Avocado and shrimp salad by the pool, under a mango tree, trying to figure out the West African Film Festival movie guide.
Author: place2place
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you might really like ouaga
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Mangos!
Another week where you just don’t know how you’re going to juggle all that is required before you leave on a trip. Meetings, seeing patients, preparing a course, and hosting for a visitor from Dakar. But Saturday came and somehow I got it all together. The driver picked us up as scheduled and we drove the 6 hours to Ouaga.
The landscape is definitely dryer. Just three months ago, we saw lots of greenery and watering holes, gardens surrounding villages. Now, with not a drop of rain since then, the vegetation is crispier, many of the watering holes have disappeared, and it seems more desert-like in scenery; not as picturesque. But the cattle and goat herders continue on there way across the desert sand towards what little water remains. The boys splash in shrinking ponds. The villages are replacing their thatched roofs–many of the huts looked refurbished, if you can refurbish a hut. Small trees and shrubs have hay thrown up covering the top branches to provide shade.
Our hotel is very nice (La Palmeraie – The Palms), much nicer than Hotel Splendid where we stayed last time. Hotel Splendid had a bigger room, but the couches were plastic leather. Breakfast there is served in a superchilled dining room with curtains drawn against the view of the parking lot.
La Palmerie is all on on one level, rooms surrounding little garden courtyards with gardenias and boganvilla. Furniture is iron, tile floors, white walls with african art. More like a resort. French doors, a big window that opens out onto the garden, breakfast on the terrace overlooking the pool, piles of mango, croissants, fresh fruit drinks including ginger and: high speed internet. Woo-hoo!
The mangos this morning were like none other we had ever eaten; sweet yet flavorful with soft flesh the color of a blood orange. There is no motivation to go out and explore, but we are.
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orphanage notre dame
Fall in love with 9-year-old Marie Ange, like I have. She lives at the Orphanage Notre Dame, and is so lovely and reaches out so much, in spite of the fact that she is deaf. The Orphanage Notre Dame isn’t so much an orphanage as it is a home for unwanted children. Most of the kids are not available for adoption, they have been taken in by a priest and a nun named Sister Brigette and will live there until they are grown.
Go through the big gate and you’ll find a house with bunk beds–a donation from the American Women’s Club–stuffed animals scattered around, newborn Naomi sleeping in a basinette, a big sunny kitchen with some workers spreading peanut butter on baguettes and twenty-seven kids who all want to be picked up and carried around.
There are three three-year-old boys who want to be pushed in the swings. One of them is Ousani who has no shoes that fit, he wears his loafers with the backs folded down. When the Orphanage can afford it, the bigger girls take english classes at the American school on the weekend, it’s Mary Fatima’s favorite activity. The eighteen-month old twins have something wrong with their legs and don’t walk. Anna’s mother is a crazy woman who lives down the street. The kids smell like soap, and they all need lotion on their skinny little arms and legs. They have a pet, a dog named Bambi.
The dolls based on the kids below are made and are almost ready for homes–all the profits will go to the American Women’s Club, which supports Orphanage Notre Dame as well as other grass roots organizations like this in Niger. I’ll be posting a website with pictures of the dolls soon. Meet Yasmine, Ibraham, Zara and Ousani.
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what we do on the weekend
Saturday night, Dina and I got VIP tickets from Jennifer (our neighbor) to a sit down dinner and live African musical performance. We got dressed up and went with Jennifer, James, and another friend from the embassy. The event was outside and we were seated by a french couple that we have often seen dropping our kids off at La Fontaine. There was a lot of different dishes to try including smoked Capitan fish, cold cuts and salads, fish in tomato sauce, chicken in onions, and beef in a cream sauce, plus many deserts. The musician was from the Cameroon. He had a good voice and played guitar beautifully in African style but his music didn’t move me. It didn’t make you want to get up out of your seat and dance. He had a female vocalist backup singer, a percussionist, and a keyboard player which gave the band an electronic flute sound I found rather distracting. Another musician joined him for one song and they did a raggae number together which was by far the best one of the evening. But we were in good company and the wine was quite palatable!
This is a long weekend due to President’s Day. Last night, our regional security officer and his family invited us out to a Japanese restaurant. I didn’t even know one existed here. Some other friends joined us as well. It has an inner courtyard and tables around a large pagoda, a waterwheel and fountain which currently have no water flowing. The food was surprisingly good but the service was terrible. A courteous and attentive African dressed waitress served us but the dishes came out one at a time (as ordered) as though the chef was cooking them one by one from scratch, including the double orders. We arrived at 7PM and by 9, we still hadn’t gotten our complete meal. The kids were tired and they have school today. It was a rough morning getting them up early. We had a nice evening out in good company but maybe lunch there would be better.
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4 kinds of hot
Our charming next door neighbors, the Fulbrights, have started a blog. It’s so well written that I’m angry, and I’m loathe to pass along the address, because then you’ll know where I’m stealing all my jokes from. But it’s too good to keep to myself. www.4kindsofhot.blogspot.com
Jennifer: What are you going to name the blog?
James: Four Kinds of Hot.
Jennifer: Meaning me? -
happy candy hearts day
It’s difficult to remember it’s Valentine’s Day when there isn’t any of it out there in our head-covered, sand-in-your-shoes world. But we got some great packages to keep us in the spirit–thank you Aunt Valerie and Grammie! Now the kitchen floor is crunchy with hearts and sprinkles.
My new dress is made of african fabric, the tailor copied a Boden dress of mine that I love, now I candy heart the new one. It was perfect to wear while beating on Stefan with a wooden spoon before we started baking.
