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…
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