I finally finished training and leave for post tomorrow. It’s a bittersweet time- I’m ready to be out of the host family’s house but not really ready to live completely alone. I’m ready to start cooking for myself but not ready to buy all my food at the market using local language. I’m ready to not have class for 10 hours, 6 days a week, but not ready to leave the company of all the other Americans. I definitely have some butterflies in my stomach and intestinal tract (making friends with the parasites and amoebas, it’s a shindig in there).

We have been taking our final tests and finishing up last minute things to know, including emergency exit plans and locating helicopter landing spots near our houses, in case of things like medical emergencies. No ambulances. In most cases our nearest landing spot was “the neighbor’s corn field” or “any nearby fallow field.”
I passed a level of French high enough to start taking local language, so now I’m studying Fon and Aizo. They’re tonal and ridiculously hard. Not only is it not the same alphabet, but completely foreign sounds, sounds my mouth does not know how to make. It sounds more like Chewbacca (sp?) talking to me than a form of communication.

Friday was our swear in ceremony. Since last year’s swear in was the 40th anniversary of Peace Corps in Benin, the ceremony was lavish: held at the Congress Hall with an after party at the Ambassador’s house. All the volunteers were put up in a hotel to facilitate a last night of general debauchery before leaving one another. But since 41 is not a special number, and probably because Peace Corps is so low on funding, we had some lawn chairs under tarps in the parking lot of the Peace Corps office. It is crucial in Benin that no individual of any importance be omitted from speaking at an event like this, so not only did about fifteen people speak- government ministers, Peace Corps staff, trainers, reps from the Ambassador’s office, volunteers- but each person is required by cultural norms to begin their speech with an acknowledgement of the presence of everyone in attendance. “Dear Monsieur Minister of the Environment and Protection of the Nature, Dear Madame Director of Peace Corps Benin, Dear Monsieur Minister of Primary and Secondary Education,…” and so on until “Dear Dude Who Put the Toothpicks in the Hors D’Oeuvres.” You’re a good ten minutes in to any speech before you hear the meat of it. Each speech is then ended with a series of hopes for the continuation of the various institutions included in the ceremony. “Live the Republic of Benin! Live Peace Corps! Live America! Live Bangkok Terrace-the only place to get Thai food in all of Benin!” (I kid I kid.)

In the end, an even 50 people took the oath that is given to, I’m assuming, all employees of the U.S. government, to uphold the constitution and serve our country’s best interests at all times. I was incredibly touched by this part; I’m not sure if it’s being a Peace Corps Volunteer or just living in West Africa the last two months, but I love America more than ever. Yesterday, while buying a mattress for my new home with some other volunteers, we saw the ceremony and each of our glowing faces on the national news station. There apparently was not much news going on this weekend because I think that 5 minute clip played on repeat all day. I wait no longer for my 15 minutes.

There was a party that followed after, just for volunteers. I won’t go into much detail except to say that our collective BAC was higher than I can count in French and by the end we had a crowd of 25 or more people observing from outside the restaurant’s patio gate. A cigarette company even heard there was a yovo party and came with cartons of free cigarettes, taking pictures of all the white kids smoking their brand. I’m pretty sure some unsuspecting PCV is going to end up on a billboard somewhere in Africa with a caption along the lines of “The preferred cigarette by 9 out of 10 yovos.”

Now current time. I’m not feeling well at the moment, stomach sick and feverish. My hope is that it’s just nerves, the result of the realization that by this time tomorrow I’ll be completely on my own. If it’s not just nerves then I have some tapeworms or parasites to keep me company in Ze. On the subject of things that eat your insides, while at the Peace Corps office Friday a lot of people weighed themselves and probably half the group has lost weight, some just a few pounds, several people 20-25 pounds. I think the most lost in the last two months was 27 pounds. It’s mostly men who are losing weight, probably a lot of muscle mass. There are a couple volunteers who are having a really difficult time keeping weight on, so much so that it’s becoming a medical concern. The guys had a beard growing contest the duration of training and when they shaved yesterday, every single one of them had more defined faces than we remember.

As I said last time, my blog posts and internet access in general are going to get a lot fewer and further in between. So if you email me and don’t get a response for a few weeks, understand that I probably haven’t even received it. I’d love your addresses so I can write letters instead. For those who have written emails lately but have not received a response, Im saving writing letters for lowkey nights (every night). But emails or letters, doesn’t matter. Just write me, please. Or call if you have Skype. Or just come here if you have money.

