Sunday, October 30, 2005

Cereal Treats


About a 5 on the Moh's scale

After spending two years in Niger during the Peace Corps I am accustomed to finding rocks in my food. If you want to avoid visiting a Nigerien dentist, it doesn’t take long for you to develop a “soft mouth” (to borrow a hunting concept) when approaching a potential meal. You also unconsciously begin classifying food into three groups with regard to rock content: definitely has some, might have some, does not have any. Finding “rocks” in my corn flakes—generally a might-have-some product—this morning, however, is just about beyond my limit. I guess the NASCO cereal plant in Nigeria has a few kinks in its processing system that is responsible for producing these corn nuggets.

It reminds me a little of what a friend once said after finding hairs (note, plural) in a meal at a restaurant—One hair is an accident; more than that, an ingredient.

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Eaststate Office Boyz


Hangin’ with ma comptrolla boyz

This is my Diffa crew, Karouna (l) and Ali (r). At some point I realized I had become a humanitarian bean counter, tracking down the whereabouts and details of the food distribution, and felt that I had become a little like my favorite guest columnist at The Onion, Herbert Kornfeld. Word is bond.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

A Food Distribution in Bosso




Like many places in Niger, the road to Bosso is not an easy one. Located 100 kilometers east of Diffa, the last sixty kilometers is off the main paved road and is a maze of braided tire tracks that crisscross over what was once, in ancient times, the lakebed of Lake Chad. The water from Lake Chad has long since retreated and what is left is just a vast expanse of flat, open space.

An abundance of Acacia trees and short species of golden grasses fill this openness and explain why this area is classified a pastoral zone. Rain-fed agriculture in this region is small in scale, and largely folly. Yet, so attached to millet is the Nigerien psyche, farmers still continue to plant small fields to the crop, hoping to have an above-average year of precipitation. Such gambles rarely pay out, and most households end up buying millet (or other cereals) from the market. Playing to this area’s strengths, most people here earn at least some portion of their living from livestock, which is ubiquitous.

A hardscrabble existence is the norm for most Nigeriens. Subsistence farming—a mix of agriculture and animal husbandry—is what most people do for a living. But, an increasing population and decreasing soil productivity threaten this way of life. Climate also plays a role where inadequate and poorly distributed rainfall routinely threaten harvests throughout the country, and some places—notably in the regions of Maradi, Zinder, and Diffa—face severe food shortages and drought every year. And, even in years when the rains are good and crop yields are average, a recent report showed that the most vulnerable—read poorest—households are only able to grow enough food to meet their cereal needs for just six months out of a year.

Last year, poor rains and a locust invasion left both crops and pasture in poor shape and, as a result, rendered many households vulnerable to food shortages. After last year’s disappointing harvest, estimates from the government came out showing that 2.7 million people, in 4000 communities—one-quarter of Niger’s total population—would be affected by a food shortage in coming year. Bosso, and several of the surrounding villages, were identified as being vulnerable, and were selected to receive food aid from the World Food Programme (WFP). CARE took responsibility for distributions in this region and dispatched teams to Bosso and the other villages in early October to await the delivery of rations from the WFP.

So, it was on a recent Friday morning in Bosso that the town criers began circulating at 3:30 am, their shouts and drumming rousing the villagers and CARE distribution team from sleep. During Ramadan, the holy month of fasting for Muslims, the criers—whose job it is to wake people to remind them to eat and drink before the sun rises and another day of thirst and hunger begins—make owning an alarm clock pointless. Once awake, the team members sluggishly left their mosquito nets, ate their morning meal, exchanged a few quiet words among themselves, and then slipped back into their beds to get a couple more hours of sleep before a long day of food distributions was set to begin.

Later, after the sun was above the horizon, the team woke up for a second time and walked down to the warehouse where the WFP food rations were stored and where they would set up a staging area for the actual distribution. An unexpected surprise awaited the team at the warehouse: four WFP trucks, filled with sacs of maize and beans, had arrived during the night and were waiting to be unloaded. Once offloaded, this food would be sent to nearby distribution centers, where other CARE teams would be waiting for the arrival of these rations to begin their own distributions.

Thursday, the day before, the team had visited the villages of Yebi and Boulountoungou to inform the residents that their time to receive food had arrived and to show up at Bosso the next morning. Now, only 7:30 am, villagers were already arriving and staking claim to the few shady sitting spots; as is the norm, men and
women sat separately under different trees. And, every thirty minutes or so, those sitting at the shade’s edge would silently rise and move deeper into the shade, like human sundials.

Everyone was patient, but visibly eager, as the distribution team readied themselves. Strong men, drenched in sweat, hauled 50 kg sacs of beans and maize from the warehouse and made neat stacks near the entrance: five for beans, ten for maize. Small children, filled with curiosity and mischief couldn’t resist climbing on the stacks. An adult noticed the horseplay and shooed them away. Quickly forgotten, the kids, masters of stealth, resumed their game until the next reprimand. This drama between the kids and adults replayed again and again until the distributions finally started.



Yaka, a young Kanouri woman from Boulountoungou, sat under a large shade tree with the other women waiting for her name to be called so she could collect her family’s food ration. Like many Nigeriens, she planted millet during the rainy season, but the yield, she said, would only last two months. Still, compared to some of her neighbors, she considers herself fortunate. Even so, she is thankful that the Niger government, WFP and CARE have intervened during this year of hunger. A single mother with six children in her charge, Yaka was eager to receive the 100 kg of maize and 15 kg of beans allotted to her. With the rations, she said that in a day she would prepare two tias (a local measure, weighing approximately 2 kilograms) of maize and one of beans. If she sticks to this plan, the beans will last a week; the maize, 5 weeks. She tries, with difficulty, to think beyond these 5 weeks and wonders what she will do once her allotment runs out.

