This is a long one, hope you have the time. For those of you who do, make yourself a cup of tea, put your cell on silent, and enjoy
This post, like my general train of thoughts here, is a jumble of seemingly disconnected reflections, observations, peculiarities about my new life. Though I always hope to sit down and write a blog post that astounds you all in eloquence, in which images of life in tropical Africa leap from the screen like gazelles, it never seems to happen. I am always rushed, sweating profusely, frustrated at the slow speed of the internet, desperately searching for the man who should be powering it by stationery bicycle and must have fallen asleep. Instead, moments of clarity and refined introspection seem to come at the most inopportune time. When I’m shopping at the market. Eggs, check. Tomatoes, check. Purpose in life, check. Or when I’m hoofing it up a potholed dirt road. The physical exhaustion never seems to make its way into my head; I think the clearest when all I can only hear the deafening sound of blood pumping in my eardrums. Or when I’m one of 8 in a 5-person vehicle, one hand pinned under the mama next to me and the other propping up the head of the dude next to me with supernatural napping abilities, lest he nap in my lap. Perhaps this is because, like many aspects of my experience here, I should hold those moments of clarity for myself, appreciating them for their inherent wealth-the assurance that this experience is continually developing my mind and soul- rather than desiring to trap them into words and corner them into blog posts. What I’m trying to say is Warning: This May Underwhelm.
The longer my stay in Benin, the harder I find it to write about it. Aspects of my life that were once bizarre have become commonplace, and the aspects I’d like to express evade cohesive, eloquent thoughts. I am in both a perpetual state of euphoria and one of confusion. Euphorically confused 24/7. This place is beautiful. Even when it’s hotter than the rings of inferno or pouring buckets and thundering raucously, there is a calm about it that is both unshakeable and infectious. I can’t believe that I live in a place with such awe-inspiring raw beauty. I walk and bike around to surrounding villages and often don’t see another individual for miles. I can be just a 10 minute bike ride away and the language is completely different. The narrow red dirt paths are hedged by deep greens of the lush landscape- palm trees, pineapple fields, stalk upon stalk of corn. Though much of the land is cultivated, cultivators aren’t too particular or efficient with their land so it retains the appearance of land that has been untouched. It’s as though people are working for the land, not that the land is working for people.
Living alone is bizarre. Not lonely, not yet at least, but bizarre. It’s QUIET. It won’t be like that forever; its quiet now because my ipod broke, my hard drive crashed, and the radio I bought in the US doesn’t pick up any stations out here. The first couple hours in the morning and the last several at night, after sunset, I am completely alone. I read a lot, write a lot of letters, journal constantly. It’s a good thing in some ways- knowing that I’ll be alone for so long makes me more excited to get out of my house and see people, and constant interaction and French and Fon speaking when I’m out of the house makes me savor the moments of peace and quiet in my little home. I finally put up some pictures so you all can see what I mean when I talk about home. (I’ve yet to get any pictures that do Ze justice. It’s too beautiful for my 8MP Olympus.)
Every venture outside of my house is a never-ending string of greetings. I greet and am greeted by every single person along the road, and since people’s work is all outside unless you are the mayor or a teacher, there is never a 10 second period without a greeting. People are always staring. Sometimes it feels like I’m a celebrity, other times like I’m a bearded lady centaur, a freak. Most of the time my smiles and greetings are returned with even bigger smiles and warmer greetings (even when they don’t understand French and I don’t understand their greeting, we both get the picture), but sometimes I make a baby cry or an old man pee himself (I think moonshine had something to do with it too). Some people are too friendly, mostly young men who ask me not just my name and what I’m doing here but where I live, what my phone number and relationship status is, if they can get to know me better. I don’t want to burn any bridges so it’s a fine line between being firm and being rude. For instance, the mayor’s assistant asked me where my house was and I responded by saying that it was a Peace Corps rule that men could not come in my house. He said he’d have his wife and kids bring by a dozen oranges then. I felt like such a jerk! Kids often knock at my door, just to say hi they say though I know they’re hoping that I have a never-ending stash of candy to bequeath them. You learn quickly that it is an “if you give a mouse a cookie” kinda society. Don’t give someone something unless you are prepared to continue all day every day, that includes access to your house.