Another Comedic Cultural Exchange

Last week we broke up into groups and each visited a different religion or voodoo sect. I visited a zambeto house, which is a part of voodoo culture. The zambeto is a huge hay stack with a man under it who speaks out of a Riccola commercial-like horn to distort his voice and sound other-worldly. Imagine a huge haystack teepee mascot. They believe there’s no person, just a spirit, under there. So though we were given the opportunity to ask questions, I couldn’t ask things like “How do you pick what guy gets to be the zambeto? Do your legs cramp under there for hours? Is it always the same guy?” Not culturally sensitive. They are keepers of the night after sundown, keeping women, children, and criminals off the streets. If a woman sees him at night it is said that she dies soon after. Seems like a way to repress women to me. He comes out in the daytime at times, usually accompanied by drummers and dancers. Party hat during the day kinda guy. He claims to be able to turn sand into millet (I’m sure they’d never heard of Jesus’s water to wine ability. And who wants millet anyway?). When we asked how people can venerate him, he replied he accepts veneration in the form of cases of beer, moonshine, pork, goats, and the like. Something tells me he wouldn’t turn down virgins or hard cash either.

Home Sweet Home

Enough had gone on in the last couple weeks to fill a novel. First of all, I got three letters in the mail which was amazing. I’ve read them, along with some letters I got before leaving, several times, and they never fail to put a (oftentimes much needed) smile on my face. It only costs 90 cents to send me a letter and, admittedly or not, 99% of you reading this would gladly sit down and talk about whats going on in your life for 10 minutes. That’s all I want- to know whats going on with you guys. Even if you think its nothing, the mundane to you has become the interesting and comforting to me. If not, I will have to continue writing you letters that are filled with more than you care to know about moi. OR you can send me an email, which is free AND you can do that while you pretend to work (shout out to the 9 to 5 crowd).
The shuttle that runs from Cotonou, where the post office and airport are located, to Porto Novo, where we stay for training, is a magical thing. It brings us letters and packages and medical unit requests, and sends for us letters to the states which collect in the PC office until a volunteer goes to the US for any reason and takes a stack with him/her. It also sends stool samples to the PC medical office for those people who are having… issues (we’re all having issues really, the line is fuzzy and drawn on a case by case basis). We attach a note with specifics that truly validates the pay that doctors receive, and then wait to receive a letter, among the letters and packages from friends and family, that reads “Bonjour (insert name)! You have giarrdea/tapeworms/amoebas/intestinal parasites.” True story. That’s what the letters say. I’ll refrain from discussing it in detail in such a public manner, but suffice it to say I’ve gone through my allotment of stool sample collection containers already.
I have experienced and can confirm that the Larium dream cycle is as intense as you’ve probably heard. For those who don’t know, the medicine that most take for malaria is said to cause really crazy dreams. So between the medical horror stories we’ve heard and the Larium, and the cockroaches that play in my room at night (they’re surprisingly loud), I’ve had some trouble sleeping of late. In my latest dream a huge bunny tried to eat me. There was more to the story but when I typed it out it made me seem crazy. It was a result of a conversation I had had with my host family that night at dinner. I was trying to explain the Easter Bunny to them and they were really confused. I mean, a fat white guy at Christmas who gives presents to children, that’s logical, but a human-size bunny who hides magical eggs of candy and money, that’s vraiment bizarre. There have been other really funny things that I’ve tried to explain to people here. Lasik surgery for one, cancer for another.
Terrible news- my computer joined the growing pile of broken electronics. My hard drive crashed, even though my Macbook is less than two years old and I have been taking really good care of it. The universe apparently wants me to give up all of my worldly possessions and truly live like a local, bien integree in PC lingo.
I have just two weeks left of training- one full week of classes then a week of final tests, interviews, buying everything I need, and saying goodbye to my host family here before swearing in on September 25. I’ll move to Ze, my new home, the next day. I just got back from a 3 day visit to Ze and though I wish I could explain how beautiful, honestly stunning, the place and the people are, I know I’ll fail. You’ll just have to come visit to see. Since my house is just 5 cement walls and a tin roof right now, I stayed with a generous family during my visit. I really lucked out with the family that offered to host me; not only are they two of the most generous, patient, and friendly people I’ve met in Benin (along with their 7 kids), but they are definitely people I hope to stay close with for the next two years. The wife is an elementary school teacher and only 26 years old (only the 2 youngest kids are hers with her husband). They’re eager to please me and make sure I’m comfortable and welcome, but they don’t patronize or pamper me. They let me help with preparing the food, even though they laugh mercilessly at everything I do and redo it after. As long as I can laugh too, ya know? There were some weird cultural things… the first night they said something like “you’ve been in those clothes all day, you must want to change,” but I