Matt's Trip To Niger - Posted 12/3/2003

My last trip to discover West Africa before departing… Yes, we Peace Corps Volunteers have it rough - only 24 days of vacation a year, and this is not to speak of the exotic experiences of everyday life at post. Completing my tour of all of the nearest, most accessible countries to Benin, I traveled to Niger. I now have visited Togo, Ghana, Burkina Faso, Mali and Niger. The only country with a frontier with a Benin that I have not visited in Nigeria, but there has been a ban on travel there since I started my service. So two other PCVs and I boarded a taxi to Malanville, Benin's border town with Niger. What once had seemed so foreboding during my first month in country, one of the cities the farthest north in Benin, was actually quite accessible. The same evening of September 17th, we continued on taxi motos across the Niger River and into the town of Gaya. I enjoyed the ride across the river, inundated at this time from the heaviest rains that the region has seen in 15 years; I thought to not too far back when, 1000km away, I was boating lazily on the same river in Mali. I was struck immediately, as we crossed that invisible line, how much poorer Niger seemed at a glance than Benin. This impression was affirmed throughout the journey. We spent the night at the Peace Corps house in Gaya, a mud house with a two-domed roof.

The next morning we vowed to go for gusto and made an informal pledge to hitchhike rather than be stuffed into a mini-bus, the preferred mode of transportation in Niger as in most West African countries. We attempted to flag down one of the Mercedes Benz that come up from the port of Cotonou in Benin to Niamey but had no luck. So after two hours on the roadside, we folded like an amateur poker player and allowed ourselves to be crammed into a cardinal red mini-bus. Of course, we stopped every 5km to pay bribes, pick up other passengers or stop at markets on the way, as per usual.

In the afternoon we arrived in Niamey, the capital, and I found it to be a clean, welcoming city. I witnessed the utter exasperation of the wealth gap, much more pronounced than in other West African states. Peace Corps is no exception in this regard, and both their office and the Volunteer house are unequaled in other countries I have seen, despite being housed in the poorest country in the world. That night, the 18th, we celebrated our arrival in this desert land, with a walk across the city to a restaurant on the river with Chris, a Niger Volunteer.

The next morning we contacted Adama, a friend I made with my parents in Porto Novo, Benin, when they were visiting. She sent a car to pick us up and bring us to her place of work, the Presidency. She is his head magistrate. We visited shortly and then she sent us out with our driver to run errands, buy bus tickets for our trip to Agadez in the North and visit with the Secretary General of the Minister of Tourism. As PCVs, we tend to have very little contact with government officials, the "high-ups" if you will, so this was my first direct encounter with one of the individuals charged with running at least a part of a West African country. I was not impressed. To be ruthless, I felt more like I wanted to reach out and hold him and tell him he was doing a good job than I felt like I was gleaning any useful information from our encounter. He was probably the nephew of someone important - nepotism at its best, or maybe second best next to a certain class of American shrubbery.

When we got back to Adama's office, she commented to us how it was too bad that we had to leave so soon to the North because her nephew was getting married the next day in her family village. Since we had learned that the Salt Cure, our ultimate destination, did not begin until the 25th, we told her we would love to attend. So we changed our bus tickets and the next morning were picked up as part of a convoy of three cars out into the bush. The village couldn't have had more than 100 people living in it, but was confederated with other villages in close proximity. We had been out late the night before at a dance club with the new Niger Trainees and were exhausted and so I slept all the way to the village. We also passed out in her home upon arrival.

What appears to be the common building construction in Niger is, like Mali, a boxy mud building with wood rafters running parallel to each other, laid in with more mud and covered with thatch and reed mats. It is similar to Mali, but it seemed like Mali had redder earth. I assume that this construction is due to the relative poverty of Niger, but I feel like it would be suicide to have concrete or tin roofs here, since it can get so hot. These building materials would turn a home into an oven. So after sleeping, doing rock-paper-scissors (as my Mom taught had taught Adama's son in Benin, thus hooking him) and gymnastics with the village kids, Adama took us out on a tour if the village she grew up in. During the rainy season, during which we visited, rain can come so suddenly and forcefully that the riverbeds around the village can fill up, stranding farmers at their fields and herders out at pasture. Apparently they are accustomed to just sleeping out at night, and then returning home the next morning. The water comes down, but it dries up right away.

