Hamdalaye, 1989

Preface

     I do not know why I choose Peace Corps.  I also do not know why I choose to exclude on my application the fact that I studied Spanish, thereby assuring myself an assignment in Africa.  What I do know is that I was depressed.  I wanted and imagined a different life for myself.  Peace Corps presented itself as an imagination-rich, myth-filled adventure.  My family and friends were not so sure. The only consolation my mother offered herself about my “trip to Africa” was the hope that I would meet an English doctor and marry him.  Her greatest fear was that I would contact a blood disease and die.  Perhaps we had both watched too many Masterpiece Theatre Productions.

     But, in reality my Peace Corps experience was just that — my experience.  It was not from a BBC production or a book.  It was not profound or revolutionary.  Nor was it grandiose or terribly exciting.  However, something did happen…something hard to describe.  It was like an implosion; and I crawled deep into the earth.  Not in hiding, but in finding.  It was a rendering of my small self into a smaller self.  Which was good.  My Peace Corps experience paralleled the leveling moments of Chatterjee’s colonized peoples.  And, like them I too experienced moments which were a lived experience of “what is possible” and “what is legitimate.”

1989

Part 1: My Moment of Departure

Dresses and Shoes

I

I left for Peace Corps on a Tweeds scholarship.
My traveling trunk was filled with flowered cotton dresses, white bucks, and a
tan pin tucked-cuffed duster — for that rainy season I would never see.

I never brought sunglasses.

My Red Dress was my favorite dress. From Pier 1, linen, button-front, empire waist.
Perfect for Africa.

I arrived

                 in Niamey

                                       wearing it.

It was not perfect.  It was irrelevant.

What was red, was the earth.

At dawn a bush-taxi took me
(and other volunteers whom I cannot remember, in a station  wagon I can — white, dust-covered windows, with a broken antenna)
to Hamdalaye.

I remember the earth. The red dust of the desert which matched the sun which was huge that first morning I spent in Africa, in Niger, in Hamdalaye.

I think the driver took his time. I did not care. I got to see the red earth that was never a part of my — Evelyn Waugh or Flame Trees of Thicka — imagination,
myth, adventure.

I want to stay in this oily, gassy-smelling, worn-out station wagon and watch the red
earth go by forever.

When I get out of the bush-taxi the red earth is on me. On my Red Dress which is just a red dress. Which is irrelevant except for the sandy-earth dust, dirt on my dress.

I do not know how it got there. But I liked it.

II

A walled compound is where I am taken.  I will be living between these red-earth-walls while I am in training to become a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa, in. Niger, in Hamdalaye.  The women who are to become “nutritionists” have been here for weeks — living in the walled-off space which is part of the village which is used for training.

The volunteers’ dresses are different from mine.  

I am told they had their dresses made by a tailor from Niamey.  

I am told I will probably have dresses made for me once I find cloth that I  like. 

I am told what a pagne is and the correct way to wear one.

I am thinking the fabric is very busy and does not look good on white skin.  

I am thinking the fabric is very colorful and deep and does not look good on pale skin.  

I am thinking I will not look good if I wear this cloth.

I am knowing that I will not be having this “tailor” make me anything. 

III

My white bucks quickly become covered with the readearthdustdirt.  I have to brush them daily.  They are not practical.  I do not care.  I have never learned to care about practicality.  Peace Corps will teach me nothing about practicality either.

We are told always to wear something on our feet.  There are worms in this

redearthdirtdustdirt  

that can crawl into your skin. You can become diseased.     I observe what other people wear on their feet with a hyper-vigilance:

flip-flops, ugly Birkenstocks,

sandals,

I see a lot of cracked feet. Crusty dogs. I keep my feet covered at all times.  I do not care about sweat.  I wear socks and sneakers or covered, closed shoes. I do not want worms or cracked feet.

The  village of Hamdalaye as seen from a bluff.

