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.
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