"...I toured the gardens, sat in on a math lesson at the school, taught the kids how to sing you are my sunshine (wondering - when the time comes, how will i translate this song so it has meaning in a country where the sun means suffering?), checked on the progress of my house (all the Amirou's men were employed this week!) and hobbled through makeshift zarma lessons. "
 
"I showed the women how i dont know how to pound millet - but I sure can pump water...and I learned where all the important trees are in the village, including the one palm tree by Adama's (the potter) hut.

"...that's about it for now!  i'm going to check on my website and eat some brie that we bought for 2000 cfa and it's worth every penny...love you all!  A big hot hug to everybody.

XOXO - Boo




Long awaited updates! May 14th, 2007 Brittany has written several letters that we will try to summarize here. Around March 17th she was assigned to her village in the Gotheye region of Niger. She absolutely LOVES it there. The village had to build her a new ‘home’ and it is pretty nice! Of course without some of our conveniences, but still a very nice home! Below are excerpts from her previous letters– then we are caught up for now!

Feb 07 - still in training and living with Host Family – (first story - not for the weak stomach) The Poop and Greet! –
As you may surmise, the poop n’ greet is used in the following situation. Say you are a Nigerian of any age under, maybe 14. You are taking a poop in any of these motley ‘public’ places; the street, a pile of garbage, the bush, out in the open, in a pile of garbage on the side of the street, aside the highway. You see a white person (aka ‘anasara’ in Hausa or Zarma). It is of paramount importance that you greet this person because 1.) anasaras are freaks! You’ll want to tell your friends you talked to me, and 2.) Not greeting someone is terribly impolite. So you wave frantically from your squatting position – because truly, everyone poops and yells “Fofo! Fofo!” with much enthusiasm until the anasara a.) responds in kind or b.) runs out of earshot because they are doing what they are doing!! Oh, they joys of a zillion kids. ……

continued – I’m now at home at dusk with children climbing around chattering. There is plenty of water in my garden’s water barrel (filling it is my Host family’s responsibility) and so I’m happy. I told my Baba (dad) that we studied Islam today and asked when I was going to convert. I laughed. We did have a very interesting session though. I stayed for an extra 45 minutes to ask questions. The problems I have are pretty basic – mostly around the treatment and consideration of women. Very interesting to talk to our teachers, who are all educated people and all Muslims. Notable is the Koranic allowance for the treatment of Christians. It says there must be respect and tolerance for them because Jesus was a prophet. Also, it is a sin to kill them. Mohammed didn’t convert by force and suicide is a sin too! I tried to talk about religion as the opinion of the people but didn’t even get to that point. Anyway, it was fascinating and I’ll be writing more about it when I have my site visit………….

Niamey Market Experience - It is hot and I am super grateful when it is only 95 degrees!...... when we were in Niamey at the market I had the most awful experience. I was approached by a beggar (not uncommon) with no nose! (Very uncommon) The man’s face is burned into my head. Instead of a nose there was a big jagged hole and inside was jut eh abyss. I nearly threw up right there just from the shock. YIKES. -FYI- there are 3 kids just sitting here watching me write. Kids here have so much patience! I expect it is because of their lack of entertainment. Though the family does have a radio they bust out on some evenings and we do make shadow puppets on my walls. –

Whidbey News - Oh, I met Anna from Whidbey. She helped teach us how to graft trees, which was difficult, but will be a good skill to have. –

