It's 45 degrees outside, and the Saturday spectacles have arrived at le Meridien. They're here every weekend. They consist of a clutch of tattooed French soldiers in a technicolour array of banana hammocks, budgie smugglers, nut crunchers, whatever you choose to call them. They lounge on all four sides of the pool sunning themselves alongside the multicoloured lizards that also adorn the poolside paving. I guess it must be welcome respite from their military schedule during the week, but it does make you think twice about heading poolside. You have to breathe in to keep your eyeballs in place.
The excitement of the week for the dwellers of N'Djamena has been a visit by George Clooney, and Mia Farrow who were here independently taking on the Darfur cause - to raise awareness in GC's case; and to record oral traditions on audio and video for a museum in Sudan, in Mia's. Since George was staying at the Meridien there were ripples of excitement everytime he wandered through the lobby. He must have lost half his body weight since he made Syriana. I hardly recognised him.
President Deby has been on a tour of the country over the last week and is due to continue into next week. This means our trip to the desert to train the community reporters has been postponed for 2 weeks. The president on the move constitutes a force majeure in Chad it seems. Whole towns and villages grind to a halt when he arrives with his 200 strong military entourage, so we wouldn't have got much done had we decided to do our training this week.
So it looks like I won't make it back to Niger for the time being. In a way I think it's not a bad thing to stay in one place. The team will hopefully benefit. I'm in the middle of translating a 60 page training manual on different formats of radio shows into French. It's like being back at university, but good for the vocabulary practise.
It also keeps me away from those bronzing beauties by the pool; and dare I say takes my mind off living in yet another place where I can't run about outside or walk down the street to a shop and stop and chat to passers by. The trip to the provinces can't come soon enough. To see and talk to real people in a village and attempt to understand the challenges of life here. To meet our audience and contributors who will hopefully get some benefit from our radio programmes. To feel alive and involved.
Saturday 21 February 2009
Saturday 7 February 2009
The new girl again
When you first arrive somewhere you’re so aware of everything you don't see and don't know. It’s like a negative image – you notice the huge holes in understanding more than the chunks of comprehension. But you have to just keep moving forwards – invest yourself and your time, ask questions, ask them again in another way, listen and sometimes talk. Then hope it comes together – just in time to go home again.
The team I’m working with here has been quite a challenge so far. We have recruited two male producers and two female producers, who are managed by an impressive middle aged Chadian woman, Z who’s very tough, and due to the hierarchical nature of working conditions here, the atmosphere is formal and not altogether open or friendly.
I’m working in French all the time, as we try and sort out their contracts, work out a production schedule, train the team how to work with community reporters and make inspiring good quality radio on youth and good governance. They fought tooth and nail over their contracts, were totally silent and moody as I tried to help them come up with a workable schedule. I felt like the teacher in Ferris Beuler’s Day Off when he’s in front of the class of spotty students saying: ‘Anyone? Anyone?’ to a silent room of blank canvases. They looked at me – all the lights on but no one at home. If anything is going to make your French falter it’s that. And because most ex pats that come here are French speaking, people here don’t encourage you when you struggle. It’s just expected that you’ll speak it. No one really speaks any English.
I carried on regardless, but it required all the energy I had to get through the first ten days. I felt like there was a pack mentality in the room and that I was totally alone, and guilty until proved innocent.
After a few days I had reached desperation point. I also felt lonely and cut off. The phones don’t work to text out of the country; calling out is really expensive; the internet is weak and doesn’t work at all in the office. It’s agony being apart from J and the weeks ahead until we meet in mid March seem interminable. When we spoke we agreed it was a bad idea to lift our heads from the pages we were working on to look at the horizon ahead. The minute you start dreaming about the future and the excitements it holds – being together would be a good start – you waste the moment you’re in. So we’re trying to keep focusing on our jobs and do them well. Being away from everything you know and love makes you appreciate what you have back home so much.
I also found myself watching a programme about Iran on the BBC and a debate about Afghanistan and what should be done next, and realised I missed the relative familiarity of that part of the world – its language, cultures and people that I had grown used to and fond of in so many respects.
But you just have to be organised and methodical when you’re on your own or you end up wasting the time. You need to divide the day up into sections of work, exercise, rest - and you’ll draw the best from it. I’m hoping I might be able to venture out of the town and see the rural ‘real’ Chad at some stage. Being locked up in N’Djamena is worse than being locked in Kabul as I don’t have a life here as such – or a home. So I’m itching to explore. Rural areas are generally much friendlier and safer anyway.
I have been quite ill this week, and one night didn’t sleep at all. Seems like I have giardia or something of that description according to what I found on the internet. One night I didn’t sleep a wink for being sick, so I arrived at work like a rag doll and could only put in an eighth of what I’d normally invest energy-wise. Suddenly my team started making and effort and being a bit more charming. Perhaps I should put less in more often...?!
But a few days later, I'm now seeing a clearing in the clouds. One day I arrived outside Z’s office which is like a little mud box with a tin roof. I stopped for a minute before going in and watched her typing feverishly at her little pink computer oblivious to the fan going ‘clack clack’ noisily above her head. There were flies everywhere and piles of budgets and empty tea cups on her desk; and a half assembled cupboard in the corner. She looked up and smiled at me over her glasses with her amazingly straight white teeth. And I suddenly saw her for who she is, what she’s achieved and what she stands for. I think she’s realised too that I’m here to support her, not to threaten her. It’s lonely at the top and her team are not at all easy and go out of their way to alienate her.
We have chatted quite a lot now and she has explained a bit more about her personal life. She’s probably about 45-50 years old and a Muslim. She was married, but she couldn’t bear that her husband wanted to take a second wife so when he moved to Saudi Arabia she stayed in Chad. She is renowned throughout the country as a formidable force in media. She owns her own radio station and like her or loathe her, she is making her mark. And you couldn't do that without being anything but determinedly tough in this country as a woman.
.
She made a film in the 1990s about female genital mutilation in Chad and the Muslim authorities in the country issued a Fatwa (Islamic death threat) against her. She was saved by activist communities all around the world sending faxes to the authorities demanding her pardon.
People in this country probably fear her for, or are envious of, her courage, intelligence and dedication and passion for what she does. It is truly impressive to witness a woman like this first hand in yet another society dominated by dogmatic religions and traditions which allow men to suit themselves and women to fit in around that.