The queue of people moved slowly through the distribution station. Each person waited in line holding a numbered piece of paper. In addition to the number were notes on each slip indicating the size of ration each person was to receive. First, a CARE team member verified the identity of each person and made an
impression of their fingerprint. Next, another team member read on the numbered piece of paper how many tias of beans to issue. Then, one of the strong men carried out the appropriate number of sacs of maize. And so it went with the next person in line. The process was incredibly slow, but despite the wait (and the heat), people were patient.

By mid-day, the team finished distributing food to the Yebi residents. The team looked hot and tired, and ready for a well-deserved rest. Meanwhile, under a blistering sun, people labeled their sacs of maize and made arrangements for transport back to Yebi. Some had come with donkeys or camels to bring back the rations. Others paid 200 naira (US$1.40) apiece to have their allotment transported by a vintage Toyota Land Cruiser pickup. Two men loaded their sacs onto motorcycles, lashed them down with rope, and then rode off looking dangerously unstable. And a few others carried small bags of beans atop their heads and struck off on foot.



Yaka, and the others from Boulountoungou, waited until the afternoon to receive their rations. The distribution process was identical to that of the morning, and finally, the team called her number. After she had collected her share, she watched as it was loaded into the back of a hired truck that would deliver the food to the village. It had been a long day, and it would be dark by the time she returned home. Despite the late hour, she probably prepared some of the food. It would have been a long time since she could eat until she was full, and the call of the criers always comes too soon during Ramadan.

Yaka’s story is not unusual for Niger; there are families like hers all across the country. It is almost certain, given the environmental, climatic, and demographic risk factors, that Niger will again face more food shortages in the future. Less certain is if these shortages will be localized or more extensive, affecting a greater proportion of the population. At least now, thanks to the food provided by WFP and distributed by CARE, Yaka, and households like hers, will have one less thing to worry about, even if it is for just 5 weeks.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Donkey Boys of Diffa


Since August CARE Niger has been in the middle of a whirlwind of activity distributing food aid from the WFP to hungry communities in the regions of Tahoua, Maradi and Diffa. The scale of the operation is enormous and has consumed nearly all of the resources, time and energy of CARE’s dedicated workforce. The hard work and sacrifice will have been worth the result: by the end of the operation, set for October 10, CARE will have distributed over 16,000 tons of food to 900,000 people in Niger. In a place where just-in-time delivery is still a fantasy, this accomplishment—in only 8 weeks—is nothing short of miraculous.

That the food even made it to the communities is equally miraculous. A sac of maize grown in Iowa and consumed in N’Guigmi, Niger has come a long way. And nearly every imaginable mode of transportation has been used to move the sac along its journey. But there is one mode of transportation that stands out from the others as unique and noteworthy. When the trucks discharge their food in the communities, the most critical distance—from distribution point to household—is often serviced by the poor man’s SUV, the lowly donkey.

In Niger you cannot talk of donkeys and not mention the young boys that tend them, for they go hand in hand. What can you say about a boy and his donkey? I won’t suggest that the bond is on par with that seen between Timmy and Lassie, but there is something special there. And, years from now, 2005 will likely stand out in the minds of many Nigerien boys as the year that CARE International brought their community food, and as the year they made bank—thanks to their trusty steed.

The distributions have had an unintended—and positive—economic impact in the small and often neglected demographic of prepubescent entrepreneur. If, at each stage of transportation, someone has received payment for rendered services associated with the food rations, why should the donkey boys be any different?

What kind of economic impact has the donkey transport business had in Niger? Let’s do some hypothesizing using Diffa as an example. In Diffa, the going rate for transporting a 50 kg bag of cereal is 40 Naira (approximately 30 cents). CARE will distribute 3,000 tons of cereal in this region. If donkeys deliver 1,000 tons (20,000 sacs) from distribution center to household, they would generate an income of US $6,000 for their owners. In a place where the GNP is only US $170, this is serious cash.

In the process, not only do these boys earn some pocket money, they also learn some important business lessons. First-mover advantage is applicable here. Those boys who showed up first with their donkeys had a captive market and could reap the lion’s share of any profits. But they then learned that first-mover advantage dissipates quickly in the face of competition. They learn about barriers to entry, which, for donkey transport, are fairly low: If you have a donkey, you can play. And, when distributions finally come to an end, they will need to learn the cruel lesson of what happens when supply outstrips demand.

The donkey also gets an education in economics from this experience. It learns that if trickle down economics can’t work in the United States that it won’t work in Niger either. For all its hard work, the donkey probably didn’t receive any improved rations. Even Lassie would have earned a choice bone if she had earned Timmy a quick 20 bucks.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Nigerian Truck Art


Why 56 km/h?

I saw this truck in N’Guigmi last week and couldn't resist taking its picture. Truck art is fairly common here and Nigeria, the port of call for this truck, produces some top-notch painters in this genre. It’s surely symbolic on some level, but the meanings are lost on me.

Forget the unlikelihood of ever seeing a scene such as this acted out in nature and take in the aesthetics. Appreciate the artist’s use of colors. Marvel at the level of detail, like the rivulets of blood coming from the crocodile’s leg and head, where the lion has dug in its claws and teeth. And, while I can understand the artist’s desire to be anatomically correct, did he really need to add scrotums to the lion and ram? Come on, doesn't it seem a bit unnecessary?