Sylvia's Journal

I thought I had a very quiet last quarter of 2019 ahead of me which would prove, income-wise, that I had effectively retired for three-quarters. But things popped up, some unexpectedly and one other a possible outcome of my first (unsolicited) proposal. Aside from planned short trips to Chapel Hill and Niger, South Africa, and possibly India is on the menu. Axel is going to accompany me on my second trip to South Africa next month so that we can vacation in a place where summer is just about to start.  

Now I am in Niamey, exactly 2 years after I arrived here in the middle of the night from Bamako. It is the 2^nd of 3 planned trips of a 3 year project that ends sometime in 2020. I am hosted by ICRC. On arrival I was given an envelope with a phone and lots of papers to read and some to sign (to show I had read them and received the phone). ICRC operates in all the dangerous places in the world and knows a thing or two about the safety of its employees and consultants. This is the reason why I ignored all the high alert messages from the travel agent regarding my trip to Niamey. 

I am staying in the same hotel, as I did last time. It is  much younger than I am but feels old, tired and neglected. The room is surface-cleaned but the dark red carpet has a few more stains and the entire room feels grungy. I have had this sinking feeling of entering into a grungy or depressing hotel room many times in my career, never mind the many self-congratulatory stars on the hotel’s awning.  But then, after a few hours, I am OK with the room, spread my stuff out, tried out anything that should work, including the hot water, the TV, the lamps and the internet, and made the room my own for the duration of my stay. I even abandon my slippers after a while and walk barefoot on the old and spotty carpet. It’s a bit different from my lodging two weeks ago in Pretoria.

I asked for a room with a view of the Niger River and the giant swimming pool. There was a little humming and hawing but I got my room. I went for a swim in the somewhat cloudy water and then escaped to my airco-ed room. It is too hot to be outside, even at 6PM. I watched, from the coolness of my room, two ladies swimming with a man, a relative I presumed, trying to instruct them. They each had a large orange life preserver that looked like it belonged on a boat. The women stayed in the water for hours, giggling and floating and occasionally trying some swim strokes. When it was time to go they changed in the ladies’ room and emerged in full Islamic costume, none of the parts of their bodies that had been so freely exposed during their swim, showing now (other than hands, ankles and face).

I sat on the terrace where one table had been set for me, no one else seemed to think it a good idea to eat outside (it’s hot and there are bugs and the menu is rather limited). But I find the cooler indoor restaurant depressing and did not want a pricey buffet. I don’t like buffets with their good looking salads made from yesterday’s leftovers, their desserts that look better than they taste and the heavy dishes.  Since I eat very little I consider the hefty price I pay a subsidy for the other eaters. I had essentially been sitting all night, then all day and again all day, doing brain rather than physical work – I didn’t need much food. 

The outdoor restaurant has a menu that looks like it hasn’t been reprinted or re-issued in a decade. There is a variety of pizzas, some salads, fresh (?) juices and two kinds of brochettes, meat and fish. The brochettes are ordered by the stick, small sticks or large sticks. I ordered 3 small ones which the waiter finds odd as they are ‘mouth-teasers’ as the French call them, not actually considered dinner.  I am served 9 tiny pieces of roasted meat served on three small bamboo sticks with mustard, hot sauce and a powdered spice mixture. I wanted fries but decided to eat light and save the fries for day two. I ordered the ‘small vegetables’ plate as a side, which invariably means a heap of tiny canned peas and carrots. 

I washed my simple meal away with a can of Flag beer that came from Togo. Despite being listed on the well-fingered menu there is no more bottled beer here as all the local breweries have closed. So no more ‘conjoncture’ either, the  local brew that stayed low in price even if all the other prices went up. I can’t remember the precise reason for this unusual and informal name of the beer.  

On my second night I ordered the same 3 ‘mouth-teasing’ brochettes but now accompanied by fries – an enormous heap of fries served with hot sauce, ketchup and mayonnaise. They were salty, limp and greasy but I ate them all because, against my better judgment, I do like salt and fat.

The bill was 2 dollars more even though I had essentially the same meal as yesterday, at least according to the menu prices. The waiter from yesterday (who stood right by me) had forgotten that the cans from Togo are two dollars more because the local bottled beer on the menu is not available anymore. Maybe a good reason to finally change the menu and take all this local stuff off. Or is it nostalgia, those good old days? Could be, I am sure they were better before the end of Libya, ISIS, the guns and the smugglers found a niche in the Sahel (and the construction companies that are fortifying the best real estate in the city).