We are exceptionally lucky to have her with us. I think part of my job will be to reinforce her position here in the hope that the other four members of the team see her light, and treat the chance to work with her as a golden opportunity - which it undoubtedly is. Especially for the women.
The team I’m working with here has been quite a challenge so far. We have recruited two male producers and two female producers, who are managed by an impressive middle aged Chadian woman, Z who’s very tough, and due to the hierarchical nature of working conditions here, the atmosphere is formal and not altogether open or friendly.
I’m working in French all the time, as we try and sort out their contracts, work out a production schedule, train the team how to work with community reporters and make inspiring good quality radio on youth and good governance. They fought tooth and nail over their contracts, were totally silent and moody as I tried to help them come up with a workable schedule. I felt like the teacher in Ferris Beuler’s Day Off when he’s in front of the class of spotty students saying: ‘Anyone? Anyone?’ to a silent room of blank canvases. They looked at me – all the lights on but no one at home. If anything is going to make your French falter it’s that. And because most ex pats that come here are French speaking, people here don’t encourage you when you struggle. It’s just expected that you’ll speak it. No one really speaks any English.
I carried on regardless, but it required all the energy I had to get through the first ten days. I felt like there was a pack mentality in the room and that I was totally alone, and guilty until proved innocent.
After a few days I had reached desperation point. I also felt lonely and cut off. The phones don’t work to text out of the country; calling out is really expensive; the internet is weak and doesn’t work at all in the office. It’s agony being apart from J and the weeks ahead until we meet in mid March seem interminable. When we spoke we agreed it was a bad idea to lift our heads from the pages we were working on to look at the horizon ahead. The minute you start dreaming about the future and the excitements it holds – being together would be a good start – you waste the moment you’re in. So we’re trying to keep focusing on our jobs and do them well. Being away from everything you know and love makes you appreciate what you have back home so much.
I also found myself watching a programme about Iran on the BBC and a debate about Afghanistan and what should be done next, and realised I missed the relative familiarity of that part of the world – its language, cultures and people that I had grown used to and fond of in so many respects.
But you just have to be organised and methodical when you’re on your own or you end up wasting the time. You need to divide the day up into sections of work, exercise, rest - and you’ll draw the best from it. I’m hoping I might be able to venture out of the town and see the rural ‘real’ Chad at some stage. Being locked up in N’Djamena is worse than being locked in Kabul as I don’t have a life here as such – or a home. So I’m itching to explore. Rural areas are generally much friendlier and safer anyway.
I have been quite ill this week, and one night didn’t sleep at all. Seems like I have giardia or something of that description according to what I found on the internet. One night I didn’t sleep a wink for being sick, so I arrived at work like a rag doll and could only put in an eighth of what I’d normally invest energy-wise. Suddenly my team started making and effort and being a bit more charming. Perhaps I should put less in more often...?!
But a few days later, I'm now seeing a clearing in the clouds. One day I arrived outside Z’s office which is like a little mud box with a tin roof. I stopped for a minute before going in and watched her typing feverishly at her little pink computer oblivious to the fan going ‘clack clack’ noisily above her head. There were flies everywhere and piles of budgets and empty tea cups on her desk; and a half assembled cupboard in the corner. She looked up and smiled at me over her glasses with her amazingly straight white teeth. And I suddenly saw her for who she is, what she’s achieved and what she stands for. I think she’s realised too that I’m here to support her, not to threaten her. It’s lonely at the top and her team are not at all easy and go out of their way to alienate her.
We have chatted quite a lot now and she has explained a bit more about her personal life. She’s probably about 45-50 years old and a Muslim. She was married, but she couldn’t bear that her husband wanted to take a second wife so when he moved to Saudi Arabia she stayed in Chad. She is renowned throughout the country as a formidable force in media. She owns her own radio station and like her or loathe her, she is making her mark. And you couldn't do that without being anything but determinedly tough in this country as a woman.
.
She made a film in the 1990s about female genital mutilation in Chad and the Muslim authorities in the country issued a Fatwa (Islamic death threat) against her. She was saved by activist communities all around the world sending faxes to the authorities demanding her pardon.
People in this country probably fear her for, or are envious of, her courage, intelligence and dedication and passion for what she does. It is truly impressive to witness a woman like this first hand in yet another society dominated by dogmatic religions and traditions which allow men to suit themselves and women to fit in around that.
We are exceptionally lucky to have her with us. I think part of my job will be to reinforce her position here in the hope that the other four members of the team see her light, and treat the chance to work with her as a golden opportunity - which it undoubtedly is. Especially for the women.
Chad
Although landlocked Niger has borders with 7 countries - one of them being Chad, it was bizarrely quicker and cheaper for me to get from Niamey to N’Djamena, the capital of Chad, via Paris than any other route. So I spent a night in the aeroplane and a day meandering around Charles de Gaulle airport making the most of the decent coffee and the nail bar, pouncing on the latest copy of the Economist to keep me going for the next month.
It was almost 10pm when I arrived in N’Djamena. A man in a floor length white tunic and white hat was there to greet me and within 10 minutes I had my bags and we were bumping our way along potholed sand streets in a 4 x 4 to Le Meridien – my home for the next month.
N’Djamena makes Kabul look like the Garden of Eden. The town is a building site – with Chinese men driving the Asian variety of JCB along potholed dust tracks, trundling over piles of rubbish which fester on every corner.
There is an edgy feel to the atmosphere and you’re not supposed to walk about, although no-one has yet been able to tell me exactly why. The people do not allow you take photographs of them, and one foreign girl was stabbed seven times last year for photographing a dog. Having heard that story, I felt more relaxed about being within the confines of a car, with my camera back at the hotel, saved for a rural excursion one of these days.
It is feverishly expensive here as everything is imported. The supermarket boasts nothing in the dairy section but the ubiquitous Vache qui Rit and powdered Nestle milk. But there are little street stalls selling mangoes, bananas and avocados, and young children sell rock-solid sesame balls and bags of peanuts from trays on their heads.
Part of the reason why the Chadians feel on edge is due to the rebellion which happened almost exactly a year ago. A few rebel groups joined forces and stormed the capital from the east with the intent of killing, or at least deposing the president Deby and his government, who has been in charge for nearly 20 years. They failed in their attempt but the city was completely ransacked and looted, most ex-pats were evacuated and locals fear a reprise on its anniversary. Since then however Deby has been amassing the suitable amounts of military paraphernalia with which to defend himself. His paranoia over the last year has extended to demolishing large areas of housing surrounding the presidential palace leaving hundreds homeless, and chopping down an entire avenue of trees in the centre after apparently being told by a marabou (holy man) that he would be shot from above the ground.