New Babies, Cookstoves - One of my friends host sister had a baby. 7 days after the birth, a baby gets a name and there a party for the ceremony. At the party you’re supposed to congratulate the mother and make sure you call the baby ugly. If you say the baby is cute then Allah or the Gogin (devil/spirits) might want to steal the baby. So don’t do that! Also you don’t talk about pregnancy here, you just don’t. Today we went to a neighboring village and built cook stoves that conserve wood in hopes that the villagers will use them thereby saving them and some trees from the incessant wood-collecting guests. Cook stoves are built of mud, just like the houses and the mud is mixed with millet chaff for strength and manure – for freaking me out! As I ate spaghetti with my hands (scrubbed to death) less than 2 hours after my cook stove was schlepped together. Also the people in this village kept asking us which of their children we’d like to take with us. Goodness. But nobody seems too unhappy here! (maybe the guy without the nose) The kids were cute too! I had a National Geographic/classic Peace Corp moment when I was surrounded by children and we were teaching each other to count to 10 in Zarma, English and French and applauding when successful. Very Cheesy and great! Moments like that Rock! …………It is now the 22nd (February) yesterday afternoon we had off, which was awesome. I’ve been tired, not good sleep with the sharing of space with donkey/chickens/goats/sheet/children and living next to the mosque – 5:15 am call to prayer, plus it’s too hot to sleep and I love to sleep. For now everything is good, I’m healthy and content in my place. Love & Hugs to all ~ Boo (aka Sakina)

March 2, 2007 - yesterday I left tamtala on a cow cart with maimouna and amirou shortly after 8am. Within an hour, we had a flat tire and amirou had to hike to a village with the cows to find another cart. so we got off and walked until we saw him with a cart - going the other way - the way we had come from - so we yelled and yelled into the wind and good thing a guy on the other side of the path saw us and told amirou there were two crazy women over there waiting for him. we got to the big road and, after two passed by, found me a bush taxi. I refused two marriage proposals and dazzled the guy trying to swindle me with my zarma skills, saying there's no way I’m paying a thousand francs for a ride that should be 300 and he should be ashamed of himself, and he apologized profusely. So I got in a bush taxi with no fewer than 25 adults, three toddlers, and two goats under the backseat and made it to the corner of the road to the ferry, where the taxi dropped me off and I hiked about a kilometer to the river. on the way I saw a guy wrestling a hunk of metal that used to be a car back when Mohammed was born, and a hollowed out cow carcass. The ferry ride to Gotheye was really nice. On the other side I got another 60-cent bush taxi, about as crowded as the first but with only chickens, no goats, and made it to Gotheye, where I asked people how to find the white people's concession until I stumbled into the Peace Corps hostel at noon. PHEW! That’s traveling.

March 13, 2007 letter – "Graduation Time" - It’s an exciting time here in Hamdallaye as we’re getting ready to swear in as official volunteers. Most of us just ordered the most ridiculous outfits we’ll ever wear for the event. Mine is actually not so ridiculous and even the crazy ones make sense because it’s what Nigerians wear and that’s even becoming normal. Students and staff here at Anasara camp are getting ready. I passed my language proficiency exam and my “were you listening during med sessions?’ exam. People are getting ready for the host families’ parties tonight, which mean there are 12 goats awaiting their slaughter tied under the water tower as I write. This is causing me no small amount of anxiety. However, I fully support meat eating in this country. It makes sense here. I wish it didn’t gross me out so much, so I could say I ate goat….in all good time, perhaps. Anyway everyone’s getting a big kick out of petting their dinner before they eat it. I…..am……not. It was like Christmas yesterday – one of our VAT’s appeared with the brackets for March Madness! Woo! That was terribly exciting. Unfortunately I will be stuck at post for the entire thing – during our first month we’re not allowed to leave our villages. Darn. Anyway I was happy to see Florida with a 1 and UW with a 2. Moving on now…………So I’m in my concession doing some sit-ups, push-ups, yoga, etc. with a smattering if brothers looking on and imitating me, since I’m such a freak. And I’m trying to explain in Zarma that this is to make my body strong. ( I strongly suspect most Nigerian laugh in the face of western ‘exercise’ considering day-to-day life her is physically taxing enough, what with the constant millet-pounding, water pulling, water carrying, walking , donkey and child-bearing, etc.) So, I reach the point in my work-out where it’s time to stretch the hamstrings and I’m reaching for my toes, the kids have a big “ah-ha’ moment: “Oh! You’re praying” they say. “Allaha Akbar” Allaha Akbar!” And this is very funny. At least my fellow anasaras here thought so!

