Niamey: dusty skies and uncertain horizons
Because one of my grants is directly administered by the State Department (technically it’s the Department of Education), I’ve spent the last few days meeting with people at the embassy. Since security threats have increased due to both real and anticipated contagion from the April 2012 Islamic takeover in neighboring Northern Mali (which now is the largest al-Qaeda occupied territory in the world), security at the embassy is tighter than ever. “Official” Americans (meaning those working directly for the government) are not allowed to take taxis and not allowed to leave Niamey without a 2 car armed caravan, among other regulations. The embassy itself is an oasis of American comfort – air conditioning, hamburgers, uncovered hair – a welcome piece of home, although jarringly disconnected from the country within which it’s embedded.
Niamey is relatively tranquil compared to other West Africa capitals that are constantly aflame with the frenetic energy of too many taxis and too few roads. Here, men sit quietly on prayer mats, drinking strong tea under acacia trees next to wide and sandy unpaved roads. Men on bicycles, pass boys on over-burdened donkey carts, who in turn are passed by the white land-rover, the quintessential symbol of the Western aid organizations. Camels advertise the newest cell phone or internet promotion as they languidly traverse the city – ambulatory billboards branded without the least bit of irony. Nigeriens (different in pronunciation from their neighbors to the south -Neee-j’eer-ian versus Nigh-jeer-ian) are typically kind and gentle, in relief to the more extraverted (and some might say outright aggressive) personality of coastal West Africa. Compared to other Nigerien cities, Niamey is liberal and westernized – women weave through the city atop motorcycles, many (although certainly not the majority) do not veil or cover their hair, more businessmen wear tailored western suits than traditional boubous, and many Nigeriens frequent bars and night clubs (compared to other cities where one would be hard pressed to find liquor which is haram -or, forbidden- by most conservative Muslims).
Although most West African countries only have two real seasons: dry and rainy, the “Harmattan” is the closest thing to winter in these parts. The Harmattan is a dry wind, which blows south from the Sahara every December through February. The Harmattan gusts are thick with fine dust –specks of Saharan dunes migrating south for the winter, shrouding cities, crops, and people like a veil. During the Harmattan, the scorching Sahelian sun is tempered, hidden behind a thick fog of dust, enabling one to gaze comfortably at the perfectly etched disk, hung in a shock of sherbet reds, oranges, pinks, and yellows above (humbling even an Arizonan sunset). During the Harmattan, children’s deep chocolate-hued skin appears grey under a fine layer of dust, the temperature drops, electronics fill with sand and stop working, and airborne illnesses such as meningitis spread from house to house with each gust. In Niamey, while the paved roads, concrete buildings, and urban sprawl somewhat lessen the intensity, deep breaths still fill one’s mouth and lungs with dust, leaving grit between one’s teeth and a ever-so-slight but unrelenting feeling of suffocation. Even still, when the blazing orange sun sets over the placid waters of the Niger River, it’s clear that even air-borne illnesses are worth the beauty. Well, almost…