Sometimes people laugh when I pass by. I try to laugh too, make myself feel I’m in on the joke. It’s funny right- only one white girl in town! You gotta make yourself feel like a celeb when that bearded centaur reflection appears.
My job is at best unstructured and at worst non-existent. It’s somewhat the norm for Peace Corps though. Though the mayor’s office pays my rent, they actually have no job for me to do. It boggles my mind. In America, you only pay for someone if there is an expected return. Maybe they thought a white person would boost tourism, or that I would be eating enough to cause an increase in local revenue. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if they sat me down and said, look, we were really looking for an American that could dance like MJ or sing like Whitney. Right now, my job seems to be meeting and greeting. Like Miss America, I like to think. And since I often can’t understand what is being said around me (if its local language), I just sit and smile, look pretty, hope no one notices the beard. I am one by one greeting the directors and staff of the schools in my area. Tomorrow I will be meeting all the village chiefs in my commune with the mayor. The work day is interrupted by both extreme heat and rain showers, both of which warrant staying inside the house, and also the daily noon-3pm siesta. I just show up to the mayor’s hoping someone will answer questions I have and play Sudoku while I’m not doing anything. Even though I tell them it’s a game, they constantly tell me “good work!” with my Sudoku. I’m in for a rude awakening when I return to the American job market. More than once they have made mention of my Anglo-Saxon work ethic and talk about my punctuality almost as if it’s a fault. If time is money in the US, time is pineapples here. And there are a lot of damn pineapples.
It is the rainy season here, which I absolutely adore. Not just because I get to sit inside and listen to the rain fall on my tin roof (which is sometimes soothing and other times sounds like the apocalypse), but also because I have an outdoor shower so I can shower in the rain! Glam, right? Since I usually shower with a bucket and a scoop, rainfall provides the closest thing to an American shower and water pressure here. The rain here is bizarre in the way it can be POURING just 10 feet from you and you are completely dry. I’ve watched as it slowly envelopes the land, creeping thatched roof by thatched roof. I’ve made a few friends by being caught in rainstorms; someone always motions me to share their covered patio when I’m helplessly soaked and trudging through red mud.
My house has lots of spiders and lizards which I don’t mind when they stick to their place on the walls and ceiling. The first night I had a panic attack and made my dad calm me down while I was sobbing about the scawey spidewrs. I’m okay with it now, except that the one time I left for a couple days I came back to find lizards everywhere- in my bowls, among my books, in my suitcase. I found one caught in my mosquito net a few days ago. I don’t like to think about what else can get in if something as big as a lizard can.
I’m struck by the raw beauty of this place, my new home, at various times each day. I often take long bike rides in the evening, late enough to not risk death by heat stroke, light enough to not risk death by pothole. One dirt path one day, another the next. It’s a legitimate part of my work- creating a map, locating villages and schools, identifying crops and tree species, looking for evidence of different agricultural practices. Occassionally there’s a traditional healer or health center. There is often more goats than humans and more green than imaginable. I’ve had several moments, bumping violently down a rocky hill- being greeted by a group of old women in their local language, being chased by high-pitched toddlers- when I’m so overwhelmed by the beauty and inherent tranquility of this place, that I’m giddy. This surge of emotion erupts in laughter, choked out in gasps of air as I breathlessly pedal. I look crazy, like Clockwork Orange dude status, but they think I’m bizarre no matter what I do so I get away with it. More than once I’ve also been at such a moment of euphoria only to realize that I have no one with which to share it. I feel kinda like the guy at the end of Into the Wilderness, who chases what he sees to be the meaning of life only to realize at the end that for happiness to be real it needs to be shared. I know that having a constant here would drastically change my experience. My comfort circle would be larger, I wouldn’t have to leave the house for human interaction. It’s somewhat like an anchor, though, in that you can’t change too much, can’t stray from what you were when you arrived. That said, I think people who are able to share this experience with someone they love- finding a best friend or future partner within a day’s journey or joining Peace Corps with a spouse- are truly lucky. I envy that experience.
Moving on to lighter topics, a melange of observations:
-People are called by their professions at almost all times, even if its your spouse, even if you have the same job. No last name, just Teacher. Also, Mama is any older woman or any woman whose house you are in, and Tanti (aunt) is any woman selling something. And many children call me and others my age Dada, which means big sister.