Should I buy a camel or a wife? - So my host dad came into my concession after dinner one night for a chat. My ‘mom’, Fati, whom I eat with, was still hanging out in addition to several kids underfoot. He explained which brothers were actually brothers (finally!) turns our 4 of the boys were his nephews, and he’s ‘adopted’ them because their fathers have died. Huh? I say, What about their moms? Oh, he says, they’re of course in Hamdallaye. Remarried. And I lack the language skills to explain quite thoroughly that I America we believe children should stay with their mothers unless they’re being abused… but that’ just not the case here. So, he has even more kids than he should given his age, and during this same conversation brings up the idea that he wants another wife. AWWWWKKKWARD….. So I went ahead and replied truthfully when he asked me what I thought of this. I turned to Fati and asked her what she thought of it and she said it’s not good. So I turned back to Baubacar and said it’s not good. He said but if he had another wife then Fati wouldn’t have to work as hard. This stopped me for a moment, but I pushed back with – another wife means more children and more food to cook, and more money to send them to school. This whole story had begun with him wanting another wife, but not having enough money for the bride price. Maximum bride price here is 50,000 cfa and bride price is negotiated depending on her family’s standing and how virtuous she is, etc. For perspective, 50,000 cfa is $100 US, and a camel in Niger costs 80,000 to 100,000 cfa. Just FYI. Two wives or a camel – it’s your call. Note: Islam says a man can take up to four wives provided he can treat them equally. The implied meaning here is perhaps one wife is best, since it’s impossible to treat people equally. But we’re not operating on a very high plane of thinking here…..

What is missing - Yesterday Lulu and I talked about missing the mountains, the rain, the trees, the ocean… but that’s a slippery slope. Soon we’ll start talking about Chocolate and cheese – then it’s all over! WHEN I GET HOME I JUST WANT TO SIT ON A BOAT IN THE WATER…………….. Off to prepare for swear in – cut some veggies for staff lunch.

Moved to Village March 18 2007 – Gotheye Region, Tillaberi Team – this is where Brittany will be for the next two years! March 29, 2007 letter –I’ve just enjoyed a lunch of spaghetti with “peanut butter”, a bit of sugar and tonko (spices). The “PB” here needs sugar to make it taste like American PB. It’s called “tigadiga”; a word whose pronunciation is not unlike cousin Emily’s little stuffed purple octopus from when she was a toddler (wasn’t that “d’ga, d’ga?). Anyway, it’s funny and it’s remarkably similar to PB at home in that it’s made from peanuts, has protein and is messy. The other day I followed a recipe that included flour, salt, oil and water, and the miracle of tortillas followed! I ate them with some fake cheese, then some more tigadiga, and it was amazing. Wow! I got some yeast; one day when I feel peppy, I’m going to try making “bread”. Yeah, I’m pretty sick of pasta. For breakfast I make couscous with powdered milk, sugar and cinnamon – so far delicious. The other two meals typically consist of some combination of canned tomato paste, tonka, onions (the only vegetable we have left approaching the food shortage time of year), fake cheese (comes in wedges, is gross but if you try really hard and close your eyes it’s cheesy), flour or pasta, powdered milk and beans. I’ve also bought Maffi (chicken bullion-cubed msg) but am saving it for a special occasion. I’ve yet to eat with my villagers as Peace Corps warned them during installation (big village wide meeting the day they dropped me here) that can’t drink their water and I don’t eat meat or fish. So they’re pretty sure I’m a freak. Several women have come to see my PC-issued gas stove. They all cook over semi-open fires using wood, which is a rapidly dwindling resource here. So Peace Corp wants us to teach “improved cook stoves” which are more enclosed and conserve wood. I’m starting to wonder if I should make one for myself so I can be less of a weirdo and can demonstrate it’s benefits, but is it better environment-wise to use gas here? Maybe… ….

How hot is it? - Currently I am sitting in the shade dripping sweat. I took my LL Bean thermometer out of the house, where it’s a cool 100.3, and I’m checking to see how high it goes before it freaks out (which happens every time I put it in the sun) We’re at 108.1 and climbing , 109, 110.7, 116.2 – then it pukes, sputters, and quits at 122 degrees!