The south of Niger was remarkably lush, but only due to the season. At most times throughout the year it is an arid desert, just like Mali. When I visited this country of similar climate, I also found it to be lush. But Volunteers who visited at other points during the calendar found it to be an arid desert. So during what is the wettest season of the year in what is one of the wettest rainy seasons in years, still only produced pretty pathetic looking corn and millet crops, compared with Benin. Like Burkina Faso and Mali, I was impressed by sophisticated irrigation systems, channels, as compared to Benin. I realized fully, for the first time, why Benin is never struck by famine, and countries like Niger are. But I am still amazed what can be accomplished in a desert. It makes me realize how little is done in Benin. People just expect that the earth with provide, while in the desert people know that if they don't make it work, they will starve. This explains why Burkina Faso grows strawberries, broccoli and a number of other crops never thought of in Benin. There may be other agronomic reasons such as soil composition, but environment Volunteers tell me much of what is grown in Burkina Faso could be grown in Benin.

Upon returning from our walk, we beheld a fully loaded Ford Explorer waiting to take us to a neighboring village to "pick up" the bride-to-be. Apparently it was realized that Adama's car wasn't functioning properly so she called back to Niamey and the Minister of the Interior sent her his car. So we piled into the car as if heading out on a road trip, with the same enthusiasm as heading to an away college football game. We assaulted the bush road that must only be accustomed to feet and donkey carts, and dug out our way to the adjacent village about 5km. On arrival we sat with the Muslim elders to perform the marriage ceremony. As I have witnessed in Djougou, neither the bride nor groom was present for their big day, but the girl was just a stone's throw away - huddled in the building across from me. I had no idea, as I sat in my brilliantly woven chair amidst old men crouched on mats, that she was so close. At the end of the ceremony, we were invited to visit her in her chamber. I was surprised to enter in and see this young girl, whom I found out later is 14 years old, sitting meekly and solemnly on a mat. We awkwardly took pictures with her, as requested by her family, though not by her. I imagined her perspective, how odd it must be to have three strangers present on the scariest day of her life.

We basked outside in the glow of a typically incredible African setting sun as she was escorted out of the home of her mother for the last time. She was flanked by two older women as she approached the car, and was shaking and crying uncontrollably. She was to go first to her mother-in-law's house to get to know her before assuming her duties as a wife and mother. She had met her new husband, the nephew of my friend, twice, and now all of a sudden he became her life partner. At the mother-in-law's house, the new groom, himself 18, posed with his young buddies, resembling more the young ruffians of a high school dance than parties to a marriage. So a surreal few moments were created as we piled into the SUV to head back. The older women in the car sang along with the radio, clapping and exclaiming, with whom we joined in, while the new bride sat silently in the back. After we dropped her off at the house, we saw no more of her before leaving. Apparently she was not invited to the dance party that took place later that evening.

A band played, something that in such impoverished parts of the country must truly be a luxury. It was comprised of three drummers playing calabashes with picks on their fingers, while another man played a local kora/guitar/stringed instrument. All were amplified, which gave the music the distinctive sound that instantly recalled the music that kept me awake all night while I attempted to sleep in the boat to Timbuktu. This music was Djerma, a Nigerien ethnic group that in language and culture resembles quite a bit the Dendi of Djougou. I found myself able to understand the language.

As I watched a 10 year old in front of me smoke a cigarette, a small voice from behind me, which I sensed immediately to posses more wisdom that its force, spoke into my ear, "smoking isn't good. That kid is a little bandit." I turned to my left to see a boy of at most 12 poised behind me, sitting on his haunches with his little arms placed on his knees, his hands clasped together. It was dark, but his stellar smile shone through despite the blackness of the night, his teeth further illuminated by the artificial lights set up for the entertainment. I learned through conversation that this kid was a migrant worker from Togo, who traveled across two countries to farm and earn money, along with his big brother, to send back to his family. I was amazed that, among all of the kids who soon crowded around to chat with the white guy, he was the most proficient at French. I asked how he learned to speak it. "From doing commerce," he replied. He epitomized to me all the little grown-up people that I meet so often in Benin. For the most part kids here are never kids past the age of 10. Most of these kids assume more responsibility before the age of 12 than I still do today.

