Homemade holidays…

This past weekend our region of volunteers celebrated Thanksgiving together.  It was a potluck style dinner that was fashioned from random findings in the city or from treasures shipped from home.  There was even stuffing, mashed potatoes, pie, deviled eggs, cookies, salad, turkey, cheese ball, gravy, and rolls to be had. 

The dilemma comes when everything takes just a little longer than it normally would to prepare.  Not only do you have to be creative with ingredients when cooking, you have to had in the extra time to find them at the local market.  In my case, I had to plan a little extra to find the main dish (aka Tom, the turkey).

It took about 4 days to figure out whether or not I could buy a turkey in my village.  It took another 4 days to work out of the details or payment, pickup, transportation, etc.  One of the wealthier villagers from my town own three turkeys and my host father and I bargained with the man to sell it to me for 25,000 CFA ($60).  You’re probably assuming that if it cost that much it was probably around 100 pounds.  Well, you would be quite incorrect. It turns out that turkeys are quite rare in the desert, and therefore are rather expensive (we could have bought 25 chickens for the same price).   Nonetheless, I bought the turkey and my friend Ashley came with me to pick it up and take it to the regional capitol.  We arrived at the man’s house only to find that he had gone to the market in the next town and wouldn’t be returning for quite some time.  I texted my host father and he came to the rescue.  The man’s guard sold us the turkey and my host father rounded up some village kids to catch the turkey for us. 

The scene was quite amusing.  Five teenage boys, my host dad, and some random passer-bys were running/sneaking/jumping/diving all over the street in an attempt to nab our purchase.  After about 10 minutes one of the boys successfully grabbed a leg and proceeded to immobilize our poultry friend.  We paid the boys for their effort and they accompanied us to the tasha (bush taxi station) carrying the feast.  We scored a free ride in an NGO car (turkey and all) and had a nice, considerably comfortable 1 ½ hour long ride into Zinder.  It was only considerably comfortable due to the fact that Tom, as we lovingly named our turkey, rode on my lap for the entire duration of the trip.  I might add that when you transport a turkey it’s best to hold their legs (so that they don’t jump around), which causes them to be slightly distressed, which causes them to poo (which happened to fall all over my hand that was holding his legs).  I might also mention that they way he looked at me made me extremely nervous (I can’t decide if he knew he was going to be eaten or if he was trying to figure out if he could reach my face to peck out my eyes).  Either way it was better than most bush taxi rides I have so far.

Sunday (our faux-Thanksgiving) rolled around and we had to prepare our feathered friend.  Two other volunteers were brave enough to kill, feather, and cook Tom (I certainly couldn’t do it, seeing as how we had bonded during the road trip).  I wasn’t sure that anyone at home would believe that all this actually happened, so I’ve include the photo evidence.  And I would like to add that I would much rather just drive to Kroger to buy a frozen turkey for my mom to prepare (it’s much less traumatizing, for the turkey and for me).

 

Tom sitting on my lap.

Turkey nabbing. It’s too bad that almost doesn’t count.

Attempt number one...

Beans, beans, the magical fruit…

One of my goals for my first 3 months at post is to learn how to make some traditional Nigerien dishes.  In an attempt to do just that I spent an hour one afternoon with my host mom learning how to make rice and beans with at onion/peanut oil sauce.  The lesson went well so I decided that I would try to make it on my own. 

 

I ventured out to the daily market to pick up some beans.  I was surprised to find out that you can’t buy a single serving of beans, you have to buy by the measure (one measure equals about two pounds, and no, it didn’t occur to me that everyone else who buys beans has at least 5 mouths to feed).  I convinced the man to sell me a half measure of beans which cost me a whopping $0.30.  Proud of making my purchase using the local language, I was strolled home greeting all the little kids and old men along the way.  Upon arrival I opened up my bag of beans and got out my pot to boil them in.  I realized that I was going to have to sort through the beans when I saw the plethora or non-bean like items in my bag (rocks, corn kernels, worms, bean shells, etc).  I dumped the bag out and began to sort through the hundreds of beans one-by-one. 

