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As some of you may know, February 18 was the 5th anniversary of Jean Rouch’s death in Niger. In route to a film festival in Tahoua, Niger, there was a car accident and Jean was the only person to die in the crash. Since then, there has been much written about Jean’s contributions to the cinema and anthropology. In Niger, his persona has reached mythic proportions. The French cultural center is named after him. The center’s library is esbalishing a collection of books by and about Jean. A media center is being developed. And the CCFN (Centre Culturel Franco-Nigerien) has been sponsoring the Caravan Jean Rouch in which Rouch’s longtime sidekick, Damoure Zika and a team from the cultural center take Jean’s films to the remote villages where they were shot, in some cases, more than 60 years ago. The films are shown to the grandchildren, in most cases, of the original subjects, and then Damoure elicits a general discussion. For many viewers, it was the first time they saw their grandparents, which moved them deeply.

Everyone I met in Niger talked about Jean in reverential tones as if he, as a respected ancestor, is listening to all the talk and making judgments about us down here in everyday life.

“Did you know him?” people asked me in a whisper.

“I did and we shared some very good times. If you had some time, I could tell you some terrific stories.”

As in many parts of Africa, ancestors here are seen as potential participants–for good and bad–in the everyday lives of the living. Offerings are sometimes made in expectation of a heavenly good turn. All of this, I think, pleases Jean, if he is up there listening. How many people are remembered after they die and for how long? In Jean’s case, he and his work will be seen and discussed for many generations to come–his being and spirit lives on in his work. Such a mythic status, moreover, makes him a figure of inspiration to a new generation of scholars–especially Nigerien scholars who are taking up the camera and who are begnnning to produce films of distinction. This fact makes Jean smile–beam with delight–where ever he might be, for his vision was never of the present; it was always focused on the future. And so, five years after his death, we can say without hesitation that the work goes on.

On the morning of February 18th I went to the Christian cemetrary to find Jean’s grave. The cemetary is a dry and sandy expanse just off the road to Kollo near the Terminus neighborhood in Niamey. Most of the gravesites are bare mounds marked with crosses. Jean’s has a tombstone and is covered with white marble squares. It is unobtrusively situated at the southern end of the cemetary and says: “Jean Rouch May 31, 1917-February 18, 2004. A modest palce that marks the passing of a great scholar and filmmaker.

As is the Songhay (and Jewish) custom, I took a stone and spoke to it from my heart. I wished Jean well and hoped that he would continue to watch over us to ensure that the work goes on. I placed the stone on the gravesite and walked into the dusty congestion of Niamey.

As soon as I get over my jet lag I will be posting several essays about my experiences in NIger during my February trip.

I have been visiting the Grand Marche on a daily basis.  It remains a vast square of intensive economic activity that is criss-crossed by a series of straight passageways.  In the center of this vast expanse is a police tower next to which are toilet facilities.  The market stalls that line the passageways are stuffed with goods–spices, hardware, cell phones, electronic equipment, glassware, cloth, carpets and much more.  You can’t walk quickly through the market as you have to weave your way around boys and girls, men and women who are hawking goods–sun glasses, phone cards that contain cell phone credit, grilled meat, costume jewelry and so on.  At any moment your walk might be interrupted by a cart, pulled by a teenager, loaded with hundreds of cartons filled with soap or some other product.  One section that struck my interest was the extremely narrow passage that cuts through the market’s pharmaceutical section.  It is so narrow that only one person can pass.  The men selling medicine sit in their cramped stalls, which are situated some three of four feet above the floor of the market. From there they sell skin cremes, antibiotics and other medicines at “market prices.”  Given the bustle of the market, you are hard-pressed to think that there is a global recession that has brought suffering to a very large group of people.  Given the the sheer bulk of goods, the idea that Niger is among the poorest of countries in the world drifts far away from you consciousness.  And yet, when you leave the market and see destitute lepers, polio victims, people with genetic deformities or those whose paralysis resulted from an improperly administered injection, that reality comes crashing down on your head.  And yet, amid this poverty, the people that I have encountered, beggars included, demonstrate an enviable vitality.  Even those beggars to whom I say:  Iri koy ma dogonaandi (”May God lighten your burden), which is a polite way of saying “I can’t give you a donation today,” respond with an enthusiastic “Amin.”  Their perseverance in the hot, dusty Nigerien capital is inspiring and renders insiginifcant the kind of existential complaints that I routinely put forward.

More reflections on the way, especially on the nature of fraternal and sororal warmth that one finds here in abundance.

After an almost 19-year absence, I have returned to Niger, specifically Niamey, to reconnect with a second home and ponder the changes that life has brought since my last visit in 1990. How curious it is to inhale the sensuousness of places that figure prominently in some of my books:  the light fading on the buttes and on the river as seen from the terrace at sunset at the Grand Hotel, the whir and whirl of le grande marche, the smells of roasting brochettes on the street,  the clutter of carts, donkeys, people, some poor and dressed in rags others resplendent in their embroidered outfits, the burn of the sun on the neck at midday, the warmth of talk and human contact.  People who seen me walking in the street and after almost 19 years, they called out my name, singing praises to God who enabled our paths to cross once again.  So it goes on this short visit in which I have also reconnected with men and women I met during fieldwork in New York City–all very existentially satisfying, an affirmation of life.