Author: place2place

About a month ago, I got into our Toyota Land Cruiser and had trouble getting it started. After several attempts, it started up. I had no explanation, but it started fine for about a week. When it happened again, I brought the car to the embassy mechanics. They believed it was the battery, although I had my doubts; the butt warmer never quit working, nor the lights, and the voltage indicator on the dash showed a strong charge. Still, I had no way of knowing how old the battery was before we bought the car. They put in a new battery ($130) and it ran beautifully for about 2 weeks. Then it happened again with more frequency.

After getting it started on the fifteenth try, Dina and James drove it out to the Toyota dealer. They told them they couldn’t work on such a new car (???) "But it’s a 1999!" For emphasis, the guy who runs the garage brought out the mechanic, pointed at him and said, "He doesn’t know how to work on this vehicle." The mechanic just kind of shrugged and raised his hands, plams up in the air. Friday night, the Land Cruiser died in our driveway, wouldn’t start no matter how many times you turned the key.

I went to my french class the other day and as part of the lesson, explained my car situation to my instructor (not easy by any stretch of the imagination). He whipped out his cell phone and spoke to someone in Hausa. "Let’s go," he said and we continued our lesson as he drove me to the mechanics. Cars were parked along the road. We explained the problem and they sent a mechanic to our house. Stefan watched while they hot-wired the car. They assured me they’d bring it back by 6:30PM.

I started to wonder if maybe I made a mistake letting someone drive the car away, when 6:30 came and went with no car. But at 9PM, the doorbell rang and sure enough, the car was delivered to me with some part that I can only assume came from our engine. $50 for parts and labor. This morning she started up and purred, just like a car with a brand new demarreur.

What the heck’s a damarreur?

It’s not what you think; not corned beef. Let me explain. There is a group of runners here who get together every Saturday evening for a run. One of the organizers sets up the course. There are about 12 different ones ranging from 3-7 miles within 5 miles of Niamey. Each course also has a shorter walking course and many people walk. They try to make it so that the slowest runners come back about the same time that the slowest walkers do (about 1 to 1.5 hours).

Yesterday, we drove across the river up onto the table top plateau overlooking the valley and Niamey. The road up was steep and narrow. A donkey cart carrying firewood was coming down and slowed the line of SUV’s going up. They tried to turn the donkey around and the cart tipped over, spilling all the wood onto the road. Fortunately, I saw ahead what was happening and parked at the bottom. Eventually, everyone else backed down and parked along side us. We walked up to the top. Camille and Stefan came with our neighbors since Jennifer offered to walk with the kids. James and I planned on running.

The route went close to the rim of the plateau with dramatic vistas. The weather had cooled and it was beautiful. The terrain had a lot of lava rocks and packed dirt after the last rain storm. The open landscape was covered with small brush and some tall Dr. Seuss-looking palm trees. Leading up to the surrounding plateaus are sand dunes and the contrast between yellow blond sand and burnt brown lava rock certainly reminded me of being on the moon. I think of Serge and the Grand Canyon. I wish he were here because I know there would be no stopping him from further exploration of this small range of bluffs. The river valley below looks fertile and a few tall buildings off in the distance landmark Niamey.

We start running and I find a slow pace which is comfortable for me. James runs next to me with his daughter, Athena. He is a fine runner and I know he is quite capable of a much faster speed. But he is gentle and his slow pace allows his daughter to run with us for a little bit. I’m surprised how long she lasts but fairly soon, she slows down and he does also. I continue my pace, certain that James will not only catch up to me but most certainly pass me in a very short while. I come up on two African boys. They started out running with the lead group but began to fall behind. They both have those Adidas sandals people wear by the pool. They have no water and I can see they are eager to run but ill-equipped. I offer them water which they gladly accept. The older boys name is Careem. I looked about 9 and 7, but Careem is 15 and his younger brother Amadou is 11.

Despite my limited French, I learn so much about them. Their father works at a hotel. They both go to a french school and have two other brothers and a sister. I give them the water and increase my speed, but they keep up with me. The coarse was about 4.5 miles and we finish the run together.

