We've spent the last few days in ancient Zaria, sitting in on a training course and visiting some rural schools, which was brilliant. The children are all beautiful. They stand up when you enter a room and say "Gooooood Moooooooorning....SAH!" - all very military! Those in school get very excited at the arrival of Bature (white people) and run to the window to stare. Those who are not in school (and there are lots), peer quizzically at the car as we drive past and when we arrive at the villages stare at us until we turn round to look or wave at them and then they run away in fear. In one village, we were the first foreigners EVER to have been there. Incredible. And the people were so warm and welcoming.
We still have no permanent accommodation (we're told that our employer has found a house for us, but that it still needs furnishing) and I'm still not entirely sure what I'm here to do. I was alarmed this morning to be introduced to someone as a Community Mobilisation Specialist. I don't even know if that's a thing?! It's a slightly confusing set up, in that we have to report to VSO, our employer and the funder, and I'm not sure we're all clear who's calling the shots yet. Still, I'm sure it will all become clear. Ish. (I'm not in Kansas any more - I'm starting to realise my colour-coded charts, diagrams and spreadsheets probably won't wash.)
Having made lots of plans about how we could go about establishing ourselves as separate entities in separate departments when we arrived, since getting here we have been told several times, by several people, that they would like us to work very closely together. So far, we have basically spent every second of every day with each other. Expect only one of us to return in 18 months.
On a more sombre note, I wanted to share with you something which brought me crashing down to earth the other day and reminded me what it means to be living in a developing country. Travelling to one of the schools in Zaria in an air-conditioned 4x4, and chatting in fluent English with a Nigerian colleague about Nigerian culture and customs, we started talking about young girls being married off at the age of 12 or 13 in the Muslim north of the country, usually to men of around 25. A consultant from Germany in the car asked whether that age gap meant that there were lots of widows in Nigeria. My colleague looked totally confused for a second and then said, "Well, death doesn't really have anything to do with age, does it?". That people generally die when they are old - an absolute assumption in Western culture - is totally baffling in a place where health and welfare are not givens but gifts.
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