But there is reason to his madness it seems, since 8 rebel groups including one led by his uncle or nephew (no-one is quite sure) have recently agreed to collaborate and try to bring him down again. And that is what is making the residents of the capital so uneasy.
The other public issue at the moment is charcoal. Deby has forbidden it in N’Djamena for no apparent reason, meaning people have nothing to cook with and are increasingly frustrated. Gas is impossible to find, and most cooking equipment designed for gas would be far beyond the reach of a Chadian local.
It was almost 10pm when I arrived in N’Djamena. A man in a floor length white tunic and white hat was there to greet me and within 10 minutes I had my bags and we were bumping our way along potholed sand streets in a 4 x 4 to Le Meridien – my home for the next month.
N’Djamena makes Kabul look like the Garden of Eden. The town is a building site – with Chinese men driving the Asian variety of JCB along potholed dust tracks, trundling over piles of rubbish which fester on every corner.
There is an edgy feel to the atmosphere and you’re not supposed to walk about, although no-one has yet been able to tell me exactly why. The people do not allow you take photographs of them, and one foreign girl was stabbed seven times last year for photographing a dog. Having heard that story, I felt more relaxed about being within the confines of a car, with my camera back at the hotel, saved for a rural excursion one of these days.
It is feverishly expensive here as everything is imported. The supermarket boasts nothing in the dairy section but the ubiquitous Vache qui Rit and powdered Nestle milk. But there are little street stalls selling mangoes, bananas and avocados, and young children sell rock-solid sesame balls and bags of peanuts from trays on their heads.
Part of the reason why the Chadians feel on edge is due to the rebellion which happened almost exactly a year ago. A few rebel groups joined forces and stormed the capital from the east with the intent of killing, or at least deposing the president Deby and his government, who has been in charge for nearly 20 years. They failed in their attempt but the city was completely ransacked and looted, most ex-pats were evacuated and locals fear a reprise on its anniversary. Since then however Deby has been amassing the suitable amounts of military paraphernalia with which to defend himself. His paranoia over the last year has extended to demolishing large areas of housing surrounding the presidential palace leaving hundreds homeless, and chopping down an entire avenue of trees in the centre after apparently being told by a marabou (holy man) that he would be shot from above the ground.
But there is reason to his madness it seems, since 8 rebel groups including one led by his uncle or nephew (no-one is quite sure) have recently agreed to collaborate and try to bring him down again. And that is what is making the residents of the capital so uneasy.
The other public issue at the moment is charcoal. Deby has forbidden it in N’Djamena for no apparent reason, meaning people have nothing to cook with and are increasingly frustrated. Gas is impossible to find, and most cooking equipment designed for gas would be far beyond the reach of a Chadian local.
Sunday 1 February 2009
A day out with the girls
The Stakeholder workshop went brilliantly with men and women coming from far and wide to give their thoughts and views on the issues of youth and good governance in Niger. Through the workshop we’ll be able to start planning the themes for all the radio programmes we’re making – and from the look of the list they will be everything from emigration and the rural exodus to corruption and FGM – female genital mutilation.
As everyone was leaving, I said goodbye and thank you to a religious leader from Maradi, a strict majority muslim town to the east of Niamey. I held out my hand but he refused to take it and looked down at it as though it was a dirty rag, then laughed not altogether kindly. Kader the 'responsable' advised me not to offer my hand first as a woman. I should wait until a man offered his hand to me beforehand. You’d have thought I’d have remembered that from Afghanistan, but I never had my hand refused there by any man.
I was ready for another weekend after the workshop, and I spent one day cruising around town with Victoria and her friend Rabia. They are both large and flamboyant, and arrived to collect me in a beaten up maroon coloured car, chomping on chunks of roast lamb out of a greasy brown paper bag. We set off to the museum – both of them chatting in Hausa, one of the local dialects, and belly laughing loudly as we crawled through town in the clanking car.
The museum was a bit of a disappointment – most of the displays were closed apart from the ethnic clothing department which had about 5 national costumes. But the main feature for the Nigerien families there was a makeshift zoo in the museum complex. There were hippos in tiny pools of hot, muddy water; mangy monkeys in stinking cages; some morose looking lions; and other strange sad desert creatures in hot dusty cages.
I was happy to leave after half an hour. We then limped off in the car to a beauty spot downriver from Niamey. Rabia drove right into some deep loose sand and after some furious revving with her high heeled foot, got us totally stuck. There was a group of men nearby and Rabia asked them if they would push her out. They charged her $10 to help. No one does anything for free in this place it seems.
We wandered down the river bank and then went to a Senegalese café back in town for rice and fish and 'bissap' - hibiscus juice. The ladies chatted half in Hausa, half in French. Rabia was complaining about her husband and how he always threatens to find a younger wife. As with Islamic custom, men are allowed up to four wives, as long as they can give each wife an even deal. Victoria said perhaps she was better off not having a man at all. As they chatted away, I realised how I used to long to be able to go out and about in Kabul with Afghan women – unaccompanied by men – for uninhibited chatting time.
But although I speak French I feel like an outsider. I sometimes wish you could fast forward into knowing and trusting people, and not have to begin slowly unfurling the layers of each other’s experiences and personality towards the comfortable zone of companionship.
But friendship and trust do not grow overnight like cress in damp cotton wool and you can’t rush it at the beginning – especially not in a foreign language. So I resigned myself to absorbing as much as possible and communicating wherever and whenever I could over my plate of orange spiced rice draped with fish skin, boiled cabbage and an overcooked carrot; and the metal mug of hibiscus juice which tasted like cough mixture.
From there we went to le grand marche, a huge covered arena selling the usual pirated DVDs and CDs, imitation beauty labels, synthetic materials, plastic shoes and toys. Cavernously cupped beige and pistachio coloured bras hung from rafters; and young boys sold pineapple in cling wrap from huge trays on their heads. We wandered through crowds of men and women bargaining for yet more exports from China in stores with signs saying things like: ‘Trouvez le top qualite chez Abdoul!'. I was glad to be with the ladies as the atmosphere wasn’t overwhelmingly friendly, but they seemed to know everyone and chatted and joked their way down the aisles exclaiming ‘EH! Tu rigoles!’ and clicking their tongues indignantly when they didn’t agree with the prices offered.