Highly recommended for a frosting with no butter: the Royal Frosting recipe in Joy of Cooking. It’s halfway between a meringue and a marshmallow, shiny and perfect. Here’s how to make it: 1 egg white, 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar if you have it, 3/4 cup powdered sugar, 1/3 cup boiling water. Beat for eight minutes, don’t give up hope, for seven minutes it looks like nothing, then it’s fabulous.
If you were our neighbor we’d be knocking on your door with a cupcake!
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dinalife
For me right now, it’s dolls, dolls, dolls. And marketing materials for the upcoming dinner and auction for the American Women’s Club. We found out we are staying at the Marriott Grand Hotel Flora when we go to Rome next month, woo-hoo! And the movie! I’m working on the movie.
This morning I went running at the stadium for the first time in three weeks. Someone on the Nigerien football team said to me “du courage.”
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Atlantic Shore gifts
Yesterday I drove Camille to her friends house for a play date. As we pulled up to the house, there was an old dilapidated truck parked in front and a friend was standing outside with her cook and housekeeper. A large woman with a big gap between her teeth was seated in a folding chair in front of the vehicle. Two large plastic barrels were out with a weight scale sitting on top of one of them. I tried to follow the language but couldn’t. My friend was asking her housekeeper to interpret for her cook. They took the top off of one of the barrels and it was filled with shrimp on ice! She weighed out the remaining shrimp which came to 5 kilo. My friend claimed 3 and I nabbed the remaining 2 (at 4,000 CFA a kilo which is $8 for 2.2 pounds).
The next barrel also contained shrimp, but JUMBO! These looked like small lobster. We split a kilo (~1.1 pounds) at $5 each. I thought the deal was over and couldn’t wait to race home and show Dina and Leopold. The transaction took about a half hour with negotiating on price and chit chatting. It turns out whenever she has a large catch, she drives up from Benin. If you saw the vehicle, you wouldn’t believe it made it all the way from Benin. No telling how often or when she will come back again. She wrote my phone number into her black book but every page had phone numbers written so it’s impossible to say whether she’ll call or not.
I was just about to leave when she asked if I liked fish. I’m a Pisces for goodness sake! I’ve got 1/4 Latvian blood in me, 1/4 Greek, Russian, and my mother was born in China! I have no choice but to love fish. She pulled out a 4 pound bright orange snapper from the back of the truck, all clear-eyed with clean gills and scales, fresh as ripe strawberries from the morning pick! Oh mama! I could’ve kissed that woman (I didn’t).
I was enthusiastic when I got home. Leopold came over to discuss the weekly menu and I pulled out my treasure, one by one, from the refrigerator. His eyes lit up. He cleaned the fish for me and we separated the shrimp into 1/2 pound baggies so that some could be frozen. The big ones he grilled on a low charcoal fire. Sadly, I was the only one who loved them. “Too strong tasting,” was the general consensus. But not for this son-of-a-son-of-a-son-of-a sponge diver!
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sophia hamadou
Monday was Zaoure’s first day to come and work on dolls. She came, but later than we’d agreed on and all dressed up, explaining that she’d visited a friend in the hospital. We talked a little about the friend, that the doctor’s were ruling out meningitis,–can you believe here there is a meningitis season? Thank goodness there is a vaccination for those that can afford it–but the doctors didn’t really know what Zaoure’s friend had. Tuesday I asked her if her friend was better and she said, “She went home.” Today the guard came to the back door with a message for Zaoure: her friend died.
Of course, Zaoure is crying and upset, and won’t stop mopping the floor. “Your friend that was in the hospital?” “My friend!” she says. I was in over my head, French wise, so I had Jennifer come over. (I hate to admit it, but her French is so much better than mine, she knows the word for vomit and condolences.) Not only is this Zaoure’s friend, it’s her roommate, from her village in Benin, the person with whom she moved here to Niger.
Sunday her friend worked until 8 pm, came home and was watching tv. She got up and went to the bathroom, and came out and started throwing up. Got so weak she couldn’t stand up. They took her to the hospital. The hospital never told them what was wrong with her. They said she should try a local healer. Which I guess means: there isn’t anything we can do. Her two aunties took her by bus back to her village, she died once she got there. She was 28 years old. I feel like such a jerk for not asking more about the situation earlier in the week. I just thought some friend was sick. It didn’t occur to me that someone who worked all day would die three days later.
Special message to my mother: Whatever it was isn’t contagious, no one else is sick like this. Peter suspects a dissecting aneurysm which finally ruptured.
Zaoure came to work today. I asked her if she just wanted to go home, she said she’d rather be here doing something. It’s so sad to have Zaoure’s tear-stained face sitting here making dolls and folding laundry. Niger has the lowest life expectancy in the world.
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poupée means doll
I had this big idea to make dolls as a fundraiser for the Notre Dame Orphanage by way of the Anglophone Women’s Club of Niger. Each doll will be named after an orphan living with Sister Brigitte, and each will come with the story of that particular child. The toddler twins. The deaf girl. The 15-day-old baby. The dolls are made of recycled materials and sand from the Sahara.
I made two dolls and realized I was in over my head. But now I have, ahem, Zouare, (note new correct spelling of her name–it’s TATOOED on her arm–still pronounced Zuri, what a relief) helping me. Who knew she was superstar dollmaker? Some of the money will go to Zouare, who even though she makes so much money working for us that her friends ask to borrow money on a daily basis, she still carries water on her head for cooking at her house; and the Anglophone Women’s Club of Niger, who in the past has bought bunk beds for the orphanage and will most likely buy window screens or fund another similar project for the orphanage and other organizations this year.
More about the orphanage later, which is so heart-breaking and uplifting at the same time, I can hardly stand it. It deserves it’s own blog. It deserves it’s own place in heaven.
Please meet Marie-Ange. Marie-Ange is sort of the patron saint orphaline of Notre Dame Orphanage.
twenty-something years of "what have you been up to?" 