Three beatings in one day.

Day 58
Sept. 13
Start: Zinder, Niger
Middle: Goure, Niger
End: Somewhere between Goudoumaria and Kelakam, Niger

The night before I went to the car park to get a ticket to Diffa. They kept on repeating: “Ceasar.” Which I kept on thinking “Julius?” I figured I better remember that word and ask one of the volunteers. “Ceasar” is actually “six heures” or “six-o’clock” I guess we leave at six.

At seven, while waiting for the car to fill up I heard a commotion by the car. I don’t know what the argument was about, but one man threw a rock about two-fists full size at another hitting him on the head and knocking him down. The man who threw the rock just walked away, while other Nigeriens were yelling at him. He got on his motorcycle and left. Meanwhile, the guy on the ground gets up and is bleeding from a gash in his head. Blood is pouring over his hands as he covered the wound, and is dripping onto the ground making a puddle. He refused all assistance and started walking away, leaving all his stuff behind. He stumbled back and forth across the street for a block before another man picked him on a moped and presumably took him to the local hospital. No police were called.

I noticed this in the Gambia also, but not to this extreme. People are pleasant, helpful; but when they get into a fight all hell breaks loose. The fight happens out of no-where and it could be because of a simple act. What I witness in Zinder was the most extreme case.

I was told to get in front, between the driver and another passenger. The stick-shift was pressed up against my thigh, my head was hitting the scented-tree ornament, and my back up against the edge of the passenger seat. It was going to be a long ride…

We stopped at Goure for lunch. I saw the start of two brothers bickering at each other, which eventually went to shoving and then a full-out hitting match rolling around the ground with other kids cheering their personal favorite. That is until the father came by with an elastic stick and mercilessly whacked each of them across the arms, legs, and rest of their body until they stopped and ran full-speed away in horror and pain – not from the fight but from the father’s stick.

Two minutes later an elder boy tormented a younger handicapped boy by walking away with his crutches (soldered pieces of metal with no cushions). The younger boy, with crippled legs, dragged himself to the new location begging in tears for his crutches back. The older boy walked farther away. I saw the father coming along and I feared for the worse. I expected the worse, but witnessed even worst. The father grabbed the crutches away from the older boy, who ran away, but then while the younger boy was on the ground the father hit him once with his own crutches and then grabbed his arm and dragged him away out-of-sight as his withered legs tried to fight back against the motion. The cries continued, with each new hit producing another shriek in the air.

Others went about their business as usual. No one stopped the fathers in either case. I could understand the first case to a degree, but what did the handicapped boy, about age eight or so, do to deserve being beaten by his own needed-support?

Corporal Punishment does exist in Africa, despite it being illegal (in theory) in some countries. Technically, it’s illegal in The Gambia but we learned about certain punishments during training – not to give out, but to know it when we see it. You will see children carrying buckets of water back and forth in the hot sun; others being beaten; some told to lie on their knees and hold out their arms in which a heavy stone are placed in the palm; and others are told to go home instead to receive an even harsher punishment from their parents for being sent home from school – which the parents pay for them to attend.

That night we slept on the side of the road, to continue the trip the next morning.