As everyone was leaving, I said goodbye and thank you to a religious leader from Maradi, a strict majority muslim town to the east of Niamey. I held out my hand but he refused to take it and looked down at it as though it was a dirty rag, then laughed not altogether kindly. Kader the 'responsable' advised me not to offer my hand first as a woman. I should wait until a man offered his hand to me beforehand. You’d have thought I’d have remembered that from Afghanistan, but I never had my hand refused there by any man.
I was ready for another weekend after the workshop, and I spent one day cruising around town with Victoria and her friend Rabia. They are both large and flamboyant, and arrived to collect me in a beaten up maroon coloured car, chomping on chunks of roast lamb out of a greasy brown paper bag. We set off to the museum – both of them chatting in Hausa, one of the local dialects, and belly laughing loudly as we crawled through town in the clanking car.
The museum was a bit of a disappointment – most of the displays were closed apart from the ethnic clothing department which had about 5 national costumes. But the main feature for the Nigerien families there was a makeshift zoo in the museum complex. There were hippos in tiny pools of hot, muddy water; mangy monkeys in stinking cages; some morose looking lions; and other strange sad desert creatures in hot dusty cages.
I was happy to leave after half an hour. We then limped off in the car to a beauty spot downriver from Niamey. Rabia drove right into some deep loose sand and after some furious revving with her high heeled foot, got us totally stuck. There was a group of men nearby and Rabia asked them if they would push her out. They charged her $10 to help. No one does anything for free in this place it seems.
We wandered down the river bank and then went to a Senegalese café back in town for rice and fish and 'bissap' - hibiscus juice. The ladies chatted half in Hausa, half in French. Rabia was complaining about her husband and how he always threatens to find a younger wife. As with Islamic custom, men are allowed up to four wives, as long as they can give each wife an even deal. Victoria said perhaps she was better off not having a man at all. As they chatted away, I realised how I used to long to be able to go out and about in Kabul with Afghan women – unaccompanied by men – for uninhibited chatting time.
But although I speak French I feel like an outsider. I sometimes wish you could fast forward into knowing and trusting people, and not have to begin slowly unfurling the layers of each other’s experiences and personality towards the comfortable zone of companionship.
But friendship and trust do not grow overnight like cress in damp cotton wool and you can’t rush it at the beginning – especially not in a foreign language. So I resigned myself to absorbing as much as possible and communicating wherever and whenever I could over my plate of orange spiced rice draped with fish skin, boiled cabbage and an overcooked carrot; and the metal mug of hibiscus juice which tasted like cough mixture.
From there we went to le grand marche, a huge covered arena selling the usual pirated DVDs and CDs, imitation beauty labels, synthetic materials, plastic shoes and toys. Cavernously cupped beige and pistachio coloured bras hung from rafters; and young boys sold pineapple in cling wrap from huge trays on their heads. We wandered through crowds of men and women bargaining for yet more exports from China in stores with signs saying things like: ‘Trouvez le top qualite chez Abdoul!'. I was glad to be with the ladies as the atmosphere wasn’t overwhelmingly friendly, but they seemed to know everyone and chatted and joked their way down the aisles exclaiming ‘EH! Tu rigoles!’ and clicking their tongues indignantly when they didn’t agree with the prices offered.
Monday 26 January 2009
Obamamania in Niger
Most of this last week has been taken up organising something called a ‘Stakeholder workshop’. Since the team is running quite a big media project, making radio programmes about issues surrounding good governance and youth – before we begin it’s important to invite everyone who is anyone to do with either of these topics in Niger for a workshop to get chatting. So we had men and women coming from far and wide around the country to give their thoughts and views about the radio programming. It’s scheduled for Thursday and Friday and there’s a lot to sort out.
I had a good laugh with the team since one of them had written ‘Le Steakholder’ all the way through his document, and we imagined all the participants clutching onto a huge sirloin or maybe even a cow. He said he must have been hungry when he was writing it.
Either side of work, I’ve been trying to work out how to save as much money as possible. The hotel meals are expensive, and although I did sample ‘La Capitaine’ (Catfish) straight from the river Niger one night – I was keen to have other options.
With the help of our drivers, Aziz and Ibrahim, I found a supermarket ‘Le Score’ where I found plenty of things to keep me going and to help avoid eating at the hotel bar every day – therefore reducing the risk of more evenings with trainee Uranium seekers.
Unlike in Kabul where the dreaded Nestle has filled almost every supermarket shelf with products, here you can find many things actually made in Niger – so I did my best to support the local economy where I could. There is also French bread and patisserie everywhere, and mornings and lunchtimes, you see men and women wandering the streets with stacks of baguettes balanced on their heads and children running home carrying bags bulging with croissants.
So I’m managing to be quite frugal. If only I could be that controlled in clothes shops (not many of them round here, although I could probably buy back some of my own things in second hand markets). It’s funny how I’m happy to survive on raisins and nuts in Africa for months to save up and buy a lampshade or pay off a bit of the mortgage. And yet wave a Diane Von Furstenberg dress at me in London, and I’ll buy it without a second’s thought. Oh well…
Having some food in the fridge in my room also means I manage to avoid breakfast in the hotel restaurant where about 10 gloomy looking ex pats – mostly men – who sit on separate tables all on their own not smiling and not talking. It’s not a fun atmosphere and makes me want to start throwing fruit salad about to see if anyone will react. I’d rather eat a bowl of ‘Mille' (millet) with the locals outside, but we’re not quite on those terms as yet.
The atmosphere in Niamey is quite appealing. As I’ve said before things move pretty slow. And although there is a regular call to prayer from La Grande Mosquee – you don’t really notice this is a Muslim country. Or at least with my untrained and uninformed eye you don’t. I am, remember a beginner too so don’t take my word for gospel quite yet…
But women and men can kiss hello and wander about together, even if they’re unrelated; women wear pretty much what they like, and can ride motorbikes and scooters. Anything goes with the male dress code too, although most wear some kind of headgear – from the multicoloured skull cap to the flowing turban. Alcohol is also readily available and many people drink.
Although 90 per cent of the country is Muslim (the rest are Christian or Animist) people can intermarry; the government is secular; and they don’t use Sharia Law in the courts. So it makes for an uninhibited vibe and a huge range of customs and holidays.