 

About 10 minutes into what felt like a small project (realizing I wasn’t even half-way done and still had to do the same thing with my rice), I thought about how nice it would be if I just had a bag of beans from the grocery store that I could just put straight into the pot.  It seemed quite ridiculous to spend so much time and effort on preparing lunch; maybe I could just pay one of the neighbor kids to do it for me.  It was at that moment that I felt a little ashamed.  It occurred to me that sorting beans was the whole reason I wanted to come to the world’s poorest country in the first place.  Ok, maybe not to sort beans, but certainly to partake in the tedious, time consuming work of the under-resourced.  I’m the one who wanted to understand and experience first hand the reality of daily life in the third world.  I finished sorting/ cleaning/boiling the rice and beans, and as I sat down to enjoy my lunch I reflected upon all the work it took to make one meal. 

 

It might not sound as profound an event as it felt, but I assure you that this was a grand revelation in relation to my two years of service.  So, while my flesh desires the ease and convenience of shiny packages of ready-to-cook rice, my soul is learning to rejoice in the tedium of market beans.  I wrote an additional verse to “Magical Fruit” to commemorate the occasion (kind of like the way the Israelites built altars or set up pillars of stones).  Please enjoy:

 

Market beans, market beans, the magical fruit;

The more you eat, the more you stand in solidarity with the poor;

The more you stand in solidarity with the poor, the better you feel,

So eat market beans for every meal…

 

I think it will catch on, don’t you?

Gestures

Gestures are one of my favorite parts of crossing cultures, so here is a little taste of Nigerien culture.

The Hammah Incident

Aichatou, Me, Hammah, and Aissa

Last week I attended a training for VATS (volunteer assistant trainers) in Niamey, the capitol.  There were ten volunteers selected to help train the new group of volunteer who arrived at the beginning of July and we spent a few days working with the training staff to prepare for the following two months of training (PST) for the new kids.  We had a great week together playing lots of get-to-know-you games, letting the new language trainers run practice classes with us, and thinking through various elements of the PST.  I endured the 16 hour bus ride back to my region when VAT training had finished (I will be helping with the training toward the end of August) and headed straight back to my village (because life in the capitol stresses me out.  Too many people, too much trash, too expensive, etc).

When I leave my village I always turn my keys over to my “host family” whose son, Kader, stays at my house while I am away (mostly to prevent burglars).  When I arrived at the tasha (bush taxi station) on the main road I headed over to my family’s house to collect my keys.  My host mom and best friend in village, Aissa, informed me that they younger kids were already over at my house sweeping my concession for me.  I arrived to find Hammah (4), Issidine (7), Nasser (10), Hamissou (12), and two men who were working to fix my shade hangar (for the third time).  The kids were bent over using tradition straw hand brooms to gather all the leaves and seeds that had fallen from my three full grown Nimes trees that shade 2/3 of my concession. 

I unpacked my bag inside my house while the kids and the guys worked diligently outside.  I was only interrupted a few times when they needed something:  a bucket (to hull away leaves), a chair (to stand on), or a knife (to cut rope).    It only took me a few minutes to arrange my house, so I joined everyone else on my porch.  The kids had finished and were playing with my dessert turtle, Arty (Pearl had passed away a day early because she flipped herself over and baked in the sun), which grew old quick (he doesn’t provide much entertainment). 

In the meantime, Hamissou was helping the guys out here and there by handing tools back and forth as they climbed around on the hangar.  Now, for some reason the kids are fascinated by the multi-function tool that I have (screwdriver/knife/saw/pliers) that Hamissou was guarding.  Hammah, being rather indignant at the age of 4, felt quite entitled to handle the tool (that was currently serving as an exceptionally sharp knife) and lunged toward Hamissou in an attempt to snatch it from him.  Hammah, whose hand-eye coordination isn’t that developed, managed instead of grabbing the knife to stab himself in the wrist.  I watched the entire incident enfold and was terrified when Hammah stepped back, screamed, and started to gush blood (and not only gush, but also spurt blood as if his wrist were a squirt gun).  In a matter of seconds there was blood dripping off his elbow as quickly as tears were pouring from his eyes.