Sweeping - Yesterday morning at the water pump (yes, my village is so cool it has a foot pump in addition to the wells by the gardens. This is fabulous because it means my hands will be that much less like sandpaper and my arms that much less like pipes – because I don’t have to haul water up from the depths. All of the women (only women carry water, men don’t) were talking about going to the lokotoro kwara (doctor’s office/home/concession). So at 11 am, when I am starting to think about going into my house to hide from the sun and cook lunch, women start coming by, ‘brooms’ in hand, and Maimonna (my 40 something appointed ‘friend’) and I grab ours and head out in the blazing sun to do our part. I’m only slightly wary, but my concern is building….. So it’s hotter than ---- and dozens of women are out west of my house, which is in the west edge of town, bent at the waist, sweeping the dirt from here to there. I am thinking incredulously, DOES THIS SEEM LUDCROUS to anyone else? But obviously it doesn’t, so after a couple minutes of watching to get the technique, I’m there, smoothing out the dirt with a handful of dried grass-sticks tied together sweeping back and forth , bent at the waist, sweating profusely. The women get an enormous kick out of this “skill” that white people aren’t supposed to have, and stop to comment on it and tell me, “Sakina, you’re tired. You’re sweating. You should sit in the shade and rest.” I look around. Seriously, is no one else sweaty? Well, no one is dripping Gatorade like I am. But I’m not about to sit and wait with the little kids until Maiming finishes, so I sweep, sweep, sweep thinking this is slavery is like, right? But half laughing, and the women scold me, “Salina, you didn’t wear a headscarf. Look at all this dust. You’re going to be all dirty.” And I’m too tired and thirsty to talk, so I nod and my hair has come undone, my face is muddy (dust and sweat = mud) – I must look like a crazy person. Pushed the rocks, plastic-bag bits, and dried manure in my path to the edge of the ‘karat’, (which in the case evidently meant “two acres surrounding a building”) and I straighten up, locate my water (it has nearly begun to boil and is rife with biophenol-a) and resist pouring its contents over my head instantly. Instead I walk (ahem stumble) home with Maimonna. On the way, one of the older ladies, on her way to sweep says “Hey Sakina! You can sweep? I didn’t see you!” All I could manage to say was “I will be sweeping my concession tomorrow, you can come and watch,” which is a statement everyone finds hilarious! I get home, take a lovely mid-day bucket bath and convince myself that a little work isn’t so bad. Hours later after lunch and rest and dunking my t-shirt in a bucket, I walk to Maimonna’s house for a reading/writing lesson (my first project and she is doing well!)- When I get there she is sweeping her concession. “Aren’t you tired of sweeping?” I ask, and she laughs. We study, we chat, we shoo kids and chickens away. At dinner time, she follow me home, says “I’ve never seen a stove like yours. Show me how it works.” So I turn the gas on, light a burner, turn it off. And she says, “I don’t know how you make dinner with this. What do you eat?” And I’m tired. I say I’ll show you tomorrow and she heads home. Fati, my neighbor to the north (actually my neighbor to the south is Fati too!) puts an enormous bucket (like bigger than a 5 gallon bucket) on the half-wall between our houses and says “Sakina, come take this water.” I’m a little puzzled, thinking she wants me to help her put it on her head, but when we lift it she puts it on my head. The water is for me because I should rest after all of the work I did today; I should not go to the pump and carry water home. So there I am with this way-too-heavy-for me bucket of water on my head, teetering toward my doorway, when I reach up to adjust the handle, step on a rock, trip and fall, water crashing down, twisting knee under body, thumb under bucket handle, hitting knee with bucket , spilling gallons of water onto ungrateful sand. And Fati laughs and I burst into tears, but I’m laughing too because what else can I do? I can’t handle that much fluid on my head. But I’m crying because it hurts and I’m embarrassed and I feel so bad Fati hauled all this water just for me to spill it, and I apologize several times, give her back what’s left in the bucket, go and sit and have a good cry on my bed, dripping this time with wasted water (decidedly cooler and more pleasant than sweat) And I find I have burned my noodles to the pot. I sigh. Maimonna comes – I explain that doctors in America say crying is good for you, I ask what the word for ‘embarrassed’ is, then she heads home. I text the peace corps doctor to tell him in case one day my left thumb falls off or my right knee swell under stress. I climb a tree to send the text and am extra careful this time. Mercifully, I don’t fall. I crawl into bed – it’s now warm enough to sleep without even a sheet and I konk out despite the soccer game going on behind my wall. The morning I got up and the first thing I did was sweep my concession.

