A Pagan Wrestler

First, about the Moringa project - I ask you to put it aside for today, and just enjoy the new post. I'm still working on the details. And thanks for your patience!

I just picked up the expedited check for Tamtala's cereal bank - yippee! The turnaround time for this project has been faster than expected, and I'm very pleased with my good luck. As soon as Ramadan and harvest are over we'll be able to spend all that money on stomach-filling grains for the coming year.

Rainy season is taking its last gasping, pathetic breaths, after a season very much the same. Niamey has been consistently soaked every three days or so all summer. Tamtala, however - not the same. This season we had three periods of two weeks with no rain, and once we went without for 21 days. When your rainy season is less than four months long as it is... you growl at Allah. Thankfully, this is not the case in most of the country, where harvest this year will be better than last. In my village, though, we're looking at "below average" at best. A perfect time for a cereal bank, if ever there was one.

Literacy class is going well, with six women consistently showing every night for an hour and a half of reading and writing (9:30 - 11pm, you'd better believe I'm not getting up at dawn anymore). The seventh, Fati, came for the first couple of nights and then stopped. Her husband had refused to let her attend anymore. Needless to say, I'm angry. All the rest of the women in class agree that he's "bad" and "dangerous" - but no one can talk sense into him. A husband has final word as to where his wife goes, what she does, and when (this is part of the reason why Maimouna is such a powerhouse in the village: her husband isn't around). Fati's husband is a jerk anyway, and I can imagine why he wouldn't let her attend: she should be cooking for him, watching the kids, she should be kept ignorant so she can't stand on her own and has to depend on him, etc. Hell hath no fury... I will spare you all the diatribe on gender relations in Niger until a later date. Suffice to say when Save the Children ranked this country dead last (another bottom-of-the-barrel ranking?!) on their list of "Best Places to Be a Mother or a Child" study, relased in May of this year, I was not too surprised. I'm sure there are countries where things are worse in some places - countries currently at war, countries where women can't vote or drive - but I haven't been there (yet).

There's the debate as to whether Islam is to blame. I've read on the topic and have come to the conclusion that it isn't at fault any more than the other major religions, most of which, at some point in history, have been pointed to in order to justify the unequal treatment of women (or of other groups in a society). It's not the religion that's the problem: it's the people pointing to it, using it, twisting teachers' and prophets' words to support their own goals of subjugating parts of the population.

Dismount soapbox, continue.

Ramadan will be over in a couple of weeks. Last year I fasted for two days, to mixed reactions. It was hard - if I haven't mentioned this, it's really hot, and dehydration is a problem. I did another two days where I didn't eat during daylight hours, but I drank water - and my villagers' prevailing opinion was that I might as well be eating. With that in mind, and it being hotter this year, I'm not keen to fast. But people are constantly asking. My response is a simple "No, I'm not fasting," but that always elicits the "you're not fasting?" response (statement of the obvious - very quintessential Niger). To this, I have to say something, because repeating oneself is pretty mind-numbing after a while. "I'm not a Muslim," I say, and people usually say "you're not a Muslim?" (again), but I had one old guy say to me:
"Are you fasting?

"No, I'm not fasting."

"You're not fasting?"

"No. I'm not a Muslim."

"Don't say that!"

"What, that I'm not a Muslim?"

"Yes! Don't say that!"

"Well, I'm not."

"Don't say it though! That's not good. Just say you're not fasting."

I've also had one or two people respond to the not-a-Muslim thing with "Oh, you're a Christian," to which I either give up and say nothing, or change the subject, or note that two PCV neighbors are, or disagree, if for no other reason than to dispell the stereotype that all white people are Christians. One day at Kokamani, another old man observed, astutely and in English:

"You're not fasting, you are not a Muslim."

"That's right."

"You are a Christian, then."

"No." (devilish glint in my eye brought on by non-adherence to major known monotheistic religions, and therefore heathen nature)

"Ah, you are a pagan."

Riiiight.

My training group (stage) has dwindled down to 20 from the original 37. We've only got a matter of months (or weeks, or days, depending on who's counting) left in Niger. We just had a close-of-service conference aimed at telling us how [hard it will be] to reintegrate into Regular American Society, how to write our experiences into resumes, and celebrate our accomplishments. We had panels with Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (your newest acronym to understand, my friends, is RPCV) working for NGOs in Niamey, and advice on how to get into graduate school. There may have been ONE person who didn't insist on graduate school for someone in my position, but I can't think of anyone at the moment.

