Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Another First

I’ve seen a myriad of funny/weird/crazy/sad images here. I’ve seen a kid with two thumbs, men and children dressed as haystacks speaking through horns and scaring crowds, rain so violent that it displaces whole villages, old men with Maxim Hot 100 bodies, and women carrying loads on their heads that would warrant a U-Haul in the US. But for the first time ever last week, I was present for a voodoo ceremony.


As part of my latrine construction project, I pass by each house to check on the progress of the work there. Last week, one family was celebrating the fête season and a profitable month in their household by killing a goat and giving part of the raw meat, along with 40 cents and a bag of kola nuts (horribly bitter nuts that people chew here for energy, I think that’s where Coca-Cola got its name) to the other families in the village. I showed up just as the heat was turning the meat from fresh to putrid, and if the fly population was any indication, the party was well underway. I was also given the meat, 40 cents, and kola nuts. I ate some of the meat but gave the rest, along with the nuts, to my neighbors. They came to me later asking who had given it to me, because they’re sure it had “gri-gri” in it (which means they think someone had put a spell on it). Unfortunately, by that time I had already eaten the meat. They said that side effects could include either sleepwalking back to that man’s house at night, or the desire to eat my own children. Jury’s still out on that.



So, the ceremony. At this same house, the father felt compelled to thank me for the latrine by putting on a ceremony on my behalf. He laid a cloth on the ground and explained some significance for it that now escapes me, then pulled out several dolls made of carved wood and goat hair, shells, animal bones, and hollowed out gourds. The dolls were all in pairs, because here twins are highly regarded, almost supernatural. There was a lot of chanting in Fon (the local language) and a lot of pointing things at the sky, and talking to the dolls. The entire ceremony, as I gather many of their ceremonies are, was for communicating with their ancestors, who I believe were buried under the ground that we stood on (that is common here, to bury family members on the property, sometimes even in the house). Finally, the man laid two dolls next to each other on the cloth and covered them with a calabash bowl. While I tapped the bowl continuously with my hands, he asked his ancestors to bring me fortune when I return to the US, and to ensure that I someday return here to bless them again. He explained that if his ancestors agreed, they would communicate that by raising the dolls to a standing position. When I lifted the calabash up, sure enough the dolls were standing! That’s not enough to convert me, but pretty cool. I still have no idea how he did it.



I didn’t want to offend him by snapping pictures, so I just managed to get this one while he wasn’t looking.



Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Latrine Update



Thanks to donations from family, friends, and a few strangers, I am able to construct 25 latrines in my community. I promised updates on the progress of the project, so here it goes.




The families are overall enthusiastic to be a part of this project and grateful for the aid. Our first steps were to pass by each house and make sure they had gathered enough sand for the masons to use (which I would see them all doing in the morning, since the route I run just happens to pass through the village where the latrines are being constructed). First the masons make cement and mud bricks, then place them in a circle and cement them together. Next, groups of diggers dig 10-meter trenches. This is the most time-consuming part. It takes each group of 2 to 3 diggers at least 5 days to dig that deep. Then the mason constructs a circle of mud and cement with a hole and a nice little marked place to put one’s feet (photos below). This latrine “top” is done apart from the latrine and put on later. That’s one of the benefits of this type of latrine: in 10 years or so, when the latrine has been filled, the family can dig another hole and place the cement top over it (and hopefully cover the hole of the first latrine!).




Every other evening, my work partner Vlavonou, a local hygiene worker, and I do a tour of the houses to ensure that work is going smoothly. I had thought we would run into problems being that the project coincides with the fête season here. No one works or does much of anything except eat and sleep between Christmas and mid-January. It has actually worked in our favor, though. I think people are eager to make some money before the holidays, so work has been completed quicker than we had anticipated and we are, at the moment, ahead of schedule. Which will hopefully put us on schedule after the holiday season.




I had originally thought that the latrines would service about 200 people, 8 a household. That was grossly conservative. There are an average of 14 people in each compound (Beninese houses are not one building with several rooms, like in America, but rather a bunch of one- or two-roomed buildings clustered together), which means 350 people will now have a safe place to defecate, even more if they share the love with their neighbors.




Visiting the families has been a blast. People get irrationally excited when I speak to them in Fon (my local language), which feeds my needy and attention hungry side that comes from being the younger child. People gift me bananas, plantains, grapefruit, corn, pineapples, and children, though I politely decline the latter. I’ve had several offers of newborns to take with me to America. Through this project I’ve come to know two young girls who have debilitating diseases: sickle cell anemia and polio. I don’t know that there is anything that can be done about the first, but I’m looking into groups who give out hand-powered tricycles for the girl with polio. That would drastically change her life. As it is, her legs are shriveled up and completely useless, so she never leaves the family compound and there is practically nothing she can do on her own. Her hands are rough from pulling herself around on the dirt ground and she will likely not be able to marry. It’s hard to say whether or not her family will continue to treat her with compassion or grow resentful of the extra mouth they have to feed. Thankfully, government sponsored polio vaccinations are available one weekend every couple months.


Back to the latrines. My hope is to get a photo of each family next to their latrine and post it next month. Below are some pictures of the progress made so far.

Vlavonou and one of the beneficiaries standing next to where his latrine has been started.
Vlavonou counting the number of bricks lay before we pay the mason for his work.

My work partners and I at one of their houses.
My work partner Vlavonou at a meeting with village families.

A digger several meters deep in the latrine hole. He loads a bucket full of sand that is then hoisted up by his partner (below).

A freshly cemented latrine top with the inscriptions for Peace Corps and the local health center.

Friday, October 15, 2010

'Tis The Season

It’s October and that means start of the holiday season! Yes, my holiday season starts with the sacrilegious Halloween. American holidays are not just an excuse for volunteers to get together and buy out a bar’s cheap beer supply. They’re also an opportunity for us to recreate the traditions we keep at home here in Benin, blah blah, cultural exchange, blahblah. Sure, let’s go with that.

Last year was the first time in my entire life that I did not dress up for Halloween. I have the kind of mother who made sure that no matter how young, I was partaking in the excitement. And I was a damn cute fat baby in a coconut bra and hula skirt (I kid you not. Thanks mom.). So this year I’ll be joining other volunteers in Cotonou (the big city) with a TBA costume. I’ll post pictures.

I’m not sure about Thanksgiving plans yet. Last year we paid a Beninese fortune for a turkey that was mutilated by a machete and deep-fried—skin, innards, and all. The idea of “meat” here is a little more all encompassing. “Cuts” have not yet made it to Benin. I think this year we’ll opt for a vegetarian spread. We depend on things sent from home like gravy packets, canned cranberries, and stuffing mix. And thankfully we can make mashed potatoes and green bean casserole with ingredients here. (Though no Thanksgiving, or any holiday for that matter, is complete without my grandma’s party mix. There’s a whole in my heart where that salty goodness used to be.)

Hanukkah will probably not be celebrated since there are a mere 3 Jewish Peace Corps volunteers, and what is Hanukkah without dreidels anyway. Which brings me to Christmas. The Beninese are already preparing for Christmas. There’s a hit song out right now called “His name is Papa Noel” which goes a little something like this:

“He’s called Papa Christmas
He’s called Papa money
He’s called Papa foreigner
He’s called Papa of gifts”

Makes me really want to participate in my village’s Christmas celebration. Also makes me resent the fact that we made Santa a white guy. Last year I had an intimate Christmas with a couple volunteers and a few morally questionable nuns in a remote village. This year the volunteers will be going en masse to Grand Popo (no, I do not know what or whom Popo is), the beach town in Benin. We’re aptly dubbing the week Grand Hoho. While other countries in West Africa are blessed with a gorgeous coastline and sandy beaches, most of Benin’s coastline is rocky, marred by trash, or already occupied by shanties. We are planning on buying out one of the hotels there, which we think has 6 rooms so most of us will have to opt for tents on the beach. Can’t wait to share details and post pictures!

A huge thanks to everyone who donated to my latrine project and/or forwarded the email to family, friends, and coworkers. I’ll take some pictures and update you all on the status of the project soon.

Friday, October 8, 2010

I Need Your Help!

