The Apartment, Wazas, and the local area

So - the apartment. You already know about the gas cylinder, and thus that I have the ability to cook, which is an improvement over the Catholic Mission where I was previously. The availability of gas is pretty good, certainly compared to Addis, where it was common not to be able to find any for a couple of days. The longest I've seen them not have it for here is an afternoon, and the absence of kerosene burners is undoubtedly a blessing. The apartment also has a shower complete with a hot water tank with an orange light which comes on when you flick the switch by it; this has no discernible effect on the temperature of the water, but I like to pretend it might work. However, as the water is never freezing, varying in temperature with the time of day (cold in the morning, lukewarm following a day's sun), and given that I have no way of knowing if, like the last gas cylinder, the hot water tank harbours murderous intentions towards me, I've stopped using it at all.

The fridge, however, is a glorious duck-egg green, and keeps water, mangos, and the local beer (Flag) deliciously chilly. There's also a brand new washing machine which I was enormously excited by given the absence of laundrettes (à la Addis) or Padmina (à la Vellore), so one of the first things I bought was a large and expensive box of washing powder (German, slightly bizarrely). The blissful feeling as I loaded the machine with dirty clothes and powder in anticipation of gleaming whites at the end of it was deflated somewhat when I pressed the ON button and nothing happened.

It wasn't plugged in, so I plugged it in and pressed the ON button again.

Nothing happened.

It was then that I realised it wasn't plumbed in either.

I briefly debated trying to attach the inflow pipe to the tap, but reasoned that breaking what is clearly my erstwhile landlord's prize kitchen ornament would be bad form. And more to the point, would be significantly more likely to flood the kitchen and add to the list of appliances which have it in for me than to clean any clothes. So I did them by hand in the sink outside, drowning a small legion of ants in the process to cheer myself up.

All in all, however, the apartment is great - I have a view from the balcony over the hut village which stretches along the road in a muddle of thatched rooves, bleating goats, incompetent cockerels (3am is not dawn), and plumes of bluish smoke. Currently the presence of the hut village is ruined somewhat by the presence of what I think in Djerma is a Waza, which amounts to a gaggle of Islamic holy men with loudspeakers preaching to the masses. It's a little like the mad people you can normally find on Oxford Street preaching the seemingly-contradictory message that God loves you but you'll burn in an eternal lake of fire unless you repent your sins. Or perhaps more like the televangelist extremists who are essentially more successful, capitalism-friendly versions of the nutters on street corners, the ones who drive limos, drink champagne, condemn abortion and homosexuality, and hire gigolos on the sly because they know that that is what Jesus would do. Apart possibly from the paying rentboys part.

All the Waza folk do, according to Matt (of whom more in the next missive) is tell people not to trust the white man, and to give them money for new mosques. The former is good general advice (and mild compared to what the US religious right are saying about the non-white man), but roughly a century too late and today is mostly aimed at stopping the locals converting to Christianity thanks to the large number of Christian aid organisations working here. The second is a little harder to stomach, literally given how little food the people here have, but they do at least spend the money on mosques rather than, say, methampethamine.

I wish that they'd SHUT UP, though. It's ten o'clock on a saturday, fer chrissakes.

The apartment is also 12 mins walk from the hospital, five minutes from the best bakery I've found in Niamey, which sells baguettes for 15p which are invariably still warm when you buy them, and seriously good croissants and patisseries which I tend to have a couple of times a week. There are also plenty of restaurants in the area, a couple of general stores/supermarkets (NB: you would be wrong to think of Tesco at this point), fruit and vegetable sellers, and craftsmen hawking their wares.

The prices of most things here go through the roof when you're un blanc - I stopped at one shop on the way back from the hospital and asked the kid behiond the counter how much a bag of dates was. He had to wake up the boss, who was snoozing on the floor by the counter on his mat.
Kid: "How much are these?"
Proprietor (rubbing sleep from his eyes): "700."
Kid (to me): "They're 700."
Proprietor (following the kid's gaze): "Ah! They're 1250."

I laughed, thanked them, and left.

The souvenir-hawkers aren't so bad - their first price is invariably outrageous, but accompanied by the disclaimer that "we can discuss the price - and I'll do you a good deal." Although they are pretty expert - one moment of weakness and you find yourself getting absolutely robbed blind - I've hit on a surprisingly effective counter-strategy. I just say that as I'm here for two months, all I want to do for now is see things and get an idea about prices. I then stick steadfastly to this position as they say that I can buy something small today and the rest later, n'est-ce pas? (which, incidentally, I have just realised translates literally as "innit". Who'd have thought it of the French?). I say no, I'll just have to keep things around the apartment. The shopkeep rejoins with, well, what would you pay for this today? I reply, as I said already, I'll buy at the end of my stay. The less scrupulous then chuck in the ridiculous "I have to sell something so I can eat"; I flatter myself that my eye for malnutrition is by now pretty good, and these are by no means poor people, so any trying that line go in the dirty box and I don't go back in their shops. By the time I leave, the attrition has generally seen their price halve when I'm not even haggling. Most are, like the Nigérien people in general, a friendly lot who are ultimately just trying to make a living (albeit by fleecing wealthy, credulous whites), and they always respond cheerfully when I say hi, whether I go to see their new arrivals or not. I've even had tea with one or two (insanely strong, necessarily sweet, and cooked over hot coals. The tea is removed and the leaves covered with fresh water while the brew is mixed with more sugar and passed between two glasses to cool it to drinking temperature), and done an impromptu knee consultation with a kid at another; my advice even seems to have worked!

My favourites are the guards, though - most residential blocks have a guard - ours is an ex-army man called Djibo Ibrahima who was enormously helpful with the gas - and all NGO offices and residences have 1-4 in uniform. The main purpose of the NGO guards is to sit around drinking tea, playing cards, and running errands for their empployers (eg: fetch me some cigarettes, please). Djibo sits around in a sleeveless T-shirt and chases out goats. They're all phenomenally friendly, and a group of them I got talking to have been teaching me some Djerma and Hausa. Initially they did both at once, but they soon realised this was just confusing, so we're sticking mostly to Hausa now, and I pay them in occasional baked goods.

Oh - one more thing - the identity of my new friend is none of the above. The apartment doesn't have nets on the windows, and there's one in the bathroom which doesn't shut - so I'm indebted to this lady (she's just below the handle - got her?) for spinning her web right by the crack the mozzies get in, and for having produced a batch of mini-spiders to expand upon her good work. All the dark blobs in the web are mozzies in their little silken cocoons, and since I moved the loo paper the fact the cocoons are dropped from the web onto the top of the cistern has caused no further problems.

And on that note...