I recently spotted a UNICEF poster that advocated a fight against the exploitation of kids in apprenticeships. The main idea is to put them in school rather than have them spending all of their time in indentured servitude until the day that they themselves become a carpenter, a mechanic, a hairdresser or something else. Before coming to West Africa I would have argued and still do argue that it is best for a child to go to school; but I kind of understand now why some of them don't. These kids are bringing an income into the household, or at least are not draining other incomes. It is difficult for a family that has difficulty feeding itself today to understand that paying to send their kid to school for years will actually pay off down the line. Often, unfortunately, it doesn't because there is no economy to provide any jobs. In Niger for example, as of a few years ago uranium extraction made up 60% of the national GNP. Now that the bottom of this market has fallen out, the government is trying to develop tourism, a brutal industry especially when you're trying to lure someone into the desert. In Benin, we hear stories about children being trafficked to work in the cotton fields, but his can be misleading. It isn't that most kids are kidnapped to work or sold off by their families (though some are) - in my district in Djougou the kids line up to help in the hopes of making a few francs at the end of the day.

The next morning, after the fête, we were dropped off about halfway back to Niamey on the banks of the Niger River. We hailed a pirogue, a little carved-out canoe, since the transport barge has apparently been out of commission for quite some time. Ten minutes later we were at the other side and off on foot down a strange road with only the most basic of directions and little local language ability. Luckily when we arrived at the main road our choice consisted of left or right. A friendly man who tried to extort some money, a kola nut or tobacco out of us pointed us down the road to Goetheye, our destination. After 5km of walking and loose talk of our inability to actually make it to our destination on foot, we were picked up by a mini-bus. In Goetheye we joined in a Peace Corps Niger tradition, eating great food and sharing drinks with good company until the following morning.

With some difficulty, we hailed a mini-bus back to Niamey and continued on at the same time, as the sun began its descent, south in hopes of spotting giraffes. Sure enough, as we neared the village in question, we spotted a family of giraffes off to the right. I had never seen giraffes outside of a zoo and enjoyed immensely following this family of three around for an hour or so until the sun set.

On the morning of the 23rd, we boarded Niger's SNTV bus line for Agadez. The 13-hour ride to this desert town allowed us to see progressively the changing landscape. In a way, I felt like I was witnessing the slow but sure approach of the desert in reverse. Volunteers in Benin talk a lot about planting trees and taking other steps to prevent desertification; I understand now what we are up against. Years ago, Agadez had its heyday as a major salt-trading outpost. Heck, even the local water tastes salty when you drink it. It is a dusty town of 30,000 inhabitants and like Timbuktu in overrun by SUVs and foreign expats, especially due to the Salt Cure festival. We grabbed a bite to eat at the local market and then crashed at the French Volunteer Auberge. What struck me as we toured the town at night were all the people wearing turbans. It felt like an entirely different world.

On the 24th we toured around Agadez on foot, grabbing some food on the street and seeking out water. The town still has an ancient feel with its all-mud block buildings and its narrow streets. It doesn't seem like it has changed much in the past 100 years. It did have an internet café though, for $10 and hour! We visited the old quartier, visited the Great Mosque and shopped for Tuareg jewelry. What I enjoyed immensely was climbing to the top of the mosque to look out upon the city. The mosque is a fairly large complex, but is characterized by a fifty-foot spire. There are stairs that lead to the top that follow a square pattern that narrows little by little. Even a person as slender as I am can only just squeeze through the passage at times. On top, a platform allows for three people to stand comfortably.

In the afternoon, at the advice of Mohammed, a jewelry salesman, we hopped into a bashé headed for Agadez. I tried to explain a bashé in a previous letter about going to Ganni fête in Benin. It's like a long pick-up truck with a frame set into the back. We accompanied artisans going to the Salt Cure fête to sell their wares. There was a man selling objects of wood, drums, chairs, statues and the like, a women selling stitched leather change purses, our jewelry friends and quite a few others. Apparently I was sitting on the purses and received a lecture, but we were all sitting on everything. I chatted with the wood salesman about a number of topics; one that stood out was what he said about Peace Corps - in his local language of Djerma, which resembles Dendi, they call PCVs what translates into "he who does like everyone else," meaning he who lives like an African. It is a sentiment that we are proud of and that is used to characterize us in Benin as well. We had to stop every 30km or so to pour water on the radiator plus stops for bathroom and for the 8 o'clock prayer. We arrived in Ingal, the site of the festival, well after dark.