Time To Meet The Nigeriens

I

Time for our first introduction to the Black Africans, Black Nigeriens, and Black villagers of Hamadalaye. I remember from my information packet that:

“Niger is in the heart of Black Africa.”

First we are to meet the Peace Corps staff who are Black Nigeriens. Then we are to get a tour of the village. Then we will share a traditional meal cooked by the cook from Niger even though we are told men and women from Togo make better cooks.

Ablo  is tall and thin and wears pants and glasses.  We are told he spends every summer in 

France

and even

has been to the

states, where he wants to go back someday which is why he works for Peace Corps — so that he can make american money. 

It is whispered that Ablo does not really need glasses.

It is whispered that Nigerien men like to wear glasses as a fashion accessory.

It is whispered that Nigerien men think that the glasses they wear make them look smarter.

I meet (and remember) Bio who is quiet and “well-behaved”.

I meet ( and remember) Issa who wears Nigerien dresses which are not made by a tailor, but purchased at a “clothing store”.

I meet (and remember) Mahmadou who is Chef de Canton.   Chief of his village.  

I meet (and remember) Honorine who laughs with sincerity and flirts with everyone.

They too have been to Europe.

They say they do not want to go to the states.

 No one believes them.

(Later, in the evening, in the dark, unofficially, we meet other Black Nigeriens.  First we meet the guard Issafou.  He is a dark-skinned Tuareg, which means he would have been a slave long ago, because dark-skinned Tuaregs were slaves to light-skinned Tuaregs.  I do not know when long ago was.  Then we meet Hassan, the van driver.  And, Amadou the cook.  We are shown where the laundry is done.  A point is made.  The men do the laundry.)

II

 A good day to tour the village is “market day”. We, Peace Corps Volunteers-in-Training, plow through the compound-walled village like a herd of animals.  A herd of animals without the docile faces.  We stare fiercely.  Yet, we think we are light.  There are lots of children and with their hands out they say;

“CadeauCadeauCadeauCadeau”

“GiftGiftGiftGift”

We say; 

“Oh, how sweet.”

“That kid has no arms.”

“Was that kid playing with a dead chicken?”

We continue.  I am hyper-vigilant.   I watch.  No.  I stare.

Market-women in the market.  Mangoes. Toilet paper.  Canned fruit.  Dried I-don’t-know-what.  Cloth. (“Don’t but it here, the selection is better in Niamey.”) Peanut butter.  Inyam.  Beignets.  Five CFA.

Hausa.  Zarma.  French.  Tomashek.  English.  Languages in the village.

Back to the training site.  The training site for the Peace Corps Volunteers of Africa, in Niger, stationed in the village of Hamadalye.

In truth, the training site is located on a bluff which overlooks the village.

We herd back. me in my redearthdustdirt covered dress and shoes, back to the training site on top of the bluff.

III

  The cook has prepared a traditional meal which we (being the Nigeriens and the americans ) will eat together in a traditional manner — on the floor and with our hands.  I think, so they too are Roman.

We are taught how to scoop rice out of a community bowl with our right hand.  (We are told the left hand is dirty.)  We are sitting on mats and pillows,  squatting, cross-legged or legs crunched to the side.  

I notice, after a while, the Nigeriens surreptitiously

begin to use spoons. 

I also notice their legs inch out — the desire to stretch and lengthen the muscles wins out over “tradition.

There is a ritual with the tea.  But, I cannot remember it.  I remember we are taught by the Nigerien men.  I remember thinking they appear like Turks, all in a circle, around the fire-pit, dent-decorated-pot boiling with the syrupy tea.

It is rude not to drink the tea.  I am rude.  I do not drink the tea.  I cannot drink the tea.  It is like whiskey.  I do not drink the tea.

I am not rude.

I am a woman.

It is expected that the tea is too strong for a woman.

It is expected that the tea is too strong for an american woman.

It was a courtesy that I was invited.

I am not really expected to participate in their tea ritual.

(They, not-so-secretly, hope I do not take part in their tea ritual).

I want nothing to do with their tea ritual.

To be continued…