At the first glance of blood I sprung from my seat and immediately stuck my thumb over his stab wound.  Hammah continued to scream (which I’m not sure was because he was scared, because he was in pain from the stab, because I was pushing too hard on his wrist, or because it was a combination of the three).   The men climbed down from the hangar to see what all the commotion was about.  At this point my heart was beating so hard and my mind racing so fast (mostly with the though “oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.  He’s going to bleed to death”) that all I could mutter was “mun tahi likita yanzu yanzu yanzu” (which means “we are going to the health hut right this minute”).  As I squatted there on my porch I put Hammah on my lap to calm him down but was so shaky that I almost fell over.  Once I composed myself and decided that I was going to be the one to take him the mile to see the likita (health hut worker), I scooped Hammah in my arms in a way that I could keep my thumb on his gash.  I ran down the street and got a lift from one of my neighbors to the health hut. 

When we arrived my neighbor ran in and found the likita in his house (he lives there so that there can be medical services at all ours of the day) and we waited (rather impatiently) about five minutes for him to finish bathing.  As we sat there, Hammah still on my lap, I noticed the blood that soaked the front of his shirt and pants and that was also smeared on my hands, arms, shirt, pants, and shoes.  My heart was still pounding as I tried to explain what had happened (not a great time to realize that you don’t know the words for stab, wrist, wound, or bleed).  The likita led us into a modest exam room that contained one large metal exam table and one small metal table scattered with medical supplies.  I removed my thumb to reveal the damage and the likita didn’t seem to be impressed (something like this in the States would have earned at least an eyebrow raise and a few stitches).  He squirted some sterilizer on a piece of gauze and cleaned the blood off Hammah’s arm.  In a very bothered kind of way he rolled the remaining gauze into a pressure wrap and taped it over the gash.  I looked at him in an astonished sort of way and asked “shikenan?” (done, that’s it?).  He nodded and sent us on our way out the door. 

As we were headed back to my concession (where I assumed everyone we had left there was waiting for our return) I tried to wrap my mind around what had just happened.  I kept picturing the blood squirting out of Hammah’s wrist.  I kept thinking about how calm everyone else acted when the whole incident occurred (the other kids, the men, the likita).  It seemed things like this were everyday situations for them and they weren’t a big deal.  I wondered if I hadn’t been there if they would have even considered taking Hammah to the likita. 

When we arrived at my house I discovered that they men had finished working on my hangar and had gone home.  The boys were waiting there so that they could all walk home together.  I sent them on their way back home and told them I would be over in a few minutes after I washed off and changed my clothes.  When I arrived at my family’s house I expected to be interrogated about the incident (like any typical American parent would do), but was greeted as normal.  In fact, after about five minutes of greeting and chatting I was the one to bring up the whole episode.  I remember the response to my explanation being “Yeah.  He’s meddlesome…  they didn’t charge you are the likita, did they?”  I was once again found myself astonished at the cultural differences and how differently Nigeriens and Americans react in certain situations. 

Bush Taxi Quiz

Here is a short video quiz that I made for you to test your African transportation knowledge.  The question:  How many people can you fit into a bush taxi?  Post your guess in the comment box below before you start the viedo.  Good luck!

The 2009 World Cup…

Or it might as well have been.  Our regional girls’ soccer tournament has now come and gone and the girls are still talking about it.  In my eyes it was a mediocre event filled with lots of laughs and lots of stress, but in the girls’ eyes it was the 2009 world cup.  And they were the participants.  They were the winners.  They were the stars.

Five teams in all participated in our 4th annual regional tournament, and only one team walked away with soccer bragging rights.  Unfortunately it wasn’t my team.  However we did win the song/skit portion of the tournament that revolved around an AIDS awareness theme.  Each team presented a skit or song and was judged by local Peer Educators (high school students from the regional capitol) who teach other students about AIDS prevention.  My team blew away the competition winning with 24 out of the possible 25 points.  They also preformed an extra song about girls education and the importance of giving girls the opportunity to receive an education (I’ll try to YouTube this asap because they are actually really good).  I’ve included some pictures from the day’s events!  Enjoy :)

The pre-game line up.

 

The team who won 1st place for soccer.

My team performing their skit.

Rooting from the bench.

Team photo!