March 24, 2007 So that was yesterday. I’ve been here in my village just over a week and am still orienting myself. PC says we’re not supposed to start projects for 3 months; we’re instead to focus on learning the language and getting our bearings. However, Maimonna missed the installation meeting where that was all laid out and she is so eager to become literate that I don’t mind teaching her for now. A few days in, we’ve written Mainmonna, Sakina, Tamtala and ma/mi/mo/ni/no, most of which are actual words in Zarma, so that’s exciting! If the only thing I accomplish here is Maimonna’s ability to read and write, I’ll have fulfilled some purpose. She is willing to teach other women, and they want to learn. Unfortunately, they’re occupied with pounding millet, cooking sweeping, etc., so it’s hard to find time. Mainmonna, it seems is a bit of a special case. Her husband is “on exode” – he’s gone to Nigeria to work (to look for money, they call it) This is similar to Mexicans coming to the states to work, except Nigerians leave for 8 months and often come back without anything. So Mainmonna and a few other women are making tabarmas – grass mats – that they sell at the market so they can buy food, since the last harvest (October’s) supply has run out. This seems pretty volatile to me (yesterday was market day – no buyers) but they’re eating. Undoubtedly not as well as me, which affords me no small amount of guilt. Why was I born there and they here?

The other mat makers have different stories. One’s husband has died, and the other left her husband and his second wife in Niamey. This I discovered the other day during a conversation about gender roles here. The men do very little – sometimes they herd cattle, goats or sheep, sometimes they go to Nigeria and sleep with prostitutes, sometimes they stay and here and build houses (like mine), until rainy season, when they’re farming. I could go on about how upset I get when I see men sitting in the shade while their wives pound millet while carrying babies inside and on their backs, but the truth is I may be as bad as the men right now. Except I don’t beat my wife if she says she too tired to pound millet and I think that’s pretty fundamental. Anyway, that’s commonplace here, and I profusely congratulated the women who left her husband because as she says “I didn’t like him at all, he hit me.” Good for her! In fairness, it should be noted that not all the men are lazy. My Maigari, for example, is always busy doing something. And everyone who made my fabulous house was male. So, there are good ones. Some of them may even treat their wives well. But still, I’ve yet to see an idle woman – except me of course – But everyone here believes letter writing is work. Cool! Well it’s time for bucket bath #2 for the day and some windi-windi-ing (walking around greeting people). Today I’m going to the gardens to see a big baobab tree. Woo! It’s down to 102 in the shade so I’m feeling good and the sweat is no longer dripping. So all is well and I’m happy and safe!

April 9, 2007 – Daily routine - More than halfway through my first month at post, I seem to have a semblance of a daily routine. Thought not the biggest fan of routine, I am a huge lover of the afternoon siesta, which is amply provided for these days. Early-morning call to prayer doesn’t stir me, but the crow of roosters FAR TOO CLOSE to my delicate ears certainly does. After fantasizing for about 20 minutes about how to most satisfyingly dispatch one or two of them, I get out of bed by 7 am. If I have not been sweating all night, the exertion of sitting up and untying my mosquito net does it. Every other morning I sweep my house and concession – If I am brazen enough, still wearing my shorts and tank top pajamas, the equivalent of vacuuming your house (with your curtains open – my walls are too short) wearing only your underwear! I then take a bucket bath #1, dress and walk to the water pump, where it’s greet and chit chat with the ladies time before I totter back home as people congratulate me on my effort for carrying water and check to make sure I sleep in health.

