related might actually happen. The other camp is those of us wanting to go into sustainable development, or, the others say, those of us good at "selling ideas to people." This grates on me, but I'm working on it.

I do believe in the Peace Corps model. I believe in us as an empowerment organization more than a development one. The problem is, it's easier to buy your village something with donations from well-meaning first-world-dwellers than it is to convince them that they can get it themselves. This is made even more difficult by the fact that an "enterprising" village chief, such as mine, is one that actively searches for partnerships with NGOs rather than encouraging small business development. Not that there's much of any infrastructure to support small businesses, especially in the bush.

So what have I done about this, all you who donated to the millet grinder project are asking? Well. I've placed stricter guidelines on my village in general (chief, neighborhood leaders, women's groups) about getting funding for x and y through me. The cereal bank that my chief has wanted for years and years is not going to happen, I told him, without serious participation from each and every family in the village - in the form of labor and/or monetary donations. Over several afternoons of intense negotiations and fevered insistence on my part that it is the VILLAGE, not me, that is bringing ITSELF a cereal bank, - plus the use of a favorite proverb "Irkoy ne 'tun, ay ma ni ga," which translates as "Allah said 'get up, I'll help you," or "God helps those who help themselves" - the five most 'important' people in Tamtala (Amirou, Maimouna, and the three neighborhood leaders) seemed to "get it."

The cereal bank is not a gift from me to the village, as the millet grinder is seen, much to my embarrassment. The millet grinder, though, really bought me some credit and clout with the bigwigs. It was as if showing that I had access to tons of money proved that I had enough education and training to dispense advice instead of just medicine (which was assumed to be my job for a while). I recently got the cereal bank grant application approved, so check back here soon for instructions on how to donate to it in order to help the village make it happen (NOT to make it happen FOR the village).

My newfound credit has made it possible for me to launch another big project in partnership (partnership is crucial) with Ousemane, Tamtala's health agent. We are planning a 480-tree Moringa plantation to be planted near the health hut. Again, I had to get funding for this, but that money, we agreed, is limited to buying the fencing and the irrigation kits (to be donated by Water Worldwide, my dad's company's philanthropic arm). The village is responsible for pooling its resources to buy the seeds, the plastic pots for the nursery, etc. Last Sunday the women's group prepared the nursery - so! There's a small victory for us all. It would be perfect if they all understood that this money was an investment in the trees that will eventually produce leaves that the women can dry to not only eat themselves, but to sell in the market for profit.

I'm learning more about the undercurrent of animism in Tamtala. Possessions tend to happen more frequently during hot season, so I've gotten to see more lately, and a few more exorcism dances. This heat would drive anyone insane, especially if there is no option for escape to Niamey for air conditioning and showers. There was one night (June 1) when two people got possessed, and it was scary - too much screaming and other haunting noises to fall asleep. More nightmares that night.

A guy in my village, Issa (Nigeriens' name for Jesus), teaches Arabic, the language of Islam. He's also the guy who will write protection messages for you (in Arabic) to wear around your neck (to protect you from vampires, etc.). There's also the option of writing the messages with washable ink on a board, washing the board, and drinking the water. I find this... hilarious. And also tempting. There are certain cases that lend strong support to the effectiveness of his juju, including that of Ay Baaba's youngest baby, who is the fattest baby I've ever seen, and also whiter than both of his parents (a big blessing in the eyes of Tamtalans). But once upon a time he got very sick, and the medicine from the doctor in Sansane Haussa couldn't cure him. Finally his parents took him to Issa, who charges a pretty penny but wrote the 'tiny papers', which Mahama (woodcarver and leatherworker) sewed into pouches and put on a necklace. Ay Baaba told me not to worry about our trip to Burkina, as he produced a huge tangle of leather and lines - as long as I'm with him, I'm safe. His wife Biibo agreed, even though at first she was confused as to why Peace Corps didn't supply us with "guns or something" for protection when we travel.

Last year I seemed to have a lot of horizontal, too-hot-to-nap time during the hot afternoons, but this year I think I'm managing the heat better and working through it. Face stinging with sweat, I do more than just miss the ocean these days. I sew (skirts and complets, but I'm pretty bad at it), I read (lately Development as Freedom by Amartya Sen and The Natural Step for Communities by Torbjorn Lahiti and Sarah James), I write (journal entries, plans, lists, and letters to ex-boyfriends that I'll never send). Maimouna comes to study and we chat. I meet with Amirou to discuss projects as he drinks tea. I don my straw hat and go to Djalika's to check on her moringa trees (doing great!) and sit while she works until the kids drive me away. I play with my kitten, who I've had since I got back in May. Her name is Kitten (so far). She hasn't killed anything yet and is still just another consumer of powdered milk and peanut butter in my household. The rest of the time, I sell people ideas: plant moringas for health, care for your gum arabic trees for money, save your money in case of an emergency, wash your hands to prevent disease, make children with diarrhea drink clean water, send your daughters to school.

Finally, an anectode. On a bush taxi the other day, Kate and I were talking in English before she got out to go back to her village and I stayed on toward Tillaberi to talk about - what else? - Moringa on the radio. The well-dressed man in front of me turned half around, then thought better of it. A few seconds later, he turned full around and asked very carefully in English,

"Are you from M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I?",

a question to which I could not immediately respond because I was laughing too hard. He also did a decent job with the first half of the tongue twister "How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" Turns out a PCV in Gotheye had taught him those years ago. That bush taxi ride was fun. A lot better than the one on the way to my village from Niamey last week, when the tire blew out and I thought we were going to die. And a LOT better than the one back from Tillaberi, during which another English speaker sat on my lap as fish-gut-ooze dripped on the passengers from the leaky bag on the roof. Ew.

And one more proverb:

"Ay ya tundu no. Boro ba, ni man ba, ni ga goro ay bon." That can be understood (allegedly) as "No one knows his fate, so don't mock the misfortunate," but it literally it says: "I am a butt. Even if you don't want to, you sit on me."

Until next time, which will hopefully be next week, when you'll all get the chance to help Tamtalans help themselves have enough food next year. I know you can't wait.