-Work and school hours are flexible and both have midday siestas of 2 to 3 hours. Makes the transition from undergrad a lot easier.
-Of the 20 or so designs of school notebooks nationwide, 2 feature Obama and Michael Jackson.
-Some people were looking at pictures of graduation that had the date on them: 6/12/09. Here the date reads date/month/year rather than month/date/year. They asked me if it was already 2010 in the US.
-Typewriters are alive and well in the heart of Africa.
-People sleep in the middle of meetings and as far as I can tell it’s totally okay.
-Though I am definitely the only white person now, at one point there was another white girl here. I know this because several people call my Sonia and my friend told me to watch out for a family whose son had been burned by a white girl and might have it out for the whole lot.
People often ask me if I’ve made friends…that’s hard to answer. I have one friend for sure. She’s 26, a teacher, a mother of 2. Sometimes I spend weekends over there, we go to the dressmaker because she likes to have matching outfits, she helps me buy things in local language at the market. But she works all day and I stay in at night so our socializing is limited. Other than that I don’t have friends like I would use the term in the US. No one to call and hang out with. (Not that I’m looking for a pity party! It’s just another aspect of life here.) There’s a thousand people I greet around village and who greet me, with huge smiles and inquiries about how I slept, my health, my family “over there.” There’s an old woman who always gives me more sweet potatoes than I pay for and another old woman who lets me hang out with her on the side of the road while she sells corn cakes and teaches me words in local language. There are people at the mayor’s office but they have families of their own (it’s actually just one family: the mayor, his wife, his sister, his brother, his nephew, you get the picture. African politics.). There’s a woman who comes by every other day or so and just sits at my table while I read or work. We sit in silence mostly, which would be awkward anywhere else. There’s a girl in high school who helps me get water (and by that I mean she carries the water and I pay) but she’s a lingerer which bugs. I have two neighbors, both men in their 20s, but rules of propriety forbid us from entering the other’s home so our contact is limited to polite convo outside. The guy to my right is a policeman by day, I see him coming home in his intimidating military apparel, but the second he walks in the door he blasts Celine Dion and sings word for word every song of hers ever recorded. There are, of course, other PCVs, but for the first three months we are supposed to stay in our villages for the first couple months in order to be well intergrated.
That’s my life! Keep the emails and letters coming! And if you send one, please send a stamp. I’m about 15 letters behind and completely out of postage!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A West African Cost-Benefit Analysis
Though I just moved to Ze Thursday (more on that later!), I've had to spend the last 24 hours at the Peace Corps office in Cotonou. What does this entail? Air conditioning 24/7, a hot water pressure shower, a stocked kitchen complete with oven (the only one I've seen since being in Benin), the company of other Americans, a DVD player if I so choose, computers with the fastest internet in the country, insect- and lizard-free rooms, cold water (FREE!), a chance to stock up on books at the book swap, and everything I could need that I can't get in Ze is just a moto ride away: the bank, fabric to make clothes, schwarma, Thai food, burgers, supermarkets with spices, baking supplies, coffee mugs, shampoo and conditioner, and all varieties of fruit.
And what did I have to do to earn such a vacation? Extreme diarrhea for 4 days. I won't go into further detail only to say that words like "inflammatory" and "bacterial" have been thrown around, and that the position of my latrine outside my house, two locked doors and about 40 steps away from my bed, has been an issue. All that included, I would say that it was worth it if I was able to enjoy any of the foods of Cotonou, particularly schwarma. But I couldn't. So, no, not worth it.
