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.

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.

This is the drive to the grocery store here. The Petit Marché, a sort of farmer’s market, bustles like this every day. We often buy produce from these vendors, Peter has done it without even getting out of the car. A friend and I went shopping at the Petit Marché for fabric the other day and had a great time. It’s a little stressful, you are surrounded by little boys wanting to carry your bag, and people trying to convince you to buy their produce.

Peter’s niece Ana is thinking of coming to visit and stay a while. If this video doesn’t turn you off Ana, buy the plane ticket.

We have a ton of gorgeous lettuce growing right now.

Today I asked Zuri how they decide on the scars on their face. She says it’s by family, that the mother decides, and they do it when the babies are small with a little knife.

Stefan and Camille were probably the only two people on the entire 2600 miles of the Niger River wearing life jackets. Camille rode on the bigger boat with all her friends; some friends, Peter, a crying Stefan, a boatman and I were on the littler boat, a canoe, called a pirogue.

When Peter and I hear “pirogue,” we think it’s going to be stuffed with cabbage and cheese and you buy it from the crabby guy on 10th and Irving in San Francisco.

We went up river for half an hour, passing morning-glory like wildflowers, waterlillies, little grassy islets. I didn’t have to paddle, so it was very pleasant, except for Stefan crying that the canoe was too “tilty,” he worried about sharks and if hippos bite.

I saw them first: a hippo coming out the water to take a breath. Then another, then everyone saw them and I was happy I wasn’t just imagining them. Unfortunately, they won’t stay still for a good picture. But none of us wanted to get any closer. The best thing was hearing them: hippopotamus deep breathing.

Camille’s boat stayed longer, until two of the hippos lumbered up out of the water onto the shore. But they didn’t get the bonus excursion we did:

After our hippo sightings we turned around and floated back down the river. Our paddler beached our boat. Not back at the restaurant/boat launch area, as we expected, but rather a forced “detour” to see the hippo tracks in the mud near his village, also, grain storage huts, school, and cow. The chef of the village was trotted out, and seemed disappointed at our meager, uh, cash gift, but we thought we were going directly back to the restaurant and were caught off guard by the side trip. I don’t know why we all didn’t start complaining, “Take us back! We want our lunch!” but it didn’t occur to anyone until later when we did get back and were sitting around drinking cokes and eating brochettes. Americans, sheesh.

There are a bunch of guys who sell leather goods and fresh produce outside the French School. One of the most difficult things here for me is having someone walking next to me, trying to sell me green beans or a necklace. I’m not shopping right now, okay? Going to pick kids up is like running a gauntlet past the pushy vendors. Is this the time to sell me a cushion?

I have made a point of not buying anything from these guys. Until a couple of weeks ago when a guy flashed a cauliflower. The only strawberries, broccoli and cauliflower I have seen in five months have been flown in by Air France and sold at the French grocery store at a price that includes jet fuel. Can you believe I got excited about seeing really fresh cauliflower? Well, believe it. So imagine my face when he walked up with a box of strawberries. These are local, and I’m sure they will be gone with the cool weather in a month. I ended up buying two, maybe three pints of strawberries. I berated myself for spending such a ridiculous amount of money on strawberries, for god’s sake; until I got home and ate one. It would have been worth $8 for even one single strawberry.

Then the next day, Peter found peas.