Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Last Blog EVER
I leave here in 3 months, and since I won’t be writing blogs post-COS (Close of Service, that means the day I stop being a Peace Corps Volunteer and return to the land of stars and stripes), I thought I’d write about the things I know I’ll miss (if anyone is still reading this!). I expect that nostalgia will set in immediately, on the plane ride home, for some things. Others I won’t start to miss for months, maybe years. And then of course, some things I will never miss and will rejoice at not having to see/experience again. Nature of the beast I suppose.
First off, in the last two months, since my last blog post, I’ve been working on Take Our Daughters to Work Weekend, the program that takes village girls to the city to live with a professional woman and shadow her at work. The program will take place June 2-5. We’ve chosen the girls through essay selection; 17 girls representing 8 villages in southern Benin. I’ve also been working on a cement globe for the high school, helped a nearby volunteer with a mural of health-related themes at her local women’s clinic, and held a Hygiene Day function on April 15 for local women’s groups who clean public areas. The last weekend in April I went north for the most exciting weekend of a PCV’s year. We hold a weekend each year in with a date auction one night and a silent auction the next to raise money for our Gender and Development Small Project Fund, which allows PCVs to get up to $100 for small projects in their communities. Volunteers auction off dates like cleaning your house, cooking all meals for a weekend, inviting you to a volunteer post that has hiking or tourism. And the silent auction is a mix of unique Beninese jewelry and souvenirs, and baskets with a collection of goodies volunteers have donated from packages sent from home: M&Ms, packaged sausage, seasonings, macaroni and cheese boxes, even deodorant sticks, fragrant soaps, and industrial sized hand sanitizer.
Things I’ll miss about the country that I’ve called home for the past two years:
the people!
the color contrast between the reddish brown dirt, the deep green verdure, and the blue sky, either a blinding pale blue or an ominous near black
riding on the back of a moto, especially the 30 minute ride from Zè to the paved road; it’s beauty never fails to astound me
hearing kids yell variations of my name while I pedal by on my bicycle, Akim, Kemi, yovo, dada (means big sister in my local language)
greeting every single person I pass, all of whom never seem to lose fascination at me being able to greet them in Fon
the cool erratic breeze that precedes a downpour
laying in my hammock, watching the setting sun turn the entire landscape into shades of pink
having a whole pineapple for breakfast, and knowing whose field it came from
old women with impossibly wrinkled skin and gap-toothed smiles walking home with a bundle of cooking wood on their heads
old men pedaling through town at a pace that barely registers
the unspeakable excitement and relief that comes from the first rain after months of dryness
babies wearing nothing but the colorful beads around their waists that serve as an amulet against sickness
the vibrant colors of an African clothesline or a group of women on their way to market or church
the ease with which women go about life with a baby strapped to their back and a heavy load atop their heads
the train of women and children carrying their goods to the market on market day
getting together with volunteers after weeks of village seclusion
falling asleep to far off drumming and lizards playing tag on my tin roof
passing by tiny voodoo houses and statues that are thought to keep spirits
the immense relief that a cold beer brings (sure, I’ll have beer in the US, but never again will it be so incredibly refreshing)
walking around wrapped in a single large piece of fabric
seeing all manner and combination of things on the back of a moto: a coffin, 6 people, 4 goats, all of the above
the crumbing mud bricks of houses that you’re never sure are half built or in ruins
the little sayings: “Have you done a little work today? And your health? And your kids?”
On that note, things I’ll never miss:
being unable to take an afternoon nap due to suffocating heat
waking up in a pool of my own sweat
the same 3 food choices every day
hearing scurrying or other noises in the night
marriage proposals, men harassing men, the endless question “madame ou mademoiselle?”
having to have someone get my water for me, then having to boil and filter it before I can drink it
red dirt-caked feet
people asking if I can take them or their children back to the US with me
lizard poop on every surface of my house
burning my forearms on a Dutch oven
8 hour bus rides up the country
people standing outside my window or screen door, staring in shamelessly
arguing to the price of everything I buy and every transport I take
the roads that seem to be more pot hole than pavement
diarrhea
power outages at the most inconvenient time of the day
being greeted by kids while they poop in a public space
pulling my own bathing water
the occasional snake sighting
the layer of dirt and ash that descends upon my house every day
I leave here Sept. 1, so that’s 25 consecutive months I’ve spent on the African continent. I hope to make good on my promises to return here one day, but if not, it’ll be a part of me/haunt me forever.