brought just enough clothes and really hate doing laundry so I tried to say I was all set with the clothes situation, but they brought me their clothes to wear and insisted I changed. I observed the next day- these people change outfits like four times a day. So I rotated mine, because it made them happy. The maman insisted on buying me an outfit, which I didn’t want, mostly because she gave me a choice of 2 ugly fabrics, but when they insist you really can’t say no. Like when they say “eat more” and you say “thanks but I’m full” and they say “doesn’t matter, eat more.” You admit defeat. So I had my measurements taken and it was ready a couple hours later. They made me put it on immediately and that’s when I saw that she had been so insistent upon it because she got the same outfit and wanted to parade around town with me, dressed as twins, for all the town to see. I felt a little used, like an accessory of sorts, but I didn’t mind it at all, really. It’s like I may as well embrace the novelty my foreignness and white skin are to them; it’s not changing anytime soon.
A photographer showed up one of the days to take my picture with the girls who are apprentices at the dressmaker that rents out space at the house I was staying at. I was completely confused. I say hi to them but we’ve never actually talked because they only speak the local language, Aizo. Alas, when in Rome. When the maman came home and heard it planted a similar seed in her head and the photographer came back to do a whole sitting, complete with wardrobe change, for the two of us. Can’t wait to see how awesomely awkward I am in those pictures.
The first thing I did when I arrived in Ze was to go to the mayor/governor’s office. The call him a mayor, but it’s more the equivalent of our governor. He presides over an area the size of a county in the US physically, with about 70,000 people from 73 villages. I met all of the people who worked in his office, introduced myself, tried and failed to pronounce their names and say anything mildly intelligent. It took me two days to figure out that my work partner, Huguette, and my supervisor, Mayor Dangbenon, are married. I attribute that not only to a lack of comprehension on my part, but a lack of displayed affection (see last post) on their part. I ended up spending a lot of time with them and their kids, who are ridiculously adorable. One funny thing did happen there- the electricity went out, as often happens, and their first response was to get the flashlight and shine it right on me. I’m not sure if they thought I would bail at the first chance or if they were trying to provide me with light before themselves and just failed at the implementation.
I also visited the police station and met the police chief. I met the town papa, the oldest man in town, who has an awesomely scruffy voice that I can’t understand at all and had a huge grin plastered on his face the whole time. I figured out where the nearest hospital and internet access are (further than makes me comfortable), took a walk around the village, saw some voodoo statues, went to the market one day (it only happens once every five days, so you need to stock up those days), and in general saluated (greeted) every single person that passed by me. Another PCV explained it perfectly by saying that it’s like the beginning of Beauty and the Beast where Belle is walking through town and everyone is yelling “Bonjour! Bonjour!” Well it’s like that, but an African village. I’m thinking about bringing a book to the well next time, maybe singing a little diddy for the spectators. I stop and introduce myself when it seems like the person speaks French. No one knows what Peace Corps is, few know the concept of the environment. That shouldn’t have too much of an impact of my job though, I hope. My work is disjointed and difficult to explain. Very few things DON’T have to do with the environment in a place like this. The entire economy IS the environment. You’ll hear many details later, once I flush out what I will work on.
The other reason for this visit was to check on my house. The check list of questions for my housing inspection would really make you laugh(/cry). Do you have a well within 500km of your house? Are there large gaps between the ceiling and the walls where potential mice/bats/reptiles/etc. could enter? Are there currently bats in the house (look for droppings and listen for their squeaks)? My house is brand new, like cement still drying new, which is good, I guess. Like I said, 5 cement walls and a tin roof. It is evenly partitioned into two rooms, my bedroom and my living room. There is an outside area about 2 meters by 4 meters that is my “kitchen” on one side and my “shower” on the other. And I thought our Landfair kitchen was small, this is the size of the downstairs bathroom. We don’t get much money at all to move in. I ordered a bed, a mattress, a table to eat at, a table to cook at, and shelves, and spent ¾ of my move-in allowance. And I still need to get pots, plates, silverware, décor (I use the term loosely), cleaning supplies, etc. I’m pretty positive that anyone would readily feed me, so I can hold off on the kitchen stuff if need be.
Kristen called when I was visiting my house and by the end of our call a group of about 15 children were gathered around me and were looking at me with such intrigue that one would think I was telling them an awesome story, rather than talking to someone else they can’t see in a language they can’t understand. Definitely living in a fishbowl.
More about my life, work, and friends in Ze to come. And for those of you with the desire, the time, and the means, come visit! Don’t be put off by my small house. Life is super relaxed, the people are welcoming, the food is spicy, and the vistas are breathtaking. I literally feel like I’m walking in a painting.