Pictures provided by Marisa Wong: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mwong64

5 O’Clock Blues

When 5pm rolls around, so do a plethora of mixed feelings.  It’s time to drop whatever I’m doing at home (doing laundry in a bucket, raking my sand, etc) and change my clothes, put on some extra deodorant, and lock up my house.   A long walk to the junior high (which is located at the other end of my village) is filled with many greetings:  “Ina wuni?” (How is the afternoon?).  “Ina zahi?” (How is the heat?),  and “Ina aiki?” (how is the work?).  On the way I pass one of the 5 primary schools in my village and at any given time 20-30 children just hanging around the school yard feel compelled to yell “MALIKA!!!” (my Nigerien name) as if I weren’t walking a few feet away from them.  Just a block farther is the corner where  a handful of women sell kayan mia (sauce ingredients) all nicely lined in a row in front of the pounding machine.  A few small children toddle about until they see me coming and immediately start to shout “ANASARIA!” (white girl).  This is an endearing little term that they learned most likely from their parents and scream incessantly until I walk completely out of sight.  Sometimes if they have enough kokari (effort) they even follow me to the next corner meanwhile giggling and whispering to one another. 

Next comes the seasonal lake, which during rainy season and cold season is used to make mud bricks, and which during hot season becomes the free-for-all pooing ground for the children in the neighborhood.  There is probably no need to describe the distinct scent that wafts about during this section of my trek.  The sandy, garbage-filled, poo-ridden path leads to the end of the clearing where, almost without fail, I am nearly trampled by a flock of sheep and goats who are being pushed about by an 8-year-old with a sizeable stick.  Sandy, an unseemingly vicious dog (that I’ve named after the dog is Annie which he resembles), is, I am convinced, a racist dog that greets white people (or me, the only white person in a 10 mile radius) with snarls and barks until the nice people on the corner chuckle and chase him away with a stick. I think Sandy waits for me.  The white girl passing by is, hands down, the most exciting part of his day (the same is true for most of the old men and little children I pass as well).

The rest of the walk is pretty uneventful, save dodging reckless bush taxis on the main road.  By the time I arrive at the school a sea of teenagers sporting maroon button-up shirts and khaki colored pants or pagnes (wrap-around-skirts) await me.  A few “bonsoir-s” (good afternoons) accompany me through the deep sand to the clearing know as the soccer field.  The girls chat by the sideline under the nim trees and patiently wait for the PE teacher to finish testing his students (most recently with track and field activities, like jumping over a pole).   The girls un-wrap their skirts to reveal shorts or pants underneath and retie their head wraps. 

Soccer practice always begins with a 10 minute run around the outside of the sandy field.  After a few technical drills we spend the rest of the daylight playing a scrimmage of offense versus defense.  The practice is a bit more lax than most Americans would tolerate (we frequently continue playing after the ball has gone in to touch, or you might see a few girls collapsed with laughter on the field because one of their teammates tried to kick the ball and completely missed).  Despite the seeming lack of structure and productivity, girls scrimmage is by far my favorite part of the whole day.  When I’m on the field playing with the girls we have to chance to connect in a different way.  Minimal language skills are needed (all I need to know how to say is “back”, “I’m here”, “Give it to Absatou”, or “Shoot!).  I love the high fives we give each other when I steal the ball from a player on the other team, or when someone dribbles the ball right past me.  It’s like they know a different side of me when we are on the field, and I get to see a different side of them too. 

For these girls, it’s their chance to prove that they can do more than just household chores.  It’s their chance to prove that they are smart, gifted, hard-working girls who are ready to change their community.  For those of you back home, it might seem quite normal to have a girls sports team, but In Niger extra-curricular activities are close to non-existent, and even more so, girls activities have only begun in the past few years.   Girls here have to fight for their rights (for example: going to school rather than being married off by your parents at age 13).  Girls’ soccer might seem insignificant, but it’s a huge step in the world of each girl who participates.  The positive outcomes are endless, from being encouraged to stay in school to raised self-esteem. 

A few of the education volunteers and I have been working on the 4^th annual regional girls tournament in Zinder.  Prelims will take place in my village on March 7^th, and finals with all 5 teams will take place in Zinderville on March 14^th.  An AIDS awareness component will be included as a portion of the tournament is a skit/song contest between each team.  My girls have been practicing for over two months now, and I might add that we are favored to win the soccer portion of the tournament ; )

Stay tuned for pictures from both weekends!