Dear Family and Friends,
On September 25 I celebrated one year of Peace Corps service in Zè, Benin. I have a year's worth of memories, photos, and friendships, comparatively little to speak of in the way of volunteer work. I have seen countless project ideas born and die in this time, because when need is everywhere, and helping hands are not, one must use what resources and know-how are available to address the most basic and pressing, among them. I come to you with a request for help with a project that addresses just that.
Like safe drinking water and paved roads, having a private place to relieve one’s self that does not endanger the health of others is something we take for granted in the developing world. I say this not to guilt you, but as reality, fact. I have seen firsthand people defecating in the fields that grow their neighbor’s livelihood, in the market where daily dinner is bought, near the waters in which they bathe, on the side of the road, where children play, in plain view of many; I have seen women forced to clear their courtyards and markets of fecal matter with just their hands and leaves; and I have seen the toll diarrheal and intestinal sicknesses can have on a child or adult.
Nearly a billion people worldwide lack some form of bathroom. I realize that these 25 latrines make barely a dent in that number, but those latrines will create a safe, private place for 200 people to use. That’s removing 200 people’s worth of fecal matter from public spaces, streams, and fields. The impact this has on the health of individuals within this community can indeed be great.These latrines are low-cost, durable, and lasting. A pit latrine at a depth of 10 meters can suffice for a household for more than a decade. Each household will provide an estimated 35% of the latrine cost in the form of hauling water, gathering sand, and constructing a mud brick house to enclose the latrine. Each household will also receive education on proper hygiene including hand washing, food preparation and storage, and waste management.
To donate to this project please visit https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-196
I’d like to say “many thanks” for any and all donations from the people of Zè, Benin. Oddly, in local language that translates to “awanu kaka” (say that one aloud for the full effect). If you feel so inclined, please forward this email to family, friends, and co-workers.
Love from Benin, Kim

Friday, September 3, 2010

Rabbit Rabbit

Not sure when I’ll be able to post this but as I’m writing it is September 1st, which means we are 2/3 of the way through 2010, and when it does come to a close, I will have spent every single day of 2010 on the African continent. Crazy!

August was hands down the most fun-filled month I’ve had here. My aunt and uncle (returned Peace Corps volunteers who met while serving in the Philippines) and 3 cousins visited for two weeks, one of which was spent in Zè and the other traveling up north and visiting some off the map tourist gems. Travel with the Cary family is always interesting, like a new millennium National Lampoon’s. Here are the highlights:

-Hotels! Hot showers, swimming pools, the customer service that a foreign clientele commands (and tips for), someone else cleaning up after me, etc. However, though I believed them to be luxurious I think they were comparable to a Travel Lodge. (Funny story- when I went to check in for the hotel the first night, before their flight arrived, I had just gotten off an 8-hour bus ride and looked like, well, a Peace Corps volunteer. I tried to convince the hotel reception to let me into the room so I could shower, but that my family would be paying when they came in that night. They hesitantly let me in.When I came back down, after a hot shower, they realized I was a high-class lady under all that filth and apologized profusely for treating me like anything less.)


-Swimming in the rain with the entire Cary/Fisher clan.

-Showing them my office and work partners.


-The house we stayed at (my house is far too small for 6 people) had a ton of “cute” kids with whichmy family loved to play and take pictures. I was less amused and was constantly yelling at them to not feed the kids lest all the neighborhood kids come begging for things. They probably think I’ve lost a bit of heart.


-The drum and dance circle at my village chief’s house. Uncle Tim and Ron both got in the middle and danced like, well, like no one I’ve ever seen (someone send me those videos so I can post them here). Ron even got Papa, the chief’s dad who has got to be pushing 90, out there dancing.


-My family’s (particularly Uncle Tim’s) infatuation with the tiny goats here.



-Dinner with the mayor on Ron’s birthday- the mayor’s son peed on Uncle Tim while sleeping and the mayor gave Ron an elephant carved out of wood for his birthday.




-All the markets we visited. I think my Uncle Tim could write “bargaining” on his resume under “Skills.”


-Moto biking through the forest in Zè.


-Having traditional outfits made.



-Visiting the orphanage where I’ll be planting a garden this month.


-The 12 hour voyage to the north, starting with motos at 6am, then a 2 hour taxi, a 7 hour bus (made longer because of the torrential downpour on the way which nearly forced my cousin Eve to use a GoGirl on the bus-if you don’t know what that is Google it), followed by another moto ride.

-Meeting a local artist who makes all of his paintings out of once-used canvas and natural pigments: cobalt, red dirt, leaves, hibiscus and other flowers, etc. He doesn’t even buy paintbrushes, just uses his hands. We bought a Beninese fortune in paintings from him and he gave us handmade necklaces and bracelets as a gift.

-Taking the volunteers in the north out for dinner so that my family got to hear other volunteer’s perspectives and stories (and I got a break from talking and translating).

-Going to a village on the Togo border called Boukoumbè for my birthday. We rented a car and hired a guide for the day. It was a gorgeous (if not comfortable) hour and a half ride on red dirt roads with stunning vistas and deep green hills. This area is known for its “tata sambas”: houses made by the Samba people out of mud that are very intricate-several storied with multiple rooms each serving its own purpose. Like little mud fortress mansions. We just stopped along the road at one family’s house and paid them to take a tour. Sadly because the houses are built high and there are (super sketchy) ladders all over to navigate the stories, old people have to live on the ground floor with the livestock. (Next time Grandma complains about the nursing home someone tell her about this.)

-Visiting the weaving center in Djougou where women make traditional Beninese fabrics that each take weeks to complete.

-Taking them to the airport and finding out that a guy from my village had actually driven the whole way to the airport just to say goodbye to them (again). That’s the Beninese for you.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

One year down!

I have officially been in Benin for one year now! I would cheers myself but I’m on medication for amoebas (intestinal cysts caused by ingestion of food contaminated with fecal matter) and can’t drink alcohol. The day of our anniversary-July 24- was a pretty awesome day. Woke up early and went for a run (early enough that the number of kids chasing me was a minimum), attended the initiation ceremony for Zè’s first library and computer center (where the token drunk guy hassled the visiting French people instead of me for once), learned the 31 voodoo spells you can put on a person to make them die during intercourse, studied for the GRE in my hammock, and ate dinner while watching 30 Rock.

A year in Benin also means a new wave of volunteers. Getting off the airplane in Cotonou is a pretty harrowing experience and as we all remembered that many volunteers were there to welcome us in, many of us left our towns and villages for the weekend to do the same. Being on the other side of it was pretty amazing. They looked so clean! And pretty! I stayed in Cotonou the whole weekend so that when they weren’t being barraged with Peace Corps policy and safety sessions, they could ask questions of us and we could get to know the group that is now half the Americans in this country.

It was pretty amazing to see how far we’ve come using the new volunteers as a gauge for where we were a year ago. I have unstoppable “franglais” and I’m pretty sure half the advice I gave went misunderstood. They brought news of domestic politics, clothing styles, food fads, popular music, the newest technology, the latest you tube crazes, and a slew of trends we’ve missed out on. Their clothes looked as though they walked out of a Tide commercial, their faces a Neutrogena ad. But we had the appeal of experience, albeit crusted in dirt and with lowered standards of hygiene.

I want to thank everyone who has supported me throughout this year. I have high hopes for next year and am looking forward to sharing the ups and downs with you all.

Pictures below are from my friend's end of the year school party. Enjoy :)






Friday, July 30, 2010

I Need Your Help!

Dear Family and Friends,

On September 25 I celebrated one year of Peace Corps service in Zè, Benin. I have a year's worth of memories, photos, and friendships, comparatively little to speak of in the way of volunteer work. I have seen countless project ideas born and die in this time, because when need is everywhere, and helping hands are not, one must use what resources and know-how are available to address the most basic and pressing, among them. I come to you with a request for help with a project that addresses just that.

Like safe drinking water and paved roads, having a private place to relieve one’s self that does not endanger the health of others is something we take for granted in the developing world. I say this not to guilt you, but as reality, fact. I have seen firsthand people defecating in the fields that grow their neighbor’s livelihood, in the market where daily dinner is bought, near the waters in which they bathe, on the side of the road, where children play, in plain view of many; I have seen women forced to clear their courtyards and markets of fecal matter with just their hands and leaves; and I have seen the toll diarrheal and intestinal sicknesses can have on a child or adult.