There are apparently a few fundamental folk knocking about, but from what I understand, the main problems in this country originate from less religiously motivated issues – the regular droughts and famines (which the president Mahmadou Tandja occasionally refuses to acknowledge meaning people die un-necessarily as they are forced to go without foreign aid); and from the Uranium deposits in the north of the country near Agadez. The Tuareg people in this northern area want the government to give them a bigger share of the loot from the sales of Uranium (30 per cent of Niger’s export) since it’s under the terrain they consider their own. But it’s not working in their favour; so they’re planting mines and getting themselves and many others hot under the collar…to say the very least.
If you remember the Nigerien Uranium (or ‘yellow cake’ as it’s sometimes known) was at the centre of one of G W Bush’s false pretences for going to war with Iraq, and resulted in various scandals, not least the war – but also the revealing of the name of a member of the CIA whose husband lifted the lid on the yellow cake affair…Or something like that.
But onto more positive moments in history. L’investiture du President Obama. Niamey moved fast for the first time since I arrived. The whole city rushed home at 3pm to listen to the inauguration on a crackling radio; or to watch it on a fizzy TV. People seemed enraptured and enthralled.
One man at work put it in a nutshell as he described his views about the latest figures in politics.
‘Bush is stupid but I don’t think he messes up on purpose; Sarkozy is even worse as he is calculated and does everything on purpose. But what really impresses me is that the US press are still yet to find anything dodgy about Obama. This could mean two things – either there is nothing to find; or he’s really really ‘malin’ and has hidden everything so cleverly that they never found it. In which case, he deserves to be president anyway…to have got one over the sneakiest press in the world.’
I watched the inauguration on the little telly in my room. It made our royal weddings look like village fetes. What a crowd.
I had a good laugh with the team since one of them had written ‘Le Steakholder’ all the way through his document, and we imagined all the participants clutching onto a huge sirloin or maybe even a cow. He said he must have been hungry when he was writing it.
Either side of work, I’ve been trying to work out how to save as much money as possible. The hotel meals are expensive, and although I did sample ‘La Capitaine’ (Catfish) straight from the river Niger one night – I was keen to have other options.
With the help of our drivers, Aziz and Ibrahim, I found a supermarket ‘Le Score’ where I found plenty of things to keep me going and to help avoid eating at the hotel bar every day – therefore reducing the risk of more evenings with trainee Uranium seekers.
Unlike in Kabul where the dreaded Nestle has filled almost every supermarket shelf with products, here you can find many things actually made in Niger – so I did my best to support the local economy where I could. There is also French bread and patisserie everywhere, and mornings and lunchtimes, you see men and women wandering the streets with stacks of baguettes balanced on their heads and children running home carrying bags bulging with croissants.
So I’m managing to be quite frugal. If only I could be that controlled in clothes shops (not many of them round here, although I could probably buy back some of my own things in second hand markets). It’s funny how I’m happy to survive on raisins and nuts in Africa for months to save up and buy a lampshade or pay off a bit of the mortgage. And yet wave a Diane Von Furstenberg dress at me in London, and I’ll buy it without a second’s thought. Oh well…
Having some food in the fridge in my room also means I manage to avoid breakfast in the hotel restaurant where about 10 gloomy looking ex pats – mostly men – who sit on separate tables all on their own not smiling and not talking. It’s not a fun atmosphere and makes me want to start throwing fruit salad about to see if anyone will react. I’d rather eat a bowl of ‘Mille' (millet) with the locals outside, but we’re not quite on those terms as yet.
The atmosphere in Niamey is quite appealing. As I’ve said before things move pretty slow. And although there is a regular call to prayer from La Grande Mosquee – you don’t really notice this is a Muslim country. Or at least with my untrained and uninformed eye you don’t. I am, remember a beginner too so don’t take my word for gospel quite yet…
But women and men can kiss hello and wander about together, even if they’re unrelated; women wear pretty much what they like, and can ride motorbikes and scooters. Anything goes with the male dress code too, although most wear some kind of headgear – from the multicoloured skull cap to the flowing turban. Alcohol is also readily available and many people drink.
Although 90 per cent of the country is Muslim (the rest are Christian or Animist) people can intermarry; the government is secular; and they don’t use Sharia Law in the courts. So it makes for an uninhibited vibe and a huge range of customs and holidays.
There are apparently a few fundamental folk knocking about, but from what I understand, the main problems in this country originate from less religiously motivated issues – the regular droughts and famines (which the president Mahmadou Tandja occasionally refuses to acknowledge meaning people die un-necessarily as they are forced to go without foreign aid); and from the Uranium deposits in the north of the country near Agadez. The Tuareg people in this northern area want the government to give them a bigger share of the loot from the sales of Uranium (30 per cent of Niger’s export) since it’s under the terrain they consider their own. But it’s not working in their favour; so they’re planting mines and getting themselves and many others hot under the collar…to say the very least.
If you remember the Nigerien Uranium (or ‘yellow cake’ as it’s sometimes known) was at the centre of one of G W Bush’s false pretences for going to war with Iraq, and resulted in various scandals, not least the war – but also the revealing of the name of a member of the CIA whose husband lifted the lid on the yellow cake affair…Or something like that.
But onto more positive moments in history. L’investiture du President Obama. Niamey moved fast for the first time since I arrived. The whole city rushed home at 3pm to listen to the inauguration on a crackling radio; or to watch it on a fizzy TV. People seemed enraptured and enthralled.
One man at work put it in a nutshell as he described his views about the latest figures in politics.
‘Bush is stupid but I don’t think he messes up on purpose; Sarkozy is even worse as he is calculated and does everything on purpose. But what really impresses me is that the US press are still yet to find anything dodgy about Obama. This could mean two things – either there is nothing to find; or he’s really really ‘malin’ and has hidden everything so cleverly that they never found it. In which case, he deserves to be president anyway…to have got one over the sneakiest press in the world.’
I watched the inauguration on the little telly in my room. It made our royal weddings look like village fetes. What a crowd.
Le weekend
Saturday 17th January
Unlike in Kabul the weekend here is a traditional Saturday and Sunday affair. I was glad of so much preparation work to do because the hotel is dead in the daytime – but for the waiters sloping around arranging and rearranging empty plastic tables and chairs by the pool side.