Breakfast is usually sweet couscous, though today it was doonu**. Doonu is made with millet, sugar and milk Powdered milk figures big-time into my diet here, along with other processes foods, I’d quit eating at home. I’m taking advantage of this limited food availability and am eating some the most abhorrent stuff ever. Remember Farimasas? Fried lumps of dough dipped in sugar, guaranteed to be nutritionally bankrupt? Brittany thinks they’re repulsive, but Sakina loves them, and Sakina wins here. Thank goodness they are not available in my village. Their slightly more nutritious cousins, chinchenas are though. Chinchenas are made with beans and dipped in spices. So there’s some protein and less sugar. Time and temperature allowing, after breakfast I go walk around the village to greet people. I’ve begun to feel a lot like a politician doing this, but its fun. I tickle babies and comment on whatever work the women are doing – pounding millet or weaving already, and I try to remember names as much as possible. The older women hassle me for not speaking Bella yet, the young women comment that today I wore earrings or a headscarf and ask when I’ll get my hair braided. After a couple hours, Moumonna tracks me down and tails me until we get back to my house, where we have literacy class until lunch. Progress is agonizingly slow. She’s in her 40’s and is just 2 ½ weeks into the only schooling (academic at least) she’s ever had. I fancy myself learning patience by teaching her – let’s hope that’s true, as plenty of women are asking me to set up class. By lunchtime, it is so hot, my eyes hurt, even in the shade, so when Mainmonna leaves I dunk a tank top in water, roll my skirt up and set about food preparation with whatever is available.

Then its siesta time – a nap, maybe, reading and/or writing a letter such as this, small house projects and not much else. Sometimes the neighbor kids come over for an English lesson. At about 4 pm it is time for bucket bath #2 and another walk to greet people, maybe to see the garden, play with some kids and go to Mainmonna’s to observe weaving, listen to the radio and receive visitors. Lots of talking and learning Zarma going on this first month. It will be nice to be able to start actual projects once my language is stronger and I know the place better. Peace Corps gives us three months for this. Sometime before 7 pm I go back to the pump (it closes at dark) for another bucket of water, which is used for dinner, watering my Cassara plants, refilling my filter, etc.

Dinner looks a lot like lunch. Occasionally I go out after dinner to chat in the neighborhood, but often it’s just bucket bath #3, hanging my phone in my tree to check for text messages, and going to bed. I love having the evenings to myself; they’re downright pleasant temperature wise (only low 90’s) and so don’t have to be endured like the afternoons. I usually get plenty of sleep despite the goats and roosters. For variety in my days – I go for bike rides to check out Tamtala’s environs, visit the school (and the teachers have the kids sing for me), the doctor (just to say hi, he speaks Hausa, so hopefully he will teach me!) the shade of the mango trees in the garden, etc. Several times already, there have been village-wide meetings, because some NGO representative has come to discuss animal husbandry or micro credit programs, etc. They’re always thrilled to see me here and speak French as I answer in Zarma, and when I get them all figured out, it’ll be good to have so many partners for projects. I enjoy teaching the kids in English and French and learning Zarma song and dance.

**Doonu (doh-nu) – is as far as I can tell, pounded millet and a bit of water rolled into a ball. I first had it when my buddy, Kurt came to visit from across the river and my chief’s second wife came over to present it to the “yaw” (stranger) as a welcome gift. It was enthusiastically received by him, and though I admit I raised my eyebrows at a baseball-sized grey lump’s potential for tastiness and/or nutrition. I turned out to dig it! That’s lucky for me, because it is almost physically impossibly to consume a whole ball of doonu in less than three sittings if you’re alone. Traditionally prepared the ball (or a portion of it) is mashed down, mixed with milk and sugar, heated and drunk. Kurt encouraged me to imagine it as Grape Nuts, which helped- kind of. It’s very filling, which explains its popularity here. A couple days ago, Saouda, another neighbor, presented me with an enormous lump, to my effusive thanks! I lugged the thing inside, made the aforementioned “drink” for breakfast, and stared at the remaining ¾ of the ball, wondering what to do to it to make it edible for lunch. I decide to cut it up, fry the pieces, mix with salt, tonka and kuli kuli (pounded peanuts) – the result was not the grossest things I’d ever eaten and I was full enough to skip dinner. The remaining ½ lump I gave to Mainmonna, because who knows how long stuff really keeps around here?

