There's Only One Thing Wrong with Turkish Toilets...

I know that seems like a strange thing to say, and I'm sure someone else could come up with a million things that are wrong with turkish toilets. Like, there's no where to sit, not to mention the fact that most of the places where I've used a turkish toilet have been less-than-hygenic and actually downright disgusting.

Nevertheless, I remember them being a sign of modernity and comfort when I was in the Peace Corps. After being in the village for 4-6 weeks, it was pretty exciting to get to the hostel where the bathroom was tiled floor-to-ceiling, the hot water heater made for a wonderful showering experience, the toilets flushed, and you could wash your hands under a running faucet.

What I didn't remember, until I spent this last week in the village here in Nigeria, was what I really HATE about turkish toilets. (I should say something briefly about my living situation in the village here because it's quite different from that in Niger. Here I stay in the medical staff quarters--a building which is divided in half for each gender, each side having 2 bedrooms, 1 kitchen, and 1 tiled bathroom. A solar panel powers a water pump, so we always have running water when it's sunny. At night, the doctor turns on the generator for 2-3 hours so we can turn on the lights and ceiling fans in our rooms.)

I remembered what I hate about turkish toilets the moment I walked into the bathroom--the mosquitoes went flying ev-ery-where! Why, in the most modern of bathrooms, are those little killers everywhere?? Because of the water in the toilet drain. It brought back a tiny, forgotten detail of my Peace Corps service--that little bowl we used to cover the toilet hole to *prevent* mosquito breeding. I'm not convinced it actually worked, but it made us volunteers feel better. Here, there's no bowl in the toilet hole (it seems to have been a distinctly Peace Corps innovation). I am convinced that this lack of a bowl has resulted in more mosquitoes biting me in the ass.

Weekend in Kaduna

My colleague, Barbara, invited me to spend the weekend at her apartment in Kaduna, which is about 45 minutes away. Her neighbor girls were very excited about being able to play with my hair--just goes to show, little girls are the same everywhere!

Packing, Unpacking, Re-packing

Ah!! Just a little over 24 hours until my flight leaves from La Guardia, and the 4th round of packing has begun. There may be a fifth round tomorrow if my internship coordinator brings over some 'tarps'--who knows where I'll fit those! Maybe I'll have to get rid of some of my pharmaceuticals...

Mefloquine

Malaria meds day 1--let the games begin.

Excerpt

In preparation to leave next Sunday, I have been trying to 'hausa-fy' myself. Mostly superficial things, like pulling out the few clothing items I still have from 5 years ago--the headscarves (kalibi) and the wrap skirts (zane); the cheap gold earrings (dan kune) that are only remarkable because every woman wears them; the little cloth purse embroidered by our Wodaabe guards; the silver jewelry sold mostly to tourists and Peace Corps volunteers.

I also find myself thinking in Hausa a lot, which might be due to a memoir I'm reading by a political science professor and former Niger Peace Corps Volunteer, William F. S. Miles--he throws in a lot of Hausa phrases. (The book is called My African Horse Problem.)

Maybe it's a combination of the wine and the heat in my subterranean, un-air conditioned apartment, but I started crying after reading a section where Miles returns more than a decade later and offers help the wife of a friend who passed away while he was gone--not because he's returning and offering help, but because of her reaction and how dai-dai it is.

Once upon a cold and foggy Harmattan, I'd ridden horseback all the way to Alhaji Habou's domain. The sandswept landscape was as bleak as the sky, with no other habitations in range. My host instructed his wife to provide me a refreshment, and she rushed to collect milk so fresh that it was still warm from the cow's udder. Now, well over a decade later, she remembered my visit in fine detail.

To Western ears, the circumstances surrounding Alhaji Habou's demise might sound mildly comical. One rainy season night my friend's roof simply caved in during a storm, killing him as he lay in bed. Shi ke nan. Finished. I often thought of my own leaky roof in Yardaje, the clumps of mud falling on me and--worse--soiling my research papers. That's all it takes to die in Hausaland: a heavy rain. It is one of the innumerable reasons why death is anticipated so matter-of-factly.

Mourning in Massachusetts, I wondered: What could I do for my deceased friend? It was then that I though about the widow he'd left behind. Would he not have wished for me to somehow help her? When, or how, was secondary...

Now, with the slight, elderly, bent woman draped in shrouds at the door of my guest quarters courtyard in the nighttime...Habou's widow is anxious about having been summoned to my hut. So I explain.

"You know, Alhaji Habou was my friend. A very good friend. And he was a good man."

"Yes, he was."

"I was used to him, he was used to me."

"So it was."

"When I learned of his passing, my heart was damaged. I wanted to do something for him. But do what?"

"We have a custom," I continue, though not really quite certain who this "we" is or to what custom I am referring. "If a friend dies, we try to help those whom he has left behind."

As often occurs when speaking Hausa to remote herdspeople and nomads, especially female ones, I ceased to be understood. Unaccustomed to ever seeing white people, some rural folk assume that I can only speak in a foreign tongue. Already confused by her presence in my home, Habou's widow asks Lawali the schoolteacher what is going on. Lawali "translates," repeating what I have just said in Hausa.

I reach into the folds of my ashera, my open slit shirt with deep pockets, and fish out a fistful of twenty naira bills. "Take it," I say. "On account of him."

In the nighttime dark, Habou's widow can not see from across the courtyard what I have extracted from my pockets. Slowly, cautiously, she walks over. Her small and bony fingers touch mine as I make the offering. Recognizing what I have placed in her frail hands, she promptly collapses to the ground.

"No, don't cry," Lawali pleads, such displays in front of unrelated menfolk being exceedingly embarrassing. But her tears are already flowing, accompanied by mournful gasps of ambivalent emotions.

After Habou's widow recovers, her first words are not addressed to me, but to Lawali. "Does he"--"he," in this context, meaning the strange Bature, the White Man, "Does he eat millet pasta? How long will he remain in the village?"

"No, he's cooking for himself and his son," Lawali explains. "You need not prepare any food for them."

Repayment, thanks, dignity, reciprocity: all the Fulani widow can think of doing now is to cook our meals for the duration of our stay. But all she knows how to cook is millet--millet pasta dough, millet balls in sour milk, maybe even fried millet fritters. She must not misunderstand. She must not think that I have given her money to serve as our cook.

The next day, Alhaji Habou's widow reciprocates in the only other way she knows: dispatching one of her sons to show himself. To be there. To be seen. Making the effort to travel from your home--however distant--to that of another. Herein lies the heart of the Hausa way: one human being presenting himself, herself, to another. Person to person. Soul to soul. (Miles, 79-81)

Bad News Bears in Niger

Slide show of situation in Niger, with captions. This is right in the region where I lived. The Sacabel market was one of the region's big markets; and Bermo, when I was there, had a big pond--not so right now.