Nearly a billion people worldwide lack some form of bathroom. I realize that these 25 latrines make barely a dent in that number, but those latrines will create a safe, private place for 200 people to use. That’s removing 200 people’s worth of fecal matter from public spaces, streams, and fields. The impact this has on the health of individuals within this community can indeed be great.

These latrines are low-cost, durable, and lasting. A pit latrine at a depth of 10 meters can suffice for a household for more than a decade. Each household will provide an estimated 35% of the latrine cost in the form of hauling water, gathering sand, and constructing a mud brick house to enclose the latrine. Each household will also receive education on proper hygiene including hand washing, food preparation and storage, and waste management.

To donate to this project please visit https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-196

I’d like to say “many thanks” for any and all donations from the people of Zè, Benin. Oddly, in local language that translates to “awanu kaka” (say that one aloud for the full effect). If you feel so inclined, please forward this email to family, friends, and co-workers.

Love from Benin,

Kim Sanders

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Much needed vacation

It’s been awhile since my last post and, if I have to be honest, that may be the case for the rest of my service (15 months, in case you were wondering). Things get harder to write about in the outlet of a blog. I have less original thoughts and observations about life here; the bizarre and exciting have become the mundane. And even those aspects of Beninese culture and its people that I still find surprising, hilarious, frustrating, or confusing seem unworthy of repetition here. You’ve all heard my gripes. Conversations among volunteers increasingly breach the bigger subjects- not what comprises their culture but why it is that way, not why we came here but why we stay, which are wholly different. Some of what I’d like to write here might seem insensitive or politically incorrect to you, you who know what you do of Africa from MSNBC special reports, Oxfam newsletters, and glossy coffee table books. I hate to have your opinion lowered of me before I can get back to America and do it myself.

So. It was high time for a vacation. I had gone 10 months without boarding a plane, probably the longest time in my life. Even the flight from Accra (Ghana) to Johannesburg felt luxurious. Getting from Cotonou to Accra, though, was an ordeal. We (Brigitte, the other volunteer I was traveling with) had to take a series of taxis through Togo and Ghana totaling 8 or 9 hours, at least 3 of which were on dirt roads, to reach the airport in Accra. Each country seemed to be sequentially better—cleaner, more developed, less chaotic—than the last, until arriving in South Africa felt somewhat like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. Or when you go to the optometrist to be fitted for glasses and the doctor flips through lenses that go from blurry to tolerable to crystal clear until there is the one that fits just right. Development is my home. Unfortunately, we didn’t look too much like we belonged: we looked pretty haggard after 30 straight hours of travel, our red dirt-caked clothes and faces characteristic of life in West Africa not fitting in to the June winter of South Africa.

Our two-week vacation was spent half in Cape Town and half in Johannesburg. Cape Town is a stunning city sandwiched between the iconic Table Mountain and the picturesque coastline. Even in a country of extraordinary history and a true melting pot of cultures, Cape Town is a gem. It has the eclectic architecture of a city that has seen influence and rule by several different European powers before adopting its own character and style. In some areas, vacant buildings and open fields stand as a tribute to the black tenants once forcibly removed from their homes during the reign of Apartheid. Murals dot the landscape and the rocky crevices of Table Mountain serves as a constant background.

Day one of our vacation was spent marveling at things like sidewalks, marked road lanes, cold weather, and shopping malls; relearning how to use eyeliner and straightening irons; and buying weather appropriate clothes to replace the rags that pass as our clothing in Benin. Cape Town was a blur of omelet breakfasts, sushi dinners, vanilla lattes, shared oogles at the posh and polished South African women, and sightseeing.

Just off the coast of Cape Town, near where the joining of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans causes some of the most dangerous currents in the world, is Robben Island on which Nelson Mandela was imprisoned. The tour of the island and prison blocks was given be an ex-political prisoner, in our case one who was held up until 1994, when the prison was shut down and all its prisoners released. We saw the cell where Nelson Mandela slept every night for almost 20 years, the court where revolutionary minds that would greatly shape the new South Africa came together, and the spot where Mandela hid the manuscript of Long Walk to Freedom before another prisoner in transport was able to smuggle it off the island (Mandela would later name that man his Minister of Transport). One day was spent climbing Table Mountain, a hike that starts off in direct sunlight at the foot of the mountain and ends in biting cold, mist, and fog at the top. We made the estimated 2 ½ hour hike in just over and hour, thawed our bones with hot chocolate at the top of the mountain, and took a cable car down.

The week spent in Cape Town was prior to the start of the World Cup so we were able to see the steady stream of fans of all nationalities flood South Africa streets and bars, donning the colors of their flags and, more likely than not, a vuvuzela, the long thin horn that is fan favorite there. They may be the only thing I don’t miss about South Africa, but then again if I had to pick between the mind-numbing buzz of a thousand vuvuzelas and the ruckus of Benin—bleating goats, moto traffic, and screams of “yovo! yovo!”—I’d choose the former.
Even those whose national teams did not make the Cup came. We met a lot of Irish who claimed they were there to cheer for whoever was playing France. South American team pride dominated the crowds, even though there were more Americans there than any other nationality, about 150,000. I have a theory that Americans were lower key and less patriotic because if you paint your face, wear your flag as a cape, and sing your national anthem obnoxiously loud in enclosed public spaces and you’re American, you’re a jerk. If you’re, say, Ghanaian or Slovak or Uruguayan, you’re just patriotic.

The second week of our trip was spent in the Johannesburg area. Though Brigitte and I had made reservations at a hostel, long story short, they did not work out and we were left opening day of the World Cup scrambling for a place to stay. Thankfully we were put in touch with a friend of Brigitte’s family friends who made our trip nothing short of perfect. I saw two games—USA v. England and New Zealand v. Slovakia—but we more or less followed all the games, which were conveniently at 1:30pm, 4:00pm, and 8:30pm daily: lunch, happy hour, and dinner. We thought we ate well in Cape Town, little did we know the wonders Johannesburg would hold. Our host Tim has a knack for finding the best of the best so in a week’s span we had the best mojitos, pasta, hamburgers, fries, strawberry daquiris, lattes, and braai (South African barbeque) South Africa--if not all of Africa--has to offer. Not to mention a fair share of wine. The week was a pretty perfect blend of boisterous crowds and electric atmospheres, and calm nights of good wine and good conversation. The last two days we spent at Tim’s house in the bush. Imagine a golf course, clubhouse, and spa in the middle of a safari park (removed of large carnivores) and houses dotting the landscape shared with warthogs, giraffes, zebras, antelope, ostriches, and exotic birds. You’ll have to see the pictures. It was the kind of thing that was too awesome for words—seeing wildlife from the window of your bath in the morning and hearing the calls of different animals while barbequing at night.

South Africa is more than interesting; it’s an anomaly within the African continent. The wealth and development, as far as I can tell, are centered around at most twenty cities, and apart from them the expansive savannah is dotted mostly by wildlife reserves, shantytowns, mining towns, and villages. Each city feels like an oasis of sorts, and traveling between them is making the switch from developed world to developing and back in a matter of hours. The South Africans we met were friendly and incredibly hospitable. I can’t say I would’ve enjoyed my trip as much had I come straight from the land o’ plenty, but coming from Benin, it was like the Emerald City.
Leaving South Africa was… is devastating too strong a word? Suffice it to say I almost missed the flight buying wine in duty free and we took full advantage of the free alcohol on the flight back to Accra (where we would have to sleep in the airport till daybreak and then start the hellish 9 hour journey back to Benin). Thankfully before leaving we stocked up on creature comforts like Doritos and crunchy peanut butter to ease the transition back to life in village. Also thankfully we made it from Accra to Cotonou when we did; riots in the capital of Togo have caused it to be declared too dangerous for PCVs to travel within the country, so other Benin PCVs currently on vacation in South Africa will have to stay in Ghana until Togo is declared safe to traverse.