And NO! There are no rituals were the runners partake in the smoking of hash from a hooka pipe! Although there are rumors that such rituals exist in different parts of the world. Down beside the parked vehicles, there are ice chests full of coke. No! Not the narcotic but cold drinks (sodas, beer, mineral water). James arrives about 20 minutes later. He had to run back a little to deliver Athena to Jennifer and then took off. He didn’t catch me although I’m sure he could have. We both had a great run. He bought my two African companions a coke which they were ecstatic about. A grey cloud cover blew over us and the sun began to sink. The Hash is yet another event that one can partake in that adds to the enjoyment of ones stay here. I plan on becoming a regular.

I’m on regional travel again. This time I flew and Dina stayed home with the kids.

The flight here was shorter than I thought. The previous times we drove all day. Air France stewardesses (say “flight attendants!” ed.) all look like models. Why is that? Maybe it’s the turtle neck and scarf. Dina could be one. Oui. (aw. ed.) They barely had enough time to offer us water or orange juice before we landed. A driver was waiting and took me to my hotel room, La Palmierie. The same place we stayed the last time. A resort of sorts with cabana-styled buildings, palm trees, and a swimming pool. They remembered me, Le Docteur, from last time and inquired about my wife, children, work, the dust, and my tiredness. I checked in and went out walking in the downtown district towards the wine shop and markets.

It still surprises me when I see a human being caring a load bigger than a laundry basket perfectly balanced on their head; like rock piles of mangos or a pot inside a calabash which is topped by another calabash with yet another smaller pot inside. And then there’s the family of 5, all riding on one motorcycle. No helmets. Just flip flops.

Back in my room, I feel pathetic sitting in my underwear, sipping wine from a paper cup, and watching CNN television. It’s hot here and the AC seems like my mother blowing my direction from across the room, trying to cool me down. And the ceiling fan rocks ominously over my head like a biplane propeller that’s about to become unhinged and come whirling down and decapitate me. "Man in hotel loses his head!"

Work is very busy. I saw 14 patients that first day and before I knew it, it was 6PM and I was headed back to the hotel. I dined in or rather out, staying at the hotel. The food is good there but again, I felt widowed and didn’t like it. But the mornings mean great coffee! There’s a cafe run by a Belgian woman right next door to the embassy. Helene, my secretary, already knows that life is better for both of us if she gets me my coffee first. I visited with the DCM. Helene and I go shopping for Italian water bottles and the going rate is high as soon as they see me in my scrubs; the blue matches my skin color; Patron! We decline the first offer much to the chagrin of the seller who gets angry at us for not excepting his scalper price. As we drive to look for another vendor, we see two young girls on one bike. Both have the Italian blue bottle slung over their shoulders. I suggest we ask them how much they payed for those and the driver laughs so hard, he has to pull over to stop from crashing. Another couple of stops and I succumb to a lower haggled rate than the first guy. "Success!" I think to myself. Which is exactly what the seller was thinking too as he laughed at his other envious vendor friends while he walked away.

Yesterday I got busy with a few cases I was working on. I visited a local french clinic and was charmed by the doctor there. The french can be terribly rude or quite the opposite and she had the right combination of warmth and animation to sell me. What cinched it was a courier came to pick up medications and supplies she donates to an orphanage. And I admit, I have a soft spot for orphans. The doctor then started showing me her bandaid supply and we both laughed at the silliness of it.

I was glad to be back at the hotel and again found myself drinking wine and eating cheese and baguette when the phone rang and I was summoned back to the embassy for an "emergency." It’s a long story and I won’t go into it but it turned out to be someone I knew from Niamey. It really wasn’t an emergency as most cases aren’t and all’s well that ends well. But I got back late and by the time I settled down to bed, it was midnight.

The embassy is now closed now and I’m waiting for my evening flight. The pool is full of peace corps-niks, missionaries, and TDY’ers. Ouaga is a fun place and I do like it here. Hopefully next time I can bring the family.