Ballardisms

The kids and grandma in my host family. Aren’t they cute?

At training they wash and iron ALL of your laundry!!!

Christmas dinner with the neighboring volunteers.

 

I say “you bumped your beezer” and everyone just stares.  When someone addresses me with a petty request and I “fall asleep” mid sentence, they just stare.  When I insult my friends by adding McGee to the insult people just stare (ex: for eating all the pie, Pie Eater McGee).  When I explain the “Ballard family scrabble rules” the other players just stare.  Granted, in Niger I get stared at a lot (normally by locals due to my light skin and strange clothing), but it wasn’t until I was playing scrabble with some volunteer friends and got stared at that I realized just how one-of-a-kind I am (all thanks to Ballardisms).

 

After six months away from home I’m finding that the more time I spend with new friends (and the more comfortable I get around them), the more unique I realize that my family is (because I tend to let the “Ballard” show a little more).  I expected to find cultural differences between myself and my villagers, but often times I’m astonished at how little common ground (or common knowledge/customs/vocabulary) I have with the other American volunteers I serve with. 

 

About two month ago my brother, his girlfriend, and my sister had posted a short video on YouTube to say hello, and insisted that I return the favor by posting a video as well.  Rather than just saying hello I decided to be a bit “creative” with the video content.  One of the more recent (and long running) inside jokes in my family is the “rap cat” (courtesy of the Rally’s commercial, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuk1L6NpAFA).  I decided that a play on the rap cat would be a great idea.  I brainstormed, planned, and finally filmed clips of the video all over my region.  I share this story and video to support my claim that my family really is unique.  You can watch it (and, therefore, confirm my claim) at the following link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRp0GW3GVm8

 

If you need more confirmation here are a few things that I consider to be pretty unique to the Ballard family (and a few close friends):

 

Ballard vocabulary:  Beezer (head), chukies (cookies), da Mow (a name for our cat, Mia), “he wooks wike a wion” (said just for fun), saying “I love cows, I love to eat cows” (any time you pass a cow in the car), da Dwardie (a name for out dow, Eddie), “the Barb” (what we call our mother, whose name is Barb), etc…

 

Actions/events:  clavicle poking (a way to say hello), Balllard family scrabble rules (allowing all proper nouns, state abbreviations, the person with the longest word plays first, etc), Sound of Music sing-alongs (one of my favorite family memories), deviled egg tattoos (or hopes thereof), sleeping when people walk into the room (or in the middle of their sentence), the t-rex impression (my brother does it the best), ice cream and home improvement nights, putting our cat in a plastic grocery bag and saying to someone else “look what I found at the store”, rap cat impressions and sing-alongs, putting our cat outside on a leash, etc…

 

One thing that has become really clear is that the only place that I feel like I can be myself is at home with my crazy family.  Thanks for being weird with me! 

 

PS to Bonald:  I stole you mean trick of putting peanut MMS in my glass of water and I started putting random things in my friends’ Naglenes.  I am proud to say that now one of our favorite practical jokes is putting strange objects (date pits, forks, peanuts, sugar cubes, popcorn, etc) in the water bottles of other volunteers  : )

Care packages :)

Hi friends and family.  A lot of people have been asking if there is anything I would like/need.  Thanks for asking, because there is!  Since my diet consists almost completely of starches (rice, millet, and pasta) and the fact that the only fruit/veggie available in my village is squash, I would love to have some things to add a little variety to my diet (and things that I just plain miss).  Keep in mind that in my mud hut I only have a stovetop (no oven and no fridge) BUT I do have access to an oven and a fridge at our regional hostel.  Don’t feel tied to this list; it’s just to give you an idea of the types of things I miss and can’t find here.  Thanks so much!  

 

 

Snacks/food:

Velveeta cheese

Parmesan cheese

Granola Bars

Cliff Bars

Dried Fruit

Dried/dehydrated veggies

Packaged/canned chicken

Restaurant sized dressing packets

Pretzels (honey wheat, nuggets or sticks)

Fig Newtons (fruit flavored)

Oreos (especially mint Oreos!)