And what did I have to do to earn such a vacation? Extreme diarrhea for 4 days. I won't go into further detail only to say that words like "inflammatory" and "bacterial" have been thrown around, and that the position of my latrine outside my house, two locked doors and about 40 steps away from my bed, has been an issue. All that included, I would say that it was worth it if I was able to enjoy any of the foods of Cotonou, particularly schwarma. But I couldn't. So, no, not worth it.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
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.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Ouedeme-Pedah (wed a may pay duh)
As I write my grandparents are throwing my cousin and her fiancé a surprise party. Really sad I’m not there. There will obviously be events and occurrences I miss out on in the next two years, but their wedding is the only one I’m really bummed on. (And the New Moon premiere, of course.) So instead I’m listening to Clair de Lune and having a glass of horrible wine out of a soy milk-/Trader Joe’s soup-like container, and, on top of that, awkwardly hiding it from my host family. I’m afraid they would shun me if they knew I was having a glass (more like a plastic water bottle cut jaggedly in half) of wine, seeing as A, they are not drinkers (refer to my previous posts on their uber-religiousness), and B, I haven’t observed much of a casual, one-can-do-it-alone drinking culture that I associate with wine. So I hide it in my room, like I’m in high school (not that I ever did that, Mom and Dad), even though I am a whole 22 years old and have been of legal drinking age for approximately (exactly) one year and three weeks, which, by the way, makes me the youngest person in my PC class, and a BAMF.
Back to relevant things. This week we had a break from the six-days-a-week class schedule to visit a current volunteer for a few days, see how they live, what projects they’re doing, what their houses are like, and whatnot. I went with 5 other volunteers to a city called Oudeme-Pedah. The ride in and of itself was interesting. There are three types of taxis here: motos, which carry anywhere from one to four adults, many more if there are children, and any amount of baggage that can be held; the 6-person taxi, which is a regular 5 seater car, like the U.S., except that they put 6 people in, not including the driver, and remove the seatbelts, and the gauges don’t work (gas, oil, etc.) which adds to the comfort level; then there is the 9 seater taxi (think bush taxi or tuk tuk) which does not seat any number comfortably and has a wide open back so that it may require an intense tournament of rock-paper-scissors to determine the two individuals who will sit on the seats closest to the road. I sat in between the driver and the tallest guy on the 3 ½ hour ride there, so basically on the emergency brake. And of course all taxis are stick shifts, which compounded the awkwardness.
I lucked out on my visit. Oudeme-Pedah is one of the most beautiful places in Benin and the volunteer we visited happened to have an amazing apartment occupying the second story of the mayor/chief’s house. It was the only second story building in the area (not so safe to do multiple stories with mud bricks), so we had an amazing view of the lake and row upon row of mud houses and tin roofs. This area reminds me a lot of Laos and southern China, some of my favorite places in the world. The weather was perfect and there was a cool breeze all week. Not to mention stunning sunsets and the reflection of the sky in the water’s varying shades of blue and grey and other sappy poetic aspects I’ll leave to my journal.
The lake is beautiful from a distance but horribly dirty up close. Pollution and erosion have seriously dwindled the supply of fish though there are still many fishermen out there in canoes with nets every morning bringing in what they can. The area is very into local religion (voodoo, though its not what you think voodoo is, with the dolls and whatnot). There was drumming and dancing around fires much of the time, including the entire night. They had some pretty efficient shift-changing going on, ensuring that I did not sleep more than one straight hour. One aspect of voodoo is this haystack creature (zambedo) that comes out at night. He’s somewhat of a watchman as I understand, keeper of the night kinda thing. If women see him when he’s out at night it is said that they die soon after, so I think it’s a way of keeping your women in the house. Even though I knows that’s ridiculous, it’s a safe bet to just stay inside and close the blinds to save yourself from the temptation of looking and the scorn of locals. Sometimes he comes out during the day for no other reason than that he’s bored or, most recently, some foreigner is in town and paid to see a “voodoo ceremony.” Some of the voodoo priests/priestesses are distinguishable by white robes. I even saw a few small children, as young as two, in white robes, destined to be priestesses. I’m not sure how they determine that a child will go into that practice but it is certainly determined without consulting them. Some had scarring around their faces and necks also to indicate some sort of local religion importance. The scarring is sometimes hard to look at for us who aren’t used to it. It’s hard for me to see a toddler with scars to indicate familial ties or religious affiliation since they must be cut at a very young age, but for them it is much more akin to circumcision. The child may have no decision, but it is a necessary procedure and better to be done very young. Scarring takes all shapes and patterns; it can be a plus sign on each cheek, twenty tiny vertical lines below the hairline, really anything you can imagine.