I went to a shop nearby to buy 6 bottles of water as the hotel charge ridiculous prices, and when I carried them in a porter said he’d help me. When I said I could take them myself, he tried to help me put them on my head. My expression must have said it all, as he laughed loudly and said: ‘Dans les mains c’est meilleur pour vous madame?’
The daytime was fine – I did plenty of background reading and work, went swimming and watched a bit of the build up to Obama’s inauguration. But the evenings are always the weird bit.
I was totally happy sipping a Biere Niger (a cute label with giraffes on it) on my own at a table reading one of the magazines I’d brought with me. I could have walked in the darkness and sat on my own at a nearby Chinese restaurant, Le Dragon D’Or for a fix of MSG and prawn crackers, or (even less promising) L’Exo’tic! a little bit further down the road, but I thought I’d better start with what was closest, which was of course the hotel poolside with the same band playing the same repertoire as the nights before.
But people always think you want to be joined, and if you could see the other clientele (a mixture of mostly Libyan, Algerian and Afrikaans business men talking money all the time with various Nigerien dignitaries…) you would see why alone was best.
Male Kiwi voice: ‘You’re not going to sit all night here on your own are you?’
It was inevitable I suppose. I kind of wished I was an old lady and people didn’t want to talk to me, but I guess when I’m old I’ll be wishing they would. So I reluctantly went to join him and his friends who were average age 25. The conversation was limited and fairly right wing….
He said he was a minerals expert (can you be and expert in anything apart from yourself at 25?!) looking for Uranium and his three friends were the pilots responsible for flying him around, very close to the ground, to find the stuff. We were shortly joined by a Dutch pilot who worked for the World Food Programme who said how much he loved red headed Scottish women. I hoped the light was strong enough for him to see my blonde highlights and seized the first opportunity to run off to my room as the Dutch pilot started to warn the others about the likelihood of them being shot down by rebels on their treasure hunt in the north of Niger.
Unlike in Kabul the weekend here is a traditional Saturday and Sunday affair. I was glad of so much preparation work to do because the hotel is dead in the daytime – but for the waiters sloping around arranging and rearranging empty plastic tables and chairs by the pool side.
I went to a shop nearby to buy 6 bottles of water as the hotel charge ridiculous prices, and when I carried them in a porter said he’d help me. When I said I could take them myself, he tried to help me put them on my head. My expression must have said it all, as he laughed loudly and said: ‘Dans les mains c’est meilleur pour vous madame?’
The daytime was fine – I did plenty of background reading and work, went swimming and watched a bit of the build up to Obama’s inauguration. But the evenings are always the weird bit.
I was totally happy sipping a Biere Niger (a cute label with giraffes on it) on my own at a table reading one of the magazines I’d brought with me. I could have walked in the darkness and sat on my own at a nearby Chinese restaurant, Le Dragon D’Or for a fix of MSG and prawn crackers, or (even less promising) L’Exo’tic! a little bit further down the road, but I thought I’d better start with what was closest, which was of course the hotel poolside with the same band playing the same repertoire as the nights before.
But people always think you want to be joined, and if you could see the other clientele (a mixture of mostly Libyan, Algerian and Afrikaans business men talking money all the time with various Nigerien dignitaries…) you would see why alone was best.
Male Kiwi voice: ‘You’re not going to sit all night here on your own are you?’
It was inevitable I suppose. I kind of wished I was an old lady and people didn’t want to talk to me, but I guess when I’m old I’ll be wishing they would. So I reluctantly went to join him and his friends who were average age 25. The conversation was limited and fairly right wing….
He said he was a minerals expert (can you be and expert in anything apart from yourself at 25?!) looking for Uranium and his three friends were the pilots responsible for flying him around, very close to the ground, to find the stuff. We were shortly joined by a Dutch pilot who worked for the World Food Programme who said how much he loved red headed Scottish women. I hoped the light was strong enough for him to see my blonde highlights and seized the first opportunity to run off to my room as the Dutch pilot started to warn the others about the likelihood of them being shot down by rebels on their treasure hunt in the north of Niger.
L'equipe
Friday 16th January
Victoria the admin and finance manager came to collect me from the hotel to go to the office. She’s 37 and as tall as me with a wide open beautiful face and almond shaped eyes rimmed with dark blue eyeliner. I’ve never seen anyone look so gorgeous in orange – in which she was decked from scalp to toenail. Her French was easy to understand, and she seemed to get mine too.
As usual with my organisation, they seem to have found a top class team. They’re all from Niger and are friendly, keen and hard working. They have all been trained at IFTIC, the media college here and are desperate to get properly started – which is part of the reason why I’m here. They’re patient when I can’t remember the odd French word, and seem relieved they don’t have to speak English.
We had a meeting to introduce ourselves, and to come up with a plan for the next few weeks and months; and I spent most of the day talking to Kader, ‘Le Responsable’, and Victoria. She’s unmarried but really wants kids. As she was helping herself to a sugar lump for her coffee I noticed the brand of sugar was called, ‘Daddy’. I explained to her what sugar Daddy meant in English and she roared with laughter and said that sounded exactly what she needed - an older man who’s rich and could give her 2 kids.
The rest of the team seem lovely also. They all have twinkling eyes and bright smiles and there was a bit of ‘Bonne arrivée’ and then we got straight down to business. No tea drinking or sweets with this team it appears…
The radio studio has been built, but all the equipment is still being held in customs at Niamey airport. We’re meant to have produced 8 radio programs by the end of March so the team are understandably anxious.
Victoria the admin and finance manager came to collect me from the hotel to go to the office. She’s 37 and as tall as me with a wide open beautiful face and almond shaped eyes rimmed with dark blue eyeliner. I’ve never seen anyone look so gorgeous in orange – in which she was decked from scalp to toenail. Her French was easy to understand, and she seemed to get mine too.
As usual with my organisation, they seem to have found a top class team. They’re all from Niger and are friendly, keen and hard working. They have all been trained at IFTIC, the media college here and are desperate to get properly started – which is part of the reason why I’m here. They’re patient when I can’t remember the odd French word, and seem relieved they don’t have to speak English.
We had a meeting to introduce ourselves, and to come up with a plan for the next few weeks and months; and I spent most of the day talking to Kader, ‘Le Responsable’, and Victoria. She’s unmarried but really wants kids. As she was helping herself to a sugar lump for her coffee I noticed the brand of sugar was called, ‘Daddy’. I explained to her what sugar Daddy meant in English and she roared with laughter and said that sounded exactly what she needed - an older man who’s rich and could give her 2 kids.