And so here I am now, lucky to hear about the score of a World Cup game or see snippets on a small fuzzy TV screen, sweating out half my weight in water a day, and eating food that may change in color but rarely in texture, consistency, or taste. The kind of food that looks the same coming up as it does going down, if you know what I mean. It’s good to be back.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

"La dote"

Among other practices, like using a typewriter and hunting your own food, the giving of dowries (la dote, in French) still occurs in West Africa. I suppose though, that dowries exist in some sense in our culture. We have retained the practice of a father walking his daughter down the aisle, symbolically giving her away (well, her and several thousands dollars spent on fancy invitations, useless favors, one-time-only dresses and tuxes, and countless yards of toole to be fashioned into large bows on the backs of chairs). Back to the topic. So, the specifics of the dowry depend on your region and local culture (yes, in a country the size of Pennsylvania there are numerous cultures and actually big differences between some of them). In Zè, before the male’s family pays dowry to his future bride and her family, he must first give her a list of what he plans to give her. A sort of starting negotiation, if you will. She then takes the proposal to her paternal aunts and revises it as they see fit, which I’m sure means supplementing it. A typical dowry may look something like this:

Father of the bride: 12 meters of fabric, 3 bottles of alcohol, cash

Mother of the bride: 6 meters of fabrics, a jewelry set, dishes

And so on, with a different combination of food, alcohol, and other gifts for each of the bride’s sisters, brothers, and aunts. In some cases, the dowry is given at a ceremony called “la connaissance.” This is somewhat like a combination engagement party/bridal shower in that its purpose is for family and friends of the bride and of the groom to meet each other as well as for the bride to receive guests and all present play stupid games. The ceremony is traditionally held at the bride’s father’s house, and she is not considered betrothed until all the gifts have been bought, presented, and, finally, accepted by the bride and her family. If a woman’s family finds the gifts to be insufficient, they may refuse to give their permission/blessing. The groom’s female relatives form a caravan in their matching fabrics with the dowry gifts atop their heads. Upon entering, they set the dowry at the feet of the bride’s relatives, take their hands, and ask them to receive the gifts.

In one game, several women’s faces are covered and they walk into a circle of the groom’s family who has to say whether or not it is their future daughter. It’s symbolic of how well they know her spirit. The other game involves kola nuts and a maternal aunt. She must throw four kola nuts on the ground until the way in which they fall indicates their ancestors’ acceptance of the marriage. Many times, there are relatives actually buried under that very floor. The succession of kola nut throws is a type of dialogue, each throw an attempt to appeal to their ancestors on the couple’s behalf. American men have it easy; if they’re old-fashioned they may ask for the blessing of her father, but they certainly don’t have to get the permission of all her dead and living relatives.

Another odd thing, is that if you are marrying a twin, the dowry ceremony is conducted as though you are marrying the both of them, which can be awkward in the case of fraternal twins, like the ceremony I saw. If the groom’s family cannot afford the dowry it is up to the bride’s father to state the terms of an alternate dowry.

I guess when reduced to its basic facts, the process is less different form ours than one might think: where they argue the length of fabric and volume of moonshine here, we might bargain for a bigger diamond or higher clarity. I suppose if I explained the bachelor/bachelorette party to Beninese, they would find it just as bizarre.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

True Life: I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer

So I rarely write about the actual volunteer side of my life here. Many of the projects I’ve attempted or ideas I’ve had have crashed and burned in a big way: starting a tree nursery, planting a garden at the orphanage, giving lessons the environment at schools all have not worked out. My host structure here is the mayor’s office, which means that they pay my rent ($11 a month) and are invited to Peace Corps training sessions with me. My official work partner is the mayor’s wife and she is in charge of environmental concerns in Zè. It’s no secret that she holds that position solely because she bore the mayor three sons (the other two wives gave him worthless daughters and got nothing as far as I can see). So I have a work partner that cares very little about the environment and knows even less. Thankfully in the same office (when I say office I mean 10 foot by 5 foot room crammed with three desks and multiple wooden filing cabinets, a fire waiting to happen) is someone else who actually knows things about the environment, Kadja Codjo. Not my official work partner but the person I work with most. I was just recently given a desk there which you would think would make me happy but instead has forced me to spend countless hours tied to that desk staring into space or, if I’m feeling shameless, doing sudoku. I go there every day, just for a few hours if I can. The projects I have with the mayor’s office are: - Monthly public lectures given in a different village on a different environmental/health topic each month. We meet in the village center and spend a couple hours cleaning up the public space before sitting down and discussing the topic. - A project for planting and upkeep of trees and public spaces in three of the lesser funded villages in the area. This project is part of a competition for environmental projects that an American group, Millennium Challenge Account, is having. People work in each of the three villages the last Saturday of the month and at the end of the year if we are chosen as one of the winning projects we get rakes, wheelbarrows, gloves, etc. - Eventually I’m supposed to help design a rudimentary waste management system but insofar as no one seems to care about helping me it’s slow going. Trash cans should probably be the first step but they jumped the gun and have a tractor, wagon, and tractor driver (who refuses to actually touch the trash) already. So now it’s the collecting of trash and loading/unloading it into/from the tractor wagon that is the problem. - Tree Day is June 1 so I hope to do something that day, however I have been told in no uncertain terms that the choice of where, when, and what to plant is solely up to the mayor, and I am foolish in thinking he has better things to do than plan this. Yet when June 1 rolls around and no one has anything planned I expect everyone to be lamenting the worthless yovo they have. My activities outside of the mayor’s office: - I have an English club every Wednesday night with the high school seniors to help them prepare for the English part of their high school exit exam. I often bring magazine articles and maps for us to discuss and have had guests (family or other volunteers) several times. - The girls camp that I have blogged about several times that will be in June. I think I’ll be bringing one girl from Zè. I’m sure I’ll post a blog about it again later. - Handwashing “stations” and education sessions on proper hygiene at elementary schools with my local health agent. I’ve only done this at three schools so far but I love it. Kids get so excited, about anything really. Every student wants to do a better demonstration of handwashing than the last, which generally means by the end of the day the last student is washing his/her hands for 2 full minutes and diligently picking the dirt that has been accumulating under his/her fingernails since birth.





- Take Our Daughters to Work Day, which is an old program that has just been restarted this year. They have this sort of thing in the US too but here it’s pretty different. An essay contest was opened up to female 8th graders in which they had to write on a woman they admire and why. They winners were chosen (two from Zè!) and get to spend a long weekend in the home of a working woman in Cotonou, follow her to work one day, observe how she balances the demands of a Beninese wife and mother and being a working woman. Some of the girls might never have been to Cotonou; they’ll probably be staying in the biggest houses they’ve ever been in, with the most educated women they’ve ever met. I went to the two girls houses this week to explain the event and get permission from their parents. One girl’s father is a teacher and so he spoke French and was generally supportive of it all. He did ask, in all seriousness, if I would then stay around to help her finish high school then ensure she find a university in the US to give her a scholarship. I’m a pro at letting people down gently now. Peace Corps should market that as a quality volunteers need to have. The other girl’s situation was much different. I met her at the school at noon to accompany her to her house. Turns out she lives so far away from the school that she doesn’t go home for the 3 hour midday break. We had to hire a moto to take us the several kilometers to her house that she has to walk every morning probably before 7am and every evening after 7pm, alone, by the way, because she is the only child in her family still going to school. The others, as she has explained it, chose to find work or an apprenticeship. Neither of her parents spoke French or were literate. She had to sign her own permission slip and under contact we put down some other villager’s phone number since no one in the family has a phone. I had to just take for granted that they had given their verbal permission in Fon. Peace Corps would be horrified. I tried to explain to both girls that this program doesn’t just end when the weekend is over, that Peace Corps and I hope this will encourage them to continue their studies and reach for the stars (which, it turns out, is an expression that does not translate). This all happens May 6-9 and the evening of the 8th the 8 girls who were chosen for the weekend in Cotonou will give a presentation at a charity dinner for gender equality. I’m a little worried about them speaking in front of such a large crowd, mostly because it will be 90% white people and I’ve caused panic attacks among people with just two yovos in tow.
All this and I still manage to read a Harry Potter book a day or watch a whole season of The Office in one week.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

The Madness of March

March was a crazy hectic month in my usual slow-paced life. Life updates I know you’re all dying to hear:

Together with the other PCVs, the Peace Corps Community, and the American expat community here in Benin, we celebrated the life and service of PCV Kate Puzey, whose life was tragically taken one year ago. Here is a glimpse into the beautiful individual she was and the inspiration she continues to be: http://www.wsbtv.com/news/22798759/detail.html .