Most everything else I have to say will probably continue to confirm your expectations of an African village. Tons of kids were roaming the dirt roads since school is not in session, giving us an audience everywhere we went. Its okay for kids to be naked til a much later age than is appropriate in the U.S., 8 or 10 years old it seems. Most kids were decently fed though all were thin by our standards and some had inflated stomachs like you’ve probably seen on commercials about sponsoring a malnourished child in Africa, characteristic of protein deficiency I think. We spent a lot of time around one such little girl, Dodo, who was three years old but looked and had the mental capacity of a child around 18 months. It was sad to think about how much energy and intelligence my friend Monica’s three-year-old Joseph has in comparison to Dodo. It’s going to be extremely hard once I move to my village and see and play with kids like her on a regular basis. I don’t know how it cannot be personal.
We did a lot of relaxing, napping, reading (I’m on Anna Karenina, love it), and cooking, mostly Beninese meals but we had mac and cheese one night (well as close to it as you can get without refrigerated cheese). I get props from other volunteers for being adventurous with eating the food here, which I legitimately love most of the time. That’s probably not all I’ll get for eating the food if you know what I mean. As far as observing the volunteer’s work, most of what we did was “public relations”: greeting people who are important, checking on people who are ill, visiting village chiefs. This is honestly one of the biggest time commitments of a PCV, especially since when you visit someone they first pass around a cup of water that everyone takes a sip out of, then pass around some sort of alcohol that everyone has to take a shot of (“pour la sante et defendre de la malaria”), then ask about each other’s health, family, friends, their health, and so on. Completely superficial 99% of the time but very necessary. This PCV is coordinating a trash clean up competition between villages, with the winners to be awarded tools, so when we visited many of the chiefs that was the topic of conversation. We didn’t actually discuss details with anyone, most of the “talking” is talking about talking, saying things need to be done and agreeing to do them later. So this was our full day of work: breakfast, a shot of gin with one chief at 11am, lunch, a shot of moonshine and roasted peanuts with another chief at 2pm, a shot of scotch at the last place (he was wealthy to have had scotch), a nap, and dinner. And it is disrespectful to turn anything down one is given. For instance, when we were leaving to go back to the capital one neighbor insisted we stop by for some coco. When we got there he has a dozen kids scaling 40 foot coconut trees, retrieving fruit for his guests, and cutting them open for us to drink out of, then taking the coconuts back and cutting out the meat for us to eat. We each had to eat and drink two entire coconuts, which were huge. Despite the fact that we were all full and I don’t like coconut, and on top of that we were late meeting our ride back, we had to finish each one. Chugging coconut milk is not a good time. I had to pee the entire 3 ½ hour ride thanks to the coconut pusher.
Back to relevant things. This week we had a break from the six-days-a-week class schedule to visit a current volunteer for a few days, see how they live, what projects they’re doing, what their houses are like, and whatnot. I went with 5 other volunteers to a city called Oudeme-Pedah. The ride in and of itself was interesting. There are three types of taxis here: motos, which carry anywhere from one to four adults, many more if there are children, and any amount of baggage that can be held; the 6-person taxi, which is a regular 5 seater car, like the U.S., except that they put 6 people in, not including the driver, and remove the seatbelts, and the gauges don’t work (gas, oil, etc.) which adds to the comfort level; then there is the 9 seater taxi (think bush taxi or tuk tuk) which does not seat any number comfortably and has a wide open back so that it may require an intense tournament of rock-paper-scissors to determine the two individuals who will sit on the seats closest to the road. I sat in between the driver and the tallest guy on the 3 ½ hour ride there, so basically on the emergency brake. And of course all taxis are stick shifts, which compounded the awkwardness.
I lucked out on my visit. Oudeme-Pedah is one of the most beautiful places in Benin and the volunteer we visited happened to have an amazing apartment occupying the second story of the mayor/chief’s house. It was the only second story building in the area (not so safe to do multiple stories with mud bricks), so we had an amazing view of the lake and row upon row of mud houses and tin roofs. This area reminds me a lot of Laos and southern China, some of my favorite places in the world. The weather was perfect and there was a cool breeze all week. Not to mention stunning sunsets and the reflection of the sky in the water’s varying shades of blue and grey and other sappy poetic aspects I’ll leave to my journal.