What's that you Zè? I'm relocated?

My post had to be changed because my lodging wasn’t headed in the direction of passing safety standards by the time I move in in three weeks. So my new post is in Ze (so much easier to say and spell than Allassankome anyway, right?) in the same region. I visit next Wednesday so I’ll give you the detes then.

We had our first GAD (gender and development) talk today. There are two campaigns that all volunteers, regardless of sector, have a role in: GAD and HIV/AIDS prevention. The woman who spoke was the head of GAD Benin, likely one of the most feminist individuals in Benin, and though her relationship with her husband was on the whole one of equal opportunities and responsibilities, she admits that it is still necessary for her to “save face” on her husband’s behalf regarding cultural norms. For instance, if family or friends come over, she must go into the kitchen and cook and serve while he socializes. She explained it as that she “doesn’t allow” him to enter the kitchen, like it's her choice and he would do so otherwise, if he were allowed. If another man, friend or family, were to criticize how she takes care of her husband, she could say nothing in defense. Women do not know how much their husbands make, may have no say in whether or not they take multiple wives (not everyone practices polygamy but it is far from uncommon), do not have the right to know where the husbands go at any time. These are, of course, generalizations; there are many people who do not fit this description, but I feel comfortable enough in labeling them as general truth. Bouvettes (the all-purpose café/restaurant/bar depending on time of day) are male-dominated. You never see a group of females and certainly never a woman alone.

However, there is no pay difference between men and women here, and people say that there are no restrictions to the jobs that women have, even that it is easier for them to get a job with an international agency because the U.S. and European countries favor women in development positions. 

As Americans, we are somewhere in the middle. We automatically command a respect and freedom that many African women do not. There are at times less barriers to our conversations with Beninese men, or perhaps were are forgiven for bringing up a topic because we do not know it is culturally sensitive. Since we are American women, it seems more acceptable for us to have a drink at a bouvette, though I feel like we are subject to more sexual harassment as well.

Another concept hard to wrap my head around is that love here isn’t like what we’re used to in the states. Many marriages are ones of convenience, not of love. They do not say “I love you” or ever show affection, at least publicly. If you ask if a spouse loves another they might say something like “of course,” but they don’t conceive of love as romantically as we do. (Again, generalizations, there are many, many exceptions.) Let’s just say Hallmark would never make it here.

Less serious topics/comical anecdotes of the last week:

-       Belgium has a program where instead of sending juvenile delinquents to a juvenile hall, they send them to western Africa for a few months of manual labor. Makes you think twice about shoulder tapping at a liquor store.

-       Twins here carry around a doll representing their twin in the case that one has passed away. I’ve seen it several times strapped to children’s backs like how a woman would carry a baby, and I’m told they have to keep it their whole lives.

-       Unfaithful spouses (scratch that, unfaithful husbands) call their extramarital affairs the “deuxieime bureau” and “troisieme bureau” (second and third offices), an apt nickname I think.

-       Some volunteers say that kids sit outside their screen doors and just watch them, whatever it is that they may be doing- reading, cooking, anything. Peace Corps explains that for the next two years we should think of ourselves as “living inside a fishbowl.”

-       There is pretty intense Nigerian xenophobia here. Not only are Nigerians looked down upon, but everything Nigerian is seen as dirty or cheap. Anytime anything breaks it is automatically assumed that it is from Nigeria. Peace Corps volunteers are not allowed to travel to Nigeria for any reason. Its grounds for immediate expulsion.

-       We visited a traditional healer a few days ago and it was incredibly interesting. She told us that traditional healing can cure everything, including AIDS, if the affected person follows the instructions of the healer. They use mostly bark from various trees, mixed with various liquids, that one either drinks or showers with. Many of the remedies required mixing the bark with some kind of hard alcohol, so at least you think you feel better.