between the beggar and the bmw
Like many large cities of the developing world, in Niamey, two worlds exist side by side. Camels and donkeys burdened with soaring stacks of firewood share a lane with shiny, black BMWs. Men carrying laptops and donning raybans share a cup of tea with men clad in traditional floor-length robes with the talismen of marabous draped around their necks. Young girls in long hijabs with elaborate patterns of facial scarification share stories with women whose uncovered hair compliments tight western clothes.
This is Niamey. A city where one can drive past the beggars crippled by polio or leprosy, past the widows who come in from the bush to beg, past the wobbly carts packed high with discarded cell phone pieces – shined and glued back together, and towards the horseback riding stables, the salons, the tennis courts, the swimming pools. Towards affluence. Indeed, tucked away behind towering, nondescript, beige walls exists a world for the (relatively) wealthy. Unlike all of my prior experiences in West Africa, in Niamey I can spend the morning in a hijab, speaking Hausa with women from the bush, and sharing a $0.10 breakfast, then spend the evenings lounging by a pool, watching satellite TV with other expats, and eating $20 dinners. Indeed, there is something profoundly dizzying about life here.
And it’s a life I will have to get used to. Due to some concerns regarding safety which reached a critical point last week due to some “credible threats” from al-Qaeda and Boko Haram (talk to me individually if you want more specific information, but for now, I will leave it at that – Mom, you can thank me later), I was strongly advised by several sources to change my project slightly so that it can be conducted from the capital and the surrounding areas. Today I’ve learned that foreigners (or more accurately, westerners) are no longer permitted to leave the capital without a police escort, taking the choice out of the matter entirely. So, I’ve spent the week running around from office building to office building desperately trying to reconfigure my project (which means navigating the bureaucratic jungle of approval processes and affiliations).
But, before you start feeling too bad for me, I must confess a few things. Living in Niamey is a far cry from the hard-core, mud-hut, no power, no English, no contact scenario previously anticipated. On Sunday I moved into my new home – a veritable palace (think swimming pool, generators, guards, my own bathtub, a cook who prepares western food) with a wonderful woman who works for an NGO.
Indeed, it turn out that these lemons make particularly sweet lemonade…