Mom and Cheryl (my mom’s good friend, for those who aren’t lucky enough to know her) were scheduled to arrive on Monday, but their first flight was snow delayed (imagine explaining “their flight was snow delayed” to people here for whom “snow” and “flight” are somewhat abstract concepts). Since the flight to Benin arrives only a couple times a week, they were forced to stay in Paris a few days where they accumulated cheeses and chocolates galore to share with me upon arrival. I can only speak for myself but that was definitely my favorite part of their visit. I had grand plans of going to Benin’s beach city, Grand Popo, and going hiking in a village a few hours north of here, but for one, their visit was cut three days short, and two, after their first taste of travel in Benin I decided staying put was preferable. So we spent 6 consecutive nights in Zè, no small feat for someone just arrived from Paris. It’s almost cruel that Air France is the only way into Benin- they give you several glasses of wine, personal DVD players, Toblerone, etc. That’s a vacation in and of itself for us.

When Dad and Jan were here we rented out taxis in order to avoid the 10 person minimum most taxis have but with Mom and Cheryl we did the vrai Beninese experience-standing on the side of the road screaming our destination and arguing with the driver over the price before loading ourselves into a vehicle that was probably deemed unusable in some European country in the late 70s. The week was a blur of meeting everyone in town, dinners with various families I’m close with, and trying to survive the heat. Cheryl’s feet were perpetually swollen from the heat or dehydration, I was in somewhat constant fear one of them might pass out from the heat or get heat stroke, that fear even replaced spiders and snakes as the main theme of my malaria med-induced dreams for the week. Only one day did we leave Zè- we went to the cultural capital of Benin, Abomey. Though I’ve heard much about the city and its historical importance before coming here, I really only found one museum that was an old fortress/palace of sorts filled with “relics,” many of which are still used in everyday Beninese life. It’s likely a more interesting museum for someone who doesn’t currently live in Benin and see mortars and pestles used to make her lunch every day.

Mom and Cheryl’s visit to Zè was incredibly different from Dad and Jan’s in the following ways: one, they spent an entire week here while Dad and Jan were only in Zè for a day and a half; two, they stayed at my house which means pulling your own bath water, hot nights and perpetual electricity outages, and coming to terms with never really being clean; three, they asked a million questions while Dad and Jan rarely strayed from “where can I get a cold beer?”; and lastly, as women they saw an entirely different side of Benin. They tasted pretty much every Beninese dish, including bush rat, and at least pretended to like them. They had traditional Beninese outfits made, went to church on Sunday, and learned a few key phrases in Fon that never ceased to have the Beninese in stitches.

We spent several afternoons with my BFF in village, Eleonore. She adored Mom and Cheryl almost as much as the See’s suckers they brought her. We had a pate (the staple Beninese food) cooking session with a neighbor family, a tour of the vistas of Zè with the mayor, and a failed attempt at killing a chicken with an extremely dull knife that won’t be erased from my mind for a long time. The highlight of the week was probably the day we spent at my landlord’s family compound. I explained it a bit before since Dad and Jan visited also (probably the highlight of their trip as well) but it’s a cluster of 30 or 40 mud buildings with three or four times as many people all descended from the same man (and two women) who still live on the property. We had a day of dancing, drumming, and, of course it wouldn’t be Benin without, eating. The pictures and videos on my Picassa account give you a taste of what the day was like. The hectic beat of the drums, vibrant colors of African fabrics, and incredible girations of Beninese men and women alike combine in such a way that makes adequate description impossible. It’s a sensory overload of sorts that must be experienced. One night we were given a bunny, let me preface this by saying that I’m accustomed to getting gifts almost daily and though it is culturally inappropriate to turn them down, it’s usually of an edible nature that I can either consume myself, pawn off on neighborhood kids, or feed to the goats. The bunny was intended to be edible. In fact, the gracious bunny farm owner intended that I kill the bunny myself and prepare it for my guests, however, it was only at my house for one night during which we treated it as a pet and cuddled with it most of the night. Mom then named it Bun Bun and we came to the mutual decision that we could not in good conscious kill something we had both named and cuddled. (Side note: I gave the rabbit to my friend Eleonore hoping she’s take care of it—in some way I don’t care to know about—before I came back to Zè. Unfortunately she made sure to keep it for me. Looks like I can get out of killing it with my own hands but getting out of eating it seems to be out of the question.)

I’m likely blanking on a few other details of their trip but I’ll close it with an anecdote from their last few hours in Benin. The streets and sidewalks in Cotonou, Benin can only be described as what one would think of as the aftermath of a world war (or Westwood, for those of you fortunate enough to have walked those streets, likely in heels and a few drinks in). While on our way back from dinner just hours before they were to board the plane and whilst commenting on what a wonderful trip it was, specifically that there were no major health/digestive concerns, Mom stubbed her toe on uneven sidewalk and broke it nearly clean off her foot. Her pinky toe was hanging off her foot at, I kid you not, more than a 90 degree angle. We walked the short way to the Peace Corps office where I called the embassy doctor who informed me that as she was not a US government employee he could not treat her (Or even come look at it?!? Really, America.). Mom was a total champ, didn’t cry once, even when every single other volunteer who was in the office came in to see it and jumped back in horror/repulsion at the site of such an unnatural degree. She then had to endure about 40 hours of travel, flip flops, and ice packs before seeing a doctor in California and having it broken back into place. My biggest regret about the whole visit is not getting a picture of that toe.

Just eight hours after seeing Mom and Cheryl off at the airport I boarded a bus for Parakou, a city in the north of Benin to join most of the other PCVs for a weekend. We hold an annual fundraiser for a small project fund (up to $100) that PCVs can access for small-scale projects in their communities. Other larger funds are more difficult and take longer to access. It’s a little bizarre that volunteers themselves fund it, being that we make about $200 a month, but there is another fundraiser held for American expats that probably makes much more money. Being that the nature of the fundraiser is an auction, volunteers and expats have two separate events, lest we never win anything.

The first night is a date auction in which volunteers auction off anything from cleaning your house to a weekend at a beautiful post or several home cooked meals. Volunteers bid one month’s pay or more for the dates. A couple girls auctioned a sleepover with popcorn, movies, and a pillowfight-adorable right? Made me think of wine and crossword nights but I decided the magic of that may be exclusive to my BFs and a hugely oversized couch at 469 Landfair. I thought about auctioning off a performance of Britney Spears choreography (who didn’t love the Oops I Did It Again tour?) but decided that this may not be the crowd for that. Ideas for next year’s auction?? I’m open to suggestions!

While the first night is relatively casual and held in an open air bar, the second night is what we call Peace Corps Prom. How lucky am I that sorority formals in college filled the void that high school prom left and now Peace Corps Prom can do the same?! Seriously though, every girl needs an excuse to put on makeup and a dress. It’s an occasion when I put on anything other than sunscreen and chapstick these days. Luckily since Mom came right before this she brought me heels and a dress (on which I received many compliments- thanks Mom J). This more formal night also includes a silent auction and sit-down dinner, but the real entertainment of the night was the pool. We at least succeeded in finishing the auction and getting to dessert before discarding the nicest clothes we all have in this country for bathing suits or the Fruit of the Loom equivalent, in some cases. Thankfully Peace Corps provided shuttles to take us back to our respective sleeping arrangements (mine on the floor outside another PCV’s house; again, just like college) in the wee morning hours to avoid having to take moto taxis.

I have lots of pictures and videos from my mom’s visit and the fundraiser weekend! Take http://picasaweb.google.com/kimberly.r.sanders/ApplesAndBeninese?feat=directlink.

Agoh Ceremony

A few pictures and videos from a ceremony held in my village a few weeks ago. The costumed men dancing on stilts come out only, as far as I know, for a ceremony called Agoh. As I’ve written about in previous posts, funerals are a big occasion here and usually warrant several full days of food, drinks, drumming, and dancing. If a family is unable to afford a proper funeral at the time of death, they may wait awhile, till they “find” money as they say here, to celebrate their loved one’s life. With this particular ceremony I think the deceased had been gone for 10 years, the man who put it on had a decade worth of amends to make to someone!