The lake is beautiful from a distance but horribly dirty up close. Pollution and erosion have seriously dwindled the supply of fish though there are still many fishermen out there in canoes with nets every morning bringing in what they can. The area is very into local religion (voodoo, though its not what you think voodoo is, with the dolls and whatnot). There was drumming and dancing around fires much of the time, including the entire night. They had some pretty efficient shift-changing going on, ensuring that I did not sleep more than one straight hour. One aspect of voodoo is this haystack creature (zambedo) that comes out at night. He’s somewhat of a watchman as I understand, keeper of the night kinda thing. If women see him when he’s out at night it is said that they die soon after, so I think it’s a way of keeping your women in the house. Even though I knows that’s ridiculous, it’s a safe bet to just stay inside and close the blinds to save yourself from the temptation of looking and the scorn of locals. Sometimes he comes out during the day for no other reason than that he’s bored or, most recently, some foreigner is in town and paid to see a “voodoo ceremony.” Some of the voodoo priests/priestesses are distinguishable by white robes. I even saw a few small children, as young as two, in white robes, destined to be priestesses. I’m not sure how they determine that a child will go into that practice but it is certainly determined without consulting them. Some had scarring around their faces and necks also to indicate some sort of local religion importance. The scarring is sometimes hard to look at for us who aren’t used to it. It’s hard for me to see a toddler with scars to indicate familial ties or religious affiliation since they must be cut at a very young age, but for them it is much more akin to circumcision. The child may have no decision, but it is a necessary procedure and better to be done very young. Scarring takes all shapes and patterns; it can be a plus sign on each cheek, twenty tiny vertical lines below the hairline, really anything you can imagine.
Most everything else I have to say will probably continue to confirm your expectations of an African village. Tons of kids were roaming the dirt roads since school is not in session, giving us an audience everywhere we went. Its okay for kids to be naked til a much later age than is appropriate in the U.S., 8 or 10 years old it seems. Most kids were decently fed though all were thin by our standards and some had inflated stomachs like you’ve probably seen on commercials about sponsoring a malnourished child in Africa, characteristic of protein deficiency I think. We spent a lot of time around one such little girl, Dodo, who was three years old but looked and had the mental capacity of a child around 18 months. It was sad to think about how much energy and intelligence my friend Monica’s three-year-old Joseph has in comparison to Dodo. It’s going to be extremely hard once I move to my village and see and play with kids like her on a regular basis. I don’t know how it cannot be personal.
We did a lot of relaxing, napping, reading (I’m on Anna Karenina, love it), and cooking, mostly Beninese meals but we had mac and cheese one night (well as close to it as you can get without refrigerated cheese). I get props from other volunteers for being adventurous with eating the food here, which I legitimately love most of the time. That’s probably not all I’ll get for eating the food if you know what I mean. As far as observing the volunteer’s work, most of what we did was “public relations”: greeting people who are important, checking on people who are ill, visiting village chiefs. This is honestly one of the biggest time commitments of a PCV, especially since when you visit someone they first pass around a cup of water that everyone takes a sip out of, then pass around some sort of alcohol that everyone has to take a shot of (“pour la sante et defendre de la malaria”), then ask about each other’s health, family, friends, their health, and so on. Completely superficial 99% of the time but very necessary. This PCV is coordinating a trash clean up competition between villages, with the winners to be awarded tools, so when we visited many of the chiefs that was the topic of conversation. We didn’t actually discuss details with anyone, most of the “talking” is talking about talking, saying things need to be done and agreeing to do them later. So this was our full day of work: breakfast, a shot of gin with one chief at 11am, lunch, a shot of moonshine and roasted peanuts with another chief at 2pm, a shot of scotch at the last place (he was wealthy to have had scotch), a nap, and dinner. And it is disrespectful to turn anything down one is given. For instance, when we were leaving to go back to the capital one neighbor insisted we stop by for some coco. When we got there he has a dozen kids scaling 40 foot coconut trees, retrieving fruit for his guests, and cutting them open for us to drink out of, then taking the coconuts back and cutting out the meat for us to eat. We each had to eat and drink two entire coconuts, which were huge. Despite the fact that we were all full and I don’t like coconut, and on top of that we were late meeting our ride back, we had to finish each one. Chugging coconut milk is not a good time. I had to pee the entire 3 ½ hour ride thanks to the coconut pusher.
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