April 10th – the Hoobu Story – So the fabulous thing ever came to pass on Saturday. As one may imagine, in a land without electricity where the sun beats down constantly, keeping anything cool is an achievement. Well – you dear readers may recall me boasting of the artisans in my village. Several ladies, including my neighbor, Fati make Hoobus, concrete-ish pots for storing water and keeping it cool. Amazingly, they work, and I know because I have one and it’s my new favorite possession. It was made by an old lady named Adama, who has precisely two visible teeth (one conveniently on top and bottom) and lives under the villages only palm tree. Saturday morning on the way to the water pump, I ran into her carrying some on her head and she said there is a small one ready for me. Friday night it had been fired in a blaze behind my house. I said I’d come and get it, but before I could, two boys showed up at my door – “Sakina! Hello!” (They are taking my English class) – to delver it. Adama charged me 150 cfa, a 50 cfa discount, which was very generous of her and means I got the hoobu for 30 cents rather than 40 – a discount I certainly didn’t need… and now I’m trying to figure out how to 1) thank her properly, and 2) commission her to make a portable, Sakina sized hoobu I can walk around in for the rest of the season. Seriously, my water is deliciously cool. It’s like tepid.

School visit - Last week I went to school, Tamtala’s school is small, 3 or 4 classes – to greet the teachers, etc. Illiasu, the schoolmaster who’d had me over for dinner during live-in (oh, my knees get weak remembering the salad! – I really miss spinach), was in Lossa at the doctor’s, sick, so I sat in on Haruana’s class. He seems to have a good temperament for teaching and fabulous fashion sense – I was extremely jealous of his bright pink shirt and JELLIES! Oh yes girls, those sandals from the 80’s still exist and the educated men of West Africa wear them. Anyway, I sat in on a lesson and read a bit from a textbook written for all students in francophone, West Africa. (In it were introductions to several capitol cities around here; including Quagadongon and Abidjan, but my favorite pages were the ones on Niamey – specifically where the authors noted that Niamey is known as “Little Paris” or the “Paris of West Africa” or some such thing. Now, I do not wish to be all defamatory, and it should be noted that I am far from an authority on Paris or Niamey. So let’s just say it took a pronounced effort to prevent a laugh from escaping my lips upon reading this.

Misc stuff I’ve learned recently: -
*Mainmonna has 15 kids ranging from 30ish to 7ish and two of them have birth certificates -
*Usually when my peace is interrupted, it’s because someone’s coming to give me a present or just paying a courtesy visit. This is very humbling and I hope it will make me less territorial and more pleasant over time. -
*I’ve come to think of every society in the world as on the same development continuum (and these of course end up being in the shape of a circle after all).
*Concerns we have here, how we bathe, how we travel – remind me of images invoked by Laura Ingalls Wilder books (except hotter). It’s just where and when we are that determines how we live. A very, perhaps overly simple concept, but certainly worth consideration and quite comforting when I miss air conditioning and Thai food. More on this later. -
*Goats that wander into my concession at 2 am are not deterred unless I actually get out of bed and run after them with a stick, which is of course beside the point, so I just let them baaah for a bit and find their own way out. I do not imagine best to snap their necks like my buddy the rooster. -
*“Laughing Cow ‘cheese” is shelf-stable for at least a month! Amazing and disturbing all at once. -
*Kids will run any errand I ask. Awesome. -
*There are hippos near the Kokomani market. I haven’t seen them yet, they’re there. Ooooh! -
*Illiteracy seems to correlate with an excellent memory. Necessarily. -
*Lizards love to eat ants. Consequently, I love lizards more than your average PCV.

Final notes for this letter – A BIG THANKS to all of you who have sent your well wishes, either through the mail, website or by way of my parents. If any of you have considered visiting West Africa, I advice coming to see Tamtala, where you can do all sorts of cultural stuff like drink toonu and carry water on your head. There used to be giraffes here too, but they’ve gone away – the old folks like to talk about how delicious giraffe meat is (wonder why they ran off…..). The hear is the worst in April and May, so don’t come now (and be thankful that my future letters will include less whining about the heat). Again, thanks for the letters, and emails; pictures and goodies!