Saturday, March 6, 2010

Random: http://buildabearblog.com/?p=6030

And new pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/kimberly.r.sanders/ApplesAndBeninese?feat=directlink

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

The heat is slowly killing me. If not actually taking my life, certainly robbing me of brain function. Figured I should write a blog before the damage is done.
It’s really unfortunate that Peace Corps volunteers don’t have regular access to social networking sites. If we could update our Facebook statuses or Tweet (feel like a tool just for using that word) on a regular basis like the rest of the iPhone- and Blackberry-toting world, it would be endlessly entertaining. Imagine a Peace Corps version of Texts from Last Night or F My Life. It’d be something like:
Spent all day trying to outrun the town crazy who has apparently made it his new and only objective in life to hug me.
Just sharfed in a field. Again.
Had to make an emergency drop trou manuver in [insert semi-public location].
Just realized my flour is swimming with maggots. AFTER I baked and devoured a batch of cookies.
While trying to ask where the toilet is in local language I accidentally said [insert something wildly inappropriate].
Found out the bracelet I bought at the market last month is actually a voodoo fertility charm.
Or anything that starts with
“So I’m in my latrine and…”
“So I’m eating what I think is chicken and…”
You get the point.
We already have a running list of “You Know You’re a PCV in Benin When…” but most of those are references that only those of us, uh, privileged enough to know Peace Corps Benin would get. I do think there should be some kind of Murphy’s Law for Peace Corps. Things like
-You will unintentionally flash every male in a 50m vicinity any time you attempt to mount your bike in African garb.
-The electricity WILL go out during the hottest part of the day when you need a fan the most.
-Insects will find even the tiniest holes in your mosquito net and eat you alive at night.
-The taxi you choose will a) brake down, b) attempt to break a Guinness World Record for number of goats and/or chickens in a passenger vehicle, c) load so much cargo on the top that either the back fender is constantly touching the road and creating sparks or the center of gravity is so high that you spend the entirety of your trip in constant fear of the car toppling and the family of 8 in the 2 seats next to you crushing you, d) all of the above.

Some volunteers do have regular access to internet, BTW. Whereas I’m about two hours from the nearest cyber so I usually just go every couple weeks, some volunteers have internet on their phones or wireless cards which allow you to get internet access anywhere you get phone reception. Apple computers, though superior to PCs in every other facet, are not compatible with these wireless cards, so even if I did want to get internet in my house, I could not. (WTF, Steve Jobs???)

Recent updates: I had a fever and the kind of all over sick feeling that begets this weekend so I was holed up in my house all Sunday. Went through all my college photos- relived Barcelona shot bars, tubing in Vang Vieng, a few too many Chi O events, and all the people and places that made up the last 4 years of my life. Seriously miss my friends, my closet, Coffee Bean vanilla tea lattes, Novel brunches, and Westwood sake specials. (Things I don't miss include LA traffic and the line at Maloney's, FYI.)
Saturday was a village clean up I’d helped organize. We chose 4 villages to clean up the last Saturday of every month. I was really excited and optimisitic about it up until the day before the clean up when my work partner at the mayor’s office and I did a tour to see what areas of the villages need to be cleaned up. It became apparent to me that he was only interested in pulling weeds and grasses, not in picking up what we Americans think of as trash. You can imagine that, since everything here is dirt road, grass and weeds are the norm. So Saturday 15 Beninese pulled weeds and carefully disposed of them about 10 feet from wherever they were pulled, while I trailed behind picking up plastic bags, wrappers, etc. which they then burned afterward without my knowledge. Pretty sure the plastic bags do more harm to your respiratory system burnt than they would do piling up on the side of the road, since apparently I’m the only one who sees it as an eyesore. It’s difficult to be an environment volunteer when your idea of the environment and theirs is almost completely opposite. Just visited the national forest 25km from Zè, which I expected to be, like in the US, a forest that is protected by the national government. Way off. It actually just means that it’s the government that pockets the money when the trees are cut down in that area. Good to know.
Just saw Kill Bill 2 for the first time and was highly unsettled by how shockingly unassuming a black mamba is. I was expecting an anaconda kinda thing- you KNOW when you see it. So my Larium dreams have a new star, which is good because I was starting to become immune to bats and cockroaches.
I often let neighborhood kids come in my house and just hang out. They don’t do much except play the voice message on my Build-A-Bear (“This is your grandma, and this is Kristen, and we love youuuu!) repeatedly and stare at me. But I find it less unsettling when they stare at my in my house than when they stand outside my screen door and stare. I feel like other people are going to see kids looking in and think there’s something to see and eventually a crowd will gather that I won’t be able to disperse. You think this sounds out there, I know it’s not. So one group of kids was here this weekend and when I finally got them to leave my house I realized one little girl had peed on my couch! The only person that has the right to lose their bowels on my furniture is me. Still pretty mad about it.
This is one of the hottest times of the year, before the rainy season starts up again at the end of this month. While I have no doubt that wouldI prefer this weather to other parts of the Peace Corps world where PCVs deal with below freezing temperatures, you should all still feel bad for me.

On a serious note, March 12 will be one year sine the death of Benin PCV Kate Puzey. There is a memorial in Cotonou that all the volunteers and American community in Benin will attend, and a separate memorial in Kate’s village along with a ceremony renaming the village’s primary school after her. Keep her family in your thoughts.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

it's as simple as something that nobody knows...

So I realize I rarely write any of my reflections on the greater problems I encounter here, not malnutrition, gender inequality, and such problems that I enoucnter often, but the very idea of development; what has been called the “white man’s burden.” Mostly I reserve those thoughts for my journal or conversations with other PCVs in which the circular, not-rheotical-but-yet-no-answer nature of the questions has as much to do with their depth as with the beer consumed. I had hoped from the beginning that Peace Corps would make or break a career in international development for me. I either would feel completely confident that this is the career track for me or would recognize that a lifetime of work in what can be an endlessly frustrating and fruitless sector would shake me of it and I could go on to a job in corporate America and donate to UNICEF, Oxfam, and the like during the holidays in order to quell my "white, liberal guilt."

I can’t say I’ve been pushed either way as of now. I will forever be a restless individual, never content to stay in the US for too long. However, I can’t imagine getting acclimated to a new culture every couple years, as Foreign Service individuals do. (Well, I think they live in American pockets within each foreign country so that you never have to really get acclimated to the culture like you do when you’re, say, living and working as the only American in a foreign village for a substantial period of time.) I can’t see myself living the rest of my life in America, nor can I see myself living the rest of my life outside of it. What I have realized is that I wouldn’t want to raise kids anywhere other else.

I came here hoping to have Jared Diamond-esque revelations about the inherent brilliance of the Beninese people and a vindication that it is the oppression of the Western developed world that keeps this part of the world in economic shackles. I do admire their culture, and hope to incorporate the generosity and hospitality of the Beninese people into my character before returning to the US, but, rather unexpectedly, I ended up falling in love with the US. Part of it has to do with the fact that everyone here loves the US. I am asked on a daily basis if I will bring some individual or their children back to the US when I go. I get marriage proposals on a every day from men and from women on behalf of their not-yet-potty-trained sons or already-thrice-married spouses. I realize in the US many of us grow up believing we live in the greatest nation in the world, and from some factual standpoints that may be true (i.e. military strength), but it seems preferable to growing up in a country where many people would abandon their country and culture completely for a chance to live in America. One would think I would return from an experience like this a simpler, less materialistic individual, but in fact I think I love commercialist America more than ever here. Kinda like how we eat up the Life & Style and People magazines here that most would never have read back home; devour Cup O’ Noodles and Oreos with a fervor unseen before.