The rest of the team seem lovely also. They all have twinkling eyes and bright smiles and there was a bit of ‘Bonne arrivée’ and then we got straight down to business. No tea drinking or sweets with this team it appears…
The radio studio has been built, but all the equipment is still being held in customs at Niamey airport. We’re meant to have produced 8 radio programs by the end of March so the team are understandably anxious.
Orange earth and blue skies
And now I’ll be working for my organisation in Niger and Chad until June when J finishes in Kabul.
First stop Niger.
Thursday January 15th
I wondered whether the large African lady with blonde and pink raspberry ripple striped hair; rainbow bejewelled nails; skin-tight white trouser suit and huge pile of Louis Vuitton luggage was also on her way to Niamey, the capital of Niger, via Paris from Heathrow. If she was, then I’d definitely misjudged what Niger would be like, and also the dress code (I’d packed a version of what I wore in Kabul since Niger and Chad are majority Muslim countries)…
But she was heading for Kinshasa - by the look on her face and the volume of her shriek as they announced the flight had been cancelled.
However, her enormous presence at least took my mind off the trepidation of beginning all over again in new countries with new teams (albeit for the same organisation), but this time without J.
At 6.40 on a foggy January morning in London, the next stage seemed formidable.
But as I mulled over a few French words in my head on the flight to Ouagadougou via Niamey, I realised if I was to say formidable in a French accent, it meant something completely different. Rather than meaning scary, it meant fabulous. A bit like the word awesome in its original meaning – which we now use as an expression of positive enthusiasm but was once used to describe awe and fear. Perhaps the photo my boss had given me of the Dalai Lama was already emitting vibes about a positive attitude?
So I relaxed a bit and started to enjoy the flight; and the food (Air France of course provides an enormous lunch with pear tarte and camembert to finish and as much champagne as you want…and that’s in economy). And there were plenty of people to look at. As usual when going to these out of the way places, there was a diverse selection. A few nuns; hordes of Chinese men; a few Africans – one lady in a full length fur coat and coloured head dress; some greasy grey haired American men with mirrored shades and dour expressions; a rowdy group of middle aged French men with purple noses and safari gear; and me.
As the group of French men tucked into their fourth whisky each with champagne chasers and broke into song, I looked out of the window feeling relieved I was the row behind not sandwiched among them.
After the Mediterranean there was nothing but desert below. After about 3 hours I realised I hadn’t seen one river or tree since the coast. It’s hard to imagine a future for people on a continent with such vast expanses of arid nothingness. You can see why things get tense down here.
About 10 minutes before touch down, I saw the river Niger. The Sahel is the name for the region along the line that spreads horizontally through countries such as Mauritania, Niger and Chad. It’s the barrier where the desert supposedly stops and the more tropical landscape begins. Niamey is situated a bit below this line, on the river Niger. It's full of trees and surrounded by fertile looking fields and rice paddies.
The Aeroport International Diori Hamani in Niamey was pretty quiet. There was nothing on the runway apart from a huge plane belonging to the Kuwait Airforce. I wondered what had brought them here. But perhaps they were thinking the same about me. The airport building itself is simply four brick walls with a roof perched on top, and a huge gap in between allowing the air to enter.
Miraculously my luggage arrived, my visa, passport and yellow fever form was given the okay and I found a little white van outside saying: ‘Le Grand Hotel du Niger’ – my accommodation for the next couple of weeks until I go to Chad. The driver was fast asleep with his legs dangling out of the window. West African tunes pumped from the stereo. He slowly woke up, rubbed his eyes and said Salaam Aleikum, then continued in French.
The earth here is a dark ochre colour. Considering that it’s only earth, it’s incredibly beautiful - perhaps because of the contrast to the huge blue sky. Weaving down the road we passed strings of camels and herds of goats in amongst the traffic. Vehicles sprayed orange dust, and there was endless scrubland and little round houses made of straw either side of the road.
We passed a huge sign saying: ‘Bienvenue dans un monde de simplicite et diversite’ and I thought that sounded quite a nice combination. Tall thin men and women meandered down the roads with everything from pots to huge boxes and suitcases on their heads - those slender elegant necks so strong. The men vary in look from very dark African with Islamic hats and long robes; to more Arab looking with blue, white or black scarves wound into a turban on the head with the ends allowed to flap loose or to cover the face against the dust, often with enormous gold framed aviators or Elvis shades perched on top. The women as always come in every shape and size – the proudest bosoms and bottoms gripped by strident African print strutting alongside skeletal younger and older ladies – their skin barely touching the fabric of their loose clothes. Sahel size zero.
The vibe is a relaxed West African one. Like slow motion compared to Central Asia.
Le grand hotel du Niger is right on the river so has a good view, and is full of men lounging about. When is a hotel ever not? But there’s a pool, it’s clean and if I was a bird watcher I’d be busy but unfortunately the only ones I can recognise are pigeons.
That evening I drank the miniature bottle of whisky Rosie and Duncan had hidden in my bag and unpacked my case with ‘When the saints go marching in’ wafting in the window from the band playing by the pool. I didn’t feel quite up to sitting at the bar on my own…
First stop Niger.
Thursday January 15th
I wondered whether the large African lady with blonde and pink raspberry ripple striped hair; rainbow bejewelled nails; skin-tight white trouser suit and huge pile of Louis Vuitton luggage was also on her way to Niamey, the capital of Niger, via Paris from Heathrow. If she was, then I’d definitely misjudged what Niger would be like, and also the dress code (I’d packed a version of what I wore in Kabul since Niger and Chad are majority Muslim countries)…
But she was heading for Kinshasa - by the look on her face and the volume of her shriek as they announced the flight had been cancelled.
However, her enormous presence at least took my mind off the trepidation of beginning all over again in new countries with new teams (albeit for the same organisation), but this time without J.
At 6.40 on a foggy January morning in London, the next stage seemed formidable.
But as I mulled over a few French words in my head on the flight to Ouagadougou via Niamey, I realised if I was to say formidable in a French accent, it meant something completely different. Rather than meaning scary, it meant fabulous. A bit like the word awesome in its original meaning – which we now use as an expression of positive enthusiasm but was once used to describe awe and fear. Perhaps the photo my boss had given me of the Dalai Lama was already emitting vibes about a positive attitude?