I'm in a bit of a better place than some of my peers, because I've got a draft of my resume that was successful in helping me toward that Rotary scholarship - and, on top of that, I've received my study institution assignment: to the University of the South Pacific, in Suva, the capital of the Fiji Islands. That's right. I have somewhere I'm going, and it's a tropical island (BIG SMILE). But it's not until January 2010, giving me an entire year back in the States in the interim. This information is still really new, and now I'm trying to figure out what to do for one year, no more, no less. I'm trying not to dread the inferiority complex I'll have in the face of Friends With Real Jobs who may be hosting me on their couches, and I'm still trying to be here in Niger for the next few months, and finish my projects and do well in Tamtala.

I may have mentioned that we're working on a five-year development plan for the village in partnership with a local NGO. I may have mentioned it's been challenging, but overall it's great to see the village council-people thinking deliberately about priorities for Tamtala. Unfortunately, the women have a hard time participating fully because they are expected to prepare lunch for all attendees, and are illiterate in French. Everyone also seems to have a hard time differentiating between the causes of poverty and its effects. It's a self-perpetuating problem, making everything muddy.

To unwind and escape the stress after that series of ten-hour-long meetings, I thought I'd pick up some light reading. Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath was the only novel left in my house. Bad choice. Who needs to read about drought and worthless land and human suffering? Not I, not here, not now.

A fellow PCV's counterpart, a veterinarian in a big town equivalent to my area's "county seat," came to Tamtala to see any sick animals (the art of the house call is alive and well here, not to mention utterly necessary). He really and truly does speak some English - not "small small" and not "Broka" - so he was a logical choice early in her service to be a go-to person, and I facilitated their partnership when she was a new volunteer. The visiting vet and I chatted between bellowing cows about the book I was reading, Aung Sun Suu Kyi's Freedom From Fear. I was impressed that he knew who she was, even though he had the details a bit off. We had another religion-centered session of "head-opening," (as we say in Zarma for "enlightenment") and as he was leaving, he said, "Thank you, Sakina. You look like a wrestler!"

Jaw dropped, laughing, utterly confused, I said goodbye and shook my head. Who knows what he meant by that?

I'm also preparing to be a Volunteer Assistant Trainer for the new crop of AG/NRMs arriving in Niger on October 9th. Staff is busy preparing for their stage at Hamdallaye, and Haoua recently informed me that she's chosen Tamtala as the site of the NRM "Tech Trip." This means I've been walking around the village with Amirou, assessing all the work that's been done that we can show off to the new people. One project that predated my arrival was a series of demi-lunes south of the village. These are half-moon shaped holes in the hardpan designed to catch rainwater and renew the soil, and are often coupled with a heavily manured "zai" hole in which a tree is planted. Since it's common to plant Gum Arabic in zai holes, we want to take the trainees out there so they can learn to prune them. as Amirou and I were preparing to go out there one afternoon, he asked where my machete was.

"My machete? We aren't going to prune the trees," I said. "They're too small for a machete anyway. But we're just going to look. The visitors will be pruning them."

"I know, I know," he said. "But I've misplaced my machete. We need one."

"No, we are not pruning the trees," I repeated.

"We cannot go into the bush without a machete," he insisted. "It's not good."

I relented. Though it may sound exotically dangerous to you at home, "the bush" is not. Never once have I felt unsafe walking through it. Bush Nigeriens are harmless, helpful, and very friendly. But they are all afraid of the bush. We don't have lions or any scary wild animal, just wandering donkeys and cattle (though there once was a hyena - once). I've never felt the need to be armed. But I grabbed my dull machete in its pretty pink sheath and walked out of the village - fifteen minutes, maybe - with Amirou, looked at the tiny spiky trees, and came home without event. Good thing we had it, though, just in case. Now if only my villagers would plan for contingencies like that when it came to saving money to buy medicine for their children in case they get sick. Bah.

Oh, I just got Facebook, finally. I wanted to see some current pictures of my friends, and for that it's been good. Anyway, FYI, I'm findable on there now too. Anyone who wants to give me a high-paying job in Seattle or Portland for March through June of next year, I'd be happy to hear from you. Seriously.

To, kala ton-ton.