There are certainly human rights to life, health, and education that are not guaranteed here. The life expectancy is too low; the infant mortality rate too high. More people die of dirty water and diarrhea each year than we can fathom. And yet, in the US we have traded those causes of death for those characteristic of a highly developed, highly industrialized nation. I don’t know how many people die of drug overdose, suicide, cancer, heart disease, obesity, etc. in Benin but it’s a miniscule proportion compared to the US.

too much hard thinking for the moment. much love :)

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Camp GLOW

I remember looking through my grandmother’s grade school report cards years ago- the things we keep!- and being shocked that it had a list of career options for girls, of which one box was to be checked: secretary, nurse, teacher, or housewife. That was sixty years ago. Today in Benin the picture seems even bleaker.
The role of women in society at large is that of wife, mother, and housekeeper. Anything apart from this is a distant second. Young girls are housekeepers before students; the work they do around the house is more important, more valuable to the family, than anything that can come from the education they can get. Women’s education is viewed as a poor long-term investment because girls will one day marry and end up in another man’s home, supposedly at that point of no further use to her family. Misguided ideas such as the fear that educated girls are disobedient feed into this. Within and outside of the home, there are few educated women to be seen as role models and even fewer female teachers to encourage young girls in their studies.
It is estimated that the ratio of boys to girls here in middle school is 2 to 1 and that it drops to 4 to 1 by the end of high school, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the actual ratio is much more devastating. I was in a high school senior class yesterday in which there was one sole female, and the way classes are set up means that every class period is like this for her. I’m amazed that she is still in school! It is difficult to be different, a minority, in any high school classroom. In a Beninese classroom, where there is a culture of laughing raucously at anyone who volunteers a wrong answer and the general inability to ask for help from teachers and other students if you don’t fully understand a concept, this is amplified. This then becomes a double-edged sword; if parents know that the majority of girls who start high school never finish, there is less incentive to pay for the first year.
Pregnancy and marriage are common reasons girls drop out of high school here. Oftentimes in a situation of pregnancy the male is much older but if he is also a high school student he more than likely stays in school while the young woman is left with no option but to leave. Birth control can be difficult to obtain and can be culturally frowned upon: some men believe it gives their wives license to be promiscuous. If a man believes his wife should not become pregnant because he is sticking to traditional fertility calendars, he believes he can tell if she has been unfaithful or not. In many instances health workers are not authorized to give out birch control unless a woman has consent from her husband. Situations similar to this suggest that no matter how much education can be disseminated among women, it is men who make the final decisions in many women’s lives and therefore men who need to be educated.
One of the most disturbing factors in the gender unbalance in high schools is sexual harassment propagated by male teachers. At my local high school, every teacher is male, which is not uncommon here. The trading of sexual favors for academic ones is said to be endemic in Benin. Some call it “le droit de cuissage” (“right to the thighs”). If a student refuses a teacher’s advances, she may see her grade drop or some other form of reciprocation. Stop and think about that for a second. Endemic. I have been told by high school teachers, after explaining to a class of high school students how it shocked me to see such a low proportion of girls in their class, that there are less girls because they choose not to go to high school. They choose to resign themselves to dressmaking or selling prepared food for the rest of their lives; choose housework over homework; forget cultural and gender barriers, it was a choice. I can see then, that girls might choose to take themselves out of a situation like that. This is not to say that all student-teacher relationships are started by teachers; knowing that good grades and favored treatment in class such as answers to upcoming tests are payment for sexual favors, girls may be the ones making advances. The intention may be genuine-to finish high school and get a job outside of village-and a relationship with a teacher seen as the only lifeline in a system in which she is going against the current in every other respect.
Results of a survey conducted by a women’s rights NGO in 2007-2008 found that
-62% of students have known a professor to threaten a student who has refused their advances
-57% know professors who have changes grades in order to pressure students into sexual relationships
-65% of students know a fellow student who was impregnated by a teacher.
Outside of school settings gender inequality is pervasive in just about every aspect of life and culture here. Women who are disempowered in every other aspect may see no alternative but to concede if a sexual partner refuses to use a condom. A woman cannot refuse sex to a husband even if she suspects him of sleeping with others and possibly prostitutes. This perpetuates the spread of AIDS which is further complicated by the fact that woman are biologically 2-4 times more likely than men to contract HIV during unprotected sex and the horribly misguided belief that sleeping with a virgin will cure AIDS. Women may be forced into sex work as a result of cultural laws, for instance that of land ownership: as a woman she has no claim to the land, thus if she is widowed the land belongs to her sons and if she has been so unfortunate as to not bear her late husband any sons, she may be homeless and without options.
Other shocking practices are carried out here, many of which the true extents remain unknown, notably the trafficking of women and children and female genital mutilation. I don’t intend to mention those travesties just as a sidenote, but cannot comment on just how pervasive these practices are. I do know, however, that trafficking exists in my region and the FGM is estimated to have been practiced on 17% of women in the country, mostly northern ethnic groups. In one recent year, 222 victims of trafficking, likely all girls, were rescued by Beninese police. Imagine then, how many were not so fortunate, how many have been trafficked in previous years.
It is said that with economic independence, women no longer have to fight for their rights, respect, or empowerment; that it then comes naturally. However, in a society in which all housework, which in Africa can mean hours spent carrying water alone, and childrearing fall exclusively to women, there is little time for any income-generating activity.
I wrote months ago about meeting the woman who runs Benin’s Women and Development program: Probably one of the strongest feminists in the country, maybe one of the few who are familiar with the term, and yet she admits that when her husband has company over she does what is expected of her as a Beninese wife: resigns herself to the kitchen to prepare food and drink for the guests, even if it is other family members. In some cases women may spend several hours preparing food only to not be able to eat if their husband chooses not to or finds it unappetizing.
Remember “A Day without a Mexican”? That documentary-type film that came out whose billboards featured a rogue lawn mower plowing down the street sans driver? “A Day without Women” here would be similar. Buckets of water suspended several feet off the ground with no one to carry them, no lines at the well, no prepared food, no one taking care of children or sick, no selling or buying at the usually bustling West African village markets.
I see it in small, everyday but still disturbing things. Women must give the best taxis seats to men, men can take up as much leg room as they like while a woman and her infant are shoved against the door, etc. Then there is the culture of polygamy, which is a whole other more complicated chapter.
In response to the need for gender equality activities, in the hopes that something resembling a movement could be started, Peace Corps and USAID created what is now the Gender and Development program. One of its biggest activities is a summer camp, Camp GLOW (Girls Leading our World). Volunteers are able to bring young girls, just starting high school, to a week-long camp in which they are presented with themes of women’s empowerment that they may have never considered. I plan to participate in Camp GLOW the last week of June and bring a local 7th grade girl.
Now… we need help making this happen. You can donate to the Camp GLOW fund here: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.donatenow
Thanks in advance!

Friday, February 5, 2010

Lions, Tigers, and Beer: Dad and Jan visit Benin

The first of many visits here from family and friends has come and gone. I can wipe a little sweat off my brow. I sadly have very few pictures but Dad and Jan were surprisingly astute photographers; when I get those I’ll pass them on. The trip started with a minor catastrophe but other than that was probably my 7 favorite days in Benin to date.

A couple hours before their flight was supposed to land I went online to check if it was on time and the Air France website said “This flight has returned to Paris due to a technical error. No further information available.” I went from zero to basketcase in 60 seconds. I moped around the Peace Corps office sharing my sob story to any PCVs around and climbed into bed with a list of numbers to call the next day, reservations to cancel. THEN, as I’m falling into slumber that only comes after a good cry, 4 hours after their scheduled arrival time, Dad calls from a borrowed phone saying he’s at the airport in Benin! Dad and Jan made friends with the airport “bartender” (probably a 16-year-old in a shack that sells, among various natural sexual supplements, cold beer) while I made my way there. The first night was a whirlwind of confusion, emotion, and beer, the latter of which proved to be a trend lasting through the entirety of their trip. We had 3 or so hours of sleep before getting on a 9 hour bus to a town outside the safari park. The bus was the lap of luxury in my opinion: upholstered chairs, air conditioning, free entertainment (at ungodly volumes, granted), and a one-person-one-seat policy. This compared to my usual form of transportation in which at least 7 people are fitted into a 5 person sedan—my most recent trip reached an astounding TWELVE individuals—along with various livestock in the trunk and so much baggage on top that the car is taller than it is wide. (I also have an innate tendency to pick the most audacious of taxi drivers. I have now had four attempt to outrun police pulling them over. Two were successful.) However, Dad and Jan came from First Class seats and pre-flight champagne service. They were less thrilled with the ride. Beautiful views redeemed it somewhat. We literally crossed the entire country of Benin from south to north and they can confirm what I suspected- I really do live in the most beautiful place here.