Our original accommodations fell through the first night so our friends help us find space in the courtyard of a local family. We laid our mats down next to mud walls under the night sky and put water on to boil for dinner. We hung out with Rocky, also a Tuareg jewelry salesman who knows the names of more American cities and music groups than I do. He would ask "what about DMX's new album, what do you think?" And here I am thinking, "dude, I've been living in Benin, how 'bout you? Oh right, Niger. How do you know all of this?" We watched as he and Mohammed unwrapped and counted all of their jewelry pieces, from necklaces to rings to knives and letter openers, and prepared for the next day's work. We had already bought what we wanted and they knew this, but they kept passing items our way, "just to show us." We declined and after a quick walk into town, drifted toward sleep. I head heard so much about the fête that was to commence the following day that I felt like a child on Christmas Eve.

The area around Agadez had been closed to Volunteers and pretty much all expats for years due to the "Tuareg Rebellion" that was taking place. This nomadic group did not feel like they were being represented by the government and so took steps toward secession. They clashed with the national military and ambushed groups of tourists. Actually, it was groups of bandits who profited from the situation to pillage; it apparently wasn't the rebellion itself. Today there is a security force manned by Tuaregs primarily, but also comprised of people of other ethnic groups, that police the former rebellion areas. In Ingal, where the Salt Cure fête was held, for two nights I was welcomed into the home of one member of this security force named Moussa. A former rebel himself, he told me stories, translated by his friend, Faisal, who had served with him. In fact, it was how they met. They rolled joints and reminisced of their trainings and days fighting. Today Tuaregs are well integrated into the government and military and there is peace.

Amadou, also a Tuareg and called "Boss" by everyone, decided to forgo a position in the security force in favor of politics. It was he who invited us to visit the home where his dancing group, whom I call the "whirling dervishes," was staying during the fête. They were the gris-gris masters, with leather talismans on every part of their bodies and their dance displayed an almost unearthly power. On our second night, he invited us out into the desert for a campfire feast of Tuareg "sand-bread" and a night under the stars. Well after dark, we three amigos were drawn by the artificial lights and undulating voices of the festival grounds some 500km away. We found our way out with the help of a small flashlight. We did not pay close enough attention to our direction. After three hours of trying to locate our campsite, we eventually resigned ourselves to a nice flat spot in the middle of nowhere. We slept until dawn, at which point we relocated our site.

The moment that defined our trip came in the early afternoon of the 25th, the opening ceremony of the festival. We presented our PC IDs to the military personnel manning the event and we were let into the circle. The organizers of the event took great pains to accommodate as much as possible any foreigners as a way to say to the outside world "we are at peace. Visit Niger." While all Nigerians stood around in a circle, at least 15 Yovos were snapping away with cameras and recording the music. At the exact moment that we assumed our privileged position, the Wodabé men began their chant and dance. What we experienced here is difficult to describe in words; it is so much about sights and sounds. These tall, angular, elegant men raised themselves up and down on their heels, flowing their arms up and down in front of them while chanting and singing. The event is essentially a male beauty pageant. In the Wodabé culture, little supercedes the importance of beauty, and the beauty of children is no exception. Because the women enjoy great sexual freedom, it even occurs where men give their wives to sleep with more handsome men so that their children might be better looking. At the Salt Cure, the women judge the men, and from them may select their husbands. Desirable characteristics include white eyes and white teeth and angular features. So as they danced, the men widened their eyes, puffed up their cheeks and smiled to show their teeth. It was a little freaky to watch. One would have thought them demons possessed if it weren't so painfully obvious how nervous most of them were. They even had a group leader, a scoutmaster almost, who stood in front and directed them, making sure they all kept in line and in rhythm. Women were also judged for beauty, with Tuareg women, black Fulani and lighter skin Fulani judges separately; they were all some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.

The festival was also a celebration of Nigerian culture and featured music and performances of all of the major ethnic groups. As each event took place, the entire performance circle was encircled by a ring of majestically dressed camels, all mounted by men in flowing robes in turbans. When the Wodabé men would take a break, the camels would form a line and come dance in the circle. On the last day, there was a horse race and camel races, where participants started 15km in the desert and sprinted to the festival grounds.

After a miserable day and a half trip down (I did not leave on the day that the bus was running so I had to take a series of minibuses down), which included a night spent sleeping on the side of the road due to a 9pm curfew on travel, I arrived back in Benin where I collapsed for two days from sheer exhaustion. But oh, was it all worth it!