So I relaxed a bit and started to enjoy the flight; and the food (Air France of course provides an enormous lunch with pear tarte and camembert to finish and as much champagne as you want…and that’s in economy). And there were plenty of people to look at. As usual when going to these out of the way places, there was a diverse selection. A few nuns; hordes of Chinese men; a few Africans – one lady in a full length fur coat and coloured head dress; some greasy grey haired American men with mirrored shades and dour expressions; a rowdy group of middle aged French men with purple noses and safari gear; and me.
As the group of French men tucked into their fourth whisky each with champagne chasers and broke into song, I looked out of the window feeling relieved I was the row behind not sandwiched among them.
After the Mediterranean there was nothing but desert below. After about 3 hours I realised I hadn’t seen one river or tree since the coast. It’s hard to imagine a future for people on a continent with such vast expanses of arid nothingness. You can see why things get tense down here.
About 10 minutes before touch down, I saw the river Niger. The Sahel is the name for the region along the line that spreads horizontally through countries such as Mauritania, Niger and Chad. It’s the barrier where the desert supposedly stops and the more tropical landscape begins. Niamey is situated a bit below this line, on the river Niger. It's full of trees and surrounded by fertile looking fields and rice paddies.
The Aeroport International Diori Hamani in Niamey was pretty quiet. There was nothing on the runway apart from a huge plane belonging to the Kuwait Airforce. I wondered what had brought them here. But perhaps they were thinking the same about me. The airport building itself is simply four brick walls with a roof perched on top, and a huge gap in between allowing the air to enter.
Miraculously my luggage arrived, my visa, passport and yellow fever form was given the okay and I found a little white van outside saying: ‘Le Grand Hotel du Niger’ – my accommodation for the next couple of weeks until I go to Chad. The driver was fast asleep with his legs dangling out of the window. West African tunes pumped from the stereo. He slowly woke up, rubbed his eyes and said Salaam Aleikum, then continued in French.
The earth here is a dark ochre colour. Considering that it’s only earth, it’s incredibly beautiful - perhaps because of the contrast to the huge blue sky. Weaving down the road we passed strings of camels and herds of goats in amongst the traffic. Vehicles sprayed orange dust, and there was endless scrubland and little round houses made of straw either side of the road.
We passed a huge sign saying: ‘Bienvenue dans un monde de simplicite et diversite’ and I thought that sounded quite a nice combination. Tall thin men and women meandered down the roads with everything from pots to huge boxes and suitcases on their heads - those slender elegant necks so strong. The men vary in look from very dark African with Islamic hats and long robes; to more Arab looking with blue, white or black scarves wound into a turban on the head with the ends allowed to flap loose or to cover the face against the dust, often with enormous gold framed aviators or Elvis shades perched on top. The women as always come in every shape and size – the proudest bosoms and bottoms gripped by strident African print strutting alongside skeletal younger and older ladies – their skin barely touching the fabric of their loose clothes. Sahel size zero.
The vibe is a relaxed West African one. Like slow motion compared to Central Asia.
Le grand hotel du Niger is right on the river so has a good view, and is full of men lounging about. When is a hotel ever not? But there’s a pool, it’s clean and if I was a bird watcher I’d be busy but unfortunately the only ones I can recognise are pigeons.
That evening I drank the miniature bottle of whisky Rosie and Duncan had hidden in my bag and unpacked my case with ‘When the saints go marching in’ wafting in the window from the band playing by the pool. I didn’t feel quite up to sitting at the bar on my own…
The novelty of San Franciscan forks, and walking to work
This was the view on my walk to work in San Francisco – a healthy change from the smoky dusty drive in manic Kabul. And every day I ate my lunch with a fork made of recycled potato skins from the organic café nearby. That would have produced a few laughs with my team in Afghanistan…(I can hear them asking what was wrong with the potatoes that you had to make forks out of them. And why do you need a fork anyway?)
Whirlwind world tour
I worked out that I’ve slept in 19 different beds since I left Kabul in November. That’s 19 beds between Kathmandu, London, New York, Rhode Island, Washington DC, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Dubai, Tasmania, Sydney and now Niamey and that’s not including nights in aeroplane seats.
In retrospect the whirlwind tour was just the cure for my melancholy after leaving Afghanistan.
Although my Afghan team are still in my thoughts, and my inbox….
An email from Ahmad the driver: Salam Lucy Jan how r u doing wher r u. I heart u leaving 2 the stat what happen nd jimmy is he leaving with or just u leaving a lon…har jay ki bashi khosh bashi (this mean: wer you are I hop u good). Bye.
And Zabbi: Dear My Lucy Gordon, I hope you are safely home with no more weepings. Look forward to receiving your reminders and guidance. Zabeehullah Jalili.
So with their good wishes and thoughts, I felt liberated to embrace the next stage, even though it wasn’t quite what I’d planned.
And the next stage seemed to embrace me too – after all I was mostly in America which does a warm welcome like none other, so I didn’t have much option but to enjoy myself and learn almost as much about another culture and politics as I did in Afghanistan.
And then I was packed off to finally meet J at the end of my mini US tour by my wonderful American boss. As I ran into San Francisco airport she pressed something into my hand. It was a photograph of the Dalai Lama she’d taken and Christmas card saying: ‘Miracles to Come.’
In retrospect the whirlwind tour was just the cure for my melancholy after leaving Afghanistan.
Although my Afghan team are still in my thoughts, and my inbox….
An email from Ahmad the driver: Salam Lucy Jan how r u doing wher r u. I heart u leaving 2 the stat what happen nd jimmy is he leaving with or just u leaving a lon…har jay ki bashi khosh bashi (this mean: wer you are I hop u good). Bye.
And Zabbi: Dear My Lucy Gordon, I hope you are safely home with no more weepings. Look forward to receiving your reminders and guidance. Zabeehullah Jalili.
So with their good wishes and thoughts, I felt liberated to embrace the next stage, even though it wasn’t quite what I’d planned.
And the next stage seemed to embrace me too – after all I was mostly in America which does a warm welcome like none other, so I didn’t have much option but to enjoy myself and learn almost as much about another culture and politics as I did in Afghanistan.
And then I was packed off to finally meet J at the end of my mini US tour by my wonderful American boss. As I ran into San Francisco airport she pressed something into my hand. It was a photograph of the Dalai Lama she’d taken and Christmas card saying: ‘Miracles to Come.’
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