We spent one night in the town outside of the safari park and met up with two PCVs who were in town for beers and a local specialty called tchook, a homemade beer-type drink served in mud huts and drank out of calabash bowls. The next morning was an early wake up for the several hour drive on to the safari park, named ParcPendjari. Our guide was a jovial Beninese man named Haziz who we loved because of his knowledge of the park and wildlife but moreso, his understanding of the best way to outrun charging elephants. A general day safariing is going out in the SUV just before daybreak for a few hours, then a lunch/nap break during the hottest part of the day, when most animals are lazing in the shade anyway, then a few more hours out until sundown. No giraffes or zebras, those are more East Africa. We saw crocodiles, hippos, elephants, baboons, several species of antelopes and birds, wild boars, and three lions. There is only one hotel with just a handful of rooms there; small but I guess the real excitement is the safari.

On our way out of the park, we visited waterfalls that happened to be located in another PCV’s village and ran into him there. Then another 10 hours in a taxi back down south though this time we paid a Beninese fortune to rent out a taxi instead of taking the bus. I had thought Zè would be low key and relaxing, like my life in general here, but since Dad and Jan were only here for 2 days we had a string of lunch and dinner dates and introductions. Meals can be difficult- Beninese are notoriously hospitable toward guests but very easily offended if you don’t let them let you eat them out of house and home. Normally I ensure that I space my meals with Beninese at least a week apart to ensure that my stomach has time to recover and shrink back to normal size. You have to finish pretty much everything on your plate, lest you insult the cook which in most cases is a woman who has been slaving away to create that meal all day long and who herself will not get to eat it. We had several chickens killed in our honor and even a duck (both of which are expensive and rare here) as well as some Beninese specialties including pate rouge, fried plantains, and yam pilee. Thankfully Dad and Jan liked the food so I didn’t have to make many excuses for rude behavior such as not licking your plate clean and sucking the marrow out of the bones. The first family to host us is one I’ve blogged about before- my landlord/carpenter/handyman and his family compound with easily over a hundred people and around thirty-five separate buildings. Both Dad and Jan and the family had many questions so one of the brothers who speaks French well translated French to Fon and visa versa and I translated English to French and visa versa.It was a pretty beautiful thing, the three languages. I wish I could paint a better picture of the setting: all adult male members of the family plus Dad, Jan, and I sitting in an outside gazebo made of wood posts and thatched roof, surrounded by what seemed like (and probably actually was) a hundred kids. They had carried their entire living room set up- sofa, chairs, tables-outside. It was the kind of dark that only occurs in places where there is no electricity, just a single light on the table. The next morning that family took us on a three hourmoto ride to a national forest and back. It was stunning; pictures don’t do it justice. There is some cutting that occurs and the state sells wood for a profit but because it is not a slow-growth forest trees are replenished in just a few years. We had lunch with my friend Eleonore and her husband. Eleonore killed the duck for us and though we ate it all and praised her for it I’m still hearing hell for none of us finishing the third course she served us. I think we may have gone into food comas immediately after that point in time and woke up just in time to do introductions at the mayor’s office before the business day ended. Dinner was with the mayor, a formality I hope I can avoid with future guests visiting from America. No use detailing that. The next day was their last day here. We took the two or three-hour drive into Cotonou which, Dad and Jan can attest, goes quickly from the paradise of Zè to the vileness of Cotonou. I exaggerate but in comparison it does seem a bit like that. Had one last great meal with wine then it’s back to rice, beans, and pate for me. Saying goodbye this time was WAY better than saying bye when I left America, which was probably the saddest day of my life so far.

Dad and Jan can tell you their impressions of Benin and its people but in a word it would probably be friendly. Nowhere in America do strangers elicit wide smiles and waves (then again, in our mixed culture you can’t tell who’s American and who isn’t and here it’s blatantly obvious). I can only hope that every visit is just as amazing as this one. I’m aiming for zero stomach issues next time though.

As happens any time after I spend a lot of time in the company of other Americans, it takes a little adjusting back to village life. Your nights seem a little lonelier than before, work options seem scarcer, communicating just that much harder. Luckily we had a string of meetings a week after Dad and Jan left so I’m in the comfort of other Americans again, weaning myself off until my mom and her friend Cheryl visit in March…

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Oh 2010...

I’ve been bad about blogging lately but have a good excuse. The last two weeks I’ve been in the capital city, Porto Novo, with other volunteers for mid-service training. I never wrote on the New Years here so I’ll give a recap:
Many people ring in the new year with a midnight mass then dance and sing afterwards til the wee hours. I opted to save my energy for the next day so for the first time that I can remember I slept through the stroke of midnight. I went to mass the next morning but apparently the fun people were sleeping. I spent the afternoon at the mayor’s house, where the kids ran around, the women cooked, and the men watched TV, ate, and drank. I was promised dancing but when I was there the women were hard at work crushing peppers, onion, and tomatoes and cooking goat, chicken, plantains, and rice over traditional three stone stoves. Later in the day kids get dressed up and go house to house eating families’ leftovers. Kinda like trick-or-treating. Kids of well off families and adults are not supposed to do this, however, and if they do they lose respect. I ended the day sitting with my friend and her kids, laughing and spooning out leftover portions to kids who came by. Much more low key than I had anticipated but much enjoyed nonetheless.
The entire month of January Beninese visit family and friends in other villages and make trips to the village they grew up in, usually their father’s village. To the repertoire of greetings is added “Kudo Whey” or “Bon Fete.” January 10 is the big voodoo holiday here and though we were in Porto Novo for training my friend Kara’s lives just 15 minutes outside the city so we were able to see her village celebrate. For most of the afternoon and evening people stand in a big circle, older women dressed in a mélange of fabric strips fashioned around their upper arms and waists. The entertainment is the zangbetos, which you may or may not remember is a big haystack looking creature that is central to the voodoo tradition. The zangbeto is said to come from the sea and has two responsibilities: patrolling the streets at night and providing entertainment for voodoo celebrations. The Beninese believe there is no man under all that hay. Each village or neighborhood has it’s own zangbeto so there were a few there that day. They mostly dance and charge the crowd, at which point everyone at that corner runs in fear. You aren’t supposed to touch it, especially if you’re a woman, but the zangbeto actually approached our group of 4 Americans in the middle of his act and told us we could take pictures with him if we gave him some money. I can only imagine what a nonhuman mobile giant haystack spends his money on.
The two weeks in Porto Novo were like a much needed vacation: TVs with CNN, rooms with ceiling fans, showers (cold, but I’ll take it), many foods we hadn’t seen in months like salad and beef, and, best of all, American company. I definitely regressed in my French and Fon but that’s a small price to pay. The trade off was a hellish 8am to 6pm schedule every day but Sunday. I realize that is a normal work week for many Americans but it’s hard to adjust to such a slow-paced society as Benin and, as we’re seeing, even harder to adjust back. Our training covered HIV/AIDS education, designing and implementing projects, applying for funding, seed collecting and planting, and potential and difficulties at each respective post. We alternated between expensive ($5) meals of steak and mashed potatoes with cheap ($0.20) meals of rice and beans so as to not blow our entire monthly allowance in a week, and between nights together sampling West African brews on the roof of our hotel (which did not have a ledge and, in hindsight, was a really stupid idea) and low-key nights watching episodes of Arrested Development, The Office, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia from people’s external hard drives. One particularly awesome night we watched the first of Benin’s games in the Africa Cup (soccer, for those who don’t know). One of the outside bar/restaurants in town set up a projector screen and we cheered on our team, Les Ecureuils (The Squirrels), alongside other Beninese (all men, not surprising). The Squirrels are about as intimidating as UCSC’s Banana Slugs, but conveniently it rhymes with “Allez” thus making “Allez, Allez, Allez les Ecureuils!” an awesome cheer. We played Mozambique and tied 2 to 2 but lost a few days ago to Nigeria and are now out of the running.
This last weekend we spent making our way back to each of our villages. I only had 3 or 4 hours to go but many people’s trips took the entire weekend. A big bus traveling with 3 PC volunteers crashed into a semi on Sunday and, though fortunately they are fine, several passengers in the front of the bus died and a Japanese volunteer was in the hospital. That combined with the news of two suicides in my hometown (not people I knew, but horribly sad nonetheless) and the withdrawals from American company have made for a somber last couple days.
Thankfully I have my dad and Jan coming tonight!