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.
Monday, 26 January 2009
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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