Chocolate (Peanut Butter MMs, candy bars, etc)

Marshmellows

Little Debbies (brownies, coffee cakes, etc)

Fruit snacks

Trail Mix

Jello/pudding mixes

Muffin/cake/cookie/brownie mixes

Seasoning packets (ex: pesto, tomato basil sauce, alfredo, etc)

Breakfast foods

Turkey Jerky

Soft tortillas

Lipton white tea w/raspberry mix

Crystal light green tea w/raspberry mix

Funfetti cake mix 

Baking cocoa powder

 

Stuff:

A good book

CDs (Gospel, hymns, folk, classical, international, jazz, oldies, Jack Johnson, Bethany Dillon, Norah Jones, Marty Feldhake CD #2, anything you like)

 

Cat toys or treats (my kitten gets bored)

Fluoride rinse (ACT) 

Sharpies (just a few) 

Apricot face scrub

Pictures of you and fun things in America (my host family loves to see pictures)

 

Please do not send:  (I can get these things here all year)

Rice, peanut butter, powdered milk, oatmeal, tomato paste, toilet paper, or pasta.

 

Postage tips:  There are two sizes of flat-rate boxes available at the post office.  A small flat-rate box costs $35 to send and a large is $50.  It’s normally cheaper to send these rather than your own box and you can pack up to 20 lbs of goodies inside.  Also, put anything liquid or prone to melting/leaking in a ziplock bag.  To cut down on shipping fees go in on a care package with your friends, your office, your class, your church, your family, etc!  Packages take about a month to arrive, so plan accordingly J  Thanks again for thinking of me!  You have no idea how much I appreciate it.

Hello city lights…

It was a two hour bush taxi ride that brought me back to the city.  Beginning with a 40 minute wait at the “taxi station” (i.e. the parking spot in front of the hodge-podge stand next to the road) the ensuing trip was filled with frequent stops (helping out other bush taxis who ran out of gas, taking bags of corn from bush taxis who had too much weight and not enough room, and picking up/dropping of people at every village along the way) bumps and jolts (the driving reminded me of my mother’s, who tends of step on the brake at the last minute and always manages to stop just inches from the bumper of the car in front) , and loud Hausa music (quite reminiscent of Middle Eastern or even Indian music).  I arrived in Zinder late this morning after spending a long awaited month in my village.  Surprisingly, when I went to bed last night, I thought to myself “it didn’t seem like a month”.  Now, had you asked me during the first week how I felt about the situation, you most likely would have gotten a response more in the ballpark of “What did I get myself into?  I can’t communicate with anyone, the world outside my door is quite intimidating, and there’s nothing familiar in sight”. 

Fortunately I survived a month without contact with the outside world.  And let me say, I didn’t miss it as much as I thought I would.  Don’t get me wrong, the first place I came to in the city (after dropping of my bag at the hostel) was the internet café (I certainly have a greater appreciation for modern technology that enables communication halfway across the world, especially after many a phone call with my family being dropped).  These last four weeks were filled with crazy situations like attending two funerals during my first week at site (neither of the people or families had I met beforehand), discovering that the world pretty much comes to a halt during the daytime hours of Ramadan, and walking 5k into the bush and then taking an ox cart even deeper into the bush to have a hands-on Hausa lesson about garden vocabulary. 

Life is actually quite pleasant in my village.  Life slowly passes by as children play soccer with june bugs, make model cars out of a poo/sand mixture, and attempt to catch the hundreds of grasshoppers that swarm my porch light at night.  I, however, pass the day greeting passserbys in the street, chatting with the teachers at the junior high (who, as of the first day of school, are already on strike), scrubbing my clothes in a bucket, and eating dinner each night with my phenomenal host family.

I’ve found that when I’m strolling through the village streets watching women carrying babies on their back (accompanied with a few feet worth of millet stalks on their head) or see baby goats (that are now starting to resemble puppies) jumping on tops of garbage piles, I often notice that I’m silently narrating my life.  I’m convinced that if I didn’t describe every sight in exquisite detail, then no one back home would believe the reality in front of me.  As of now the narration (life as I know it) continues…