It’s October and that means start of the holiday season! Yes, my holiday season starts with the sacrilegious Halloween. American holidays are not just an excuse for volunteers to get together and buy out a bar’s cheap beer supply. They’re also an opportunity for us to recreate the traditions we keep at home here in Benin, blah blah, cultural exchange, blahblah. Sure, let’s go with that.
Last year was the first time in my entire life that I did not dress up for Halloween. I have the kind of mother who made sure that no matter how young, I was partaking in the excitement. And I was a damn cute fat baby in a coconut bra and hula skirt (I kid you not. Thanks mom.). So this year I’ll be joining other volunteers in Cotonou (the big city) with a TBA costume. I’ll post pictures.
I’m not sure about Thanksgiving plans yet. Last year we paid a Beninese fortune for a turkey that was mutilated by a machete and deep-fried—skin, innards, and all. The idea of “meat” here is a little more all encompassing. “Cuts” have not yet made it to Benin. I think this year we’ll opt for a vegetarian spread. We depend on things sent from home like gravy packets, canned cranberries, and stuffing mix. And thankfully we can make mashed potatoes and green bean casserole with ingredients here. (Though no Thanksgiving, or any holiday for that matter, is complete without my grandma’s party mix. There’s a whole in my heart where that salty goodness used to be.)
Hanukkah will probably not be celebrated since there are a mere 3 Jewish Peace Corps volunteers, and what is Hanukkah without dreidels anyway. Which brings me to Christmas. The Beninese are already preparing for Christmas. There’s a hit song out right now called “His name is Papa Noel” which goes a little something like this:
“He’s called Papa Christmas
He’s called Papa money
He’s called Papa foreigner
He’s called Papa of gifts”
Makes me really want to participate in my village’s Christmas celebration. Also makes me resent the fact that we made Santa a white guy. Last year I had an intimate Christmas with a couple volunteers and a few morally questionable nuns in a remote village. This year the volunteers will be going en masse to Grand Popo (no, I do not know what or whom Popo is), the beach town in Benin. We’re aptly dubbing the week Grand Hoho. While other countries in West Africa are blessed with a gorgeous coastline and sandy beaches, most of Benin’s coastline is rocky, marred by trash, or already occupied by shanties. We are planning on buying out one of the hotels there, which we think has 6 rooms so most of us will have to opt for tents on the beach. Can’t wait to share details and post pictures!
A huge thanks to everyone who donated to my latrine project and/or forwarded the email to family, friends, and coworkers. I’ll take some pictures and update you all on the status of the project soon.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
I Need Your Help!
Dear Family and Friends,
On September 25 I celebrated one year of Peace Corps service in Zè, Benin. I have a year's worth of memories, photos, and friendships, comparatively little to speak of in the way of volunteer work. I have seen countless project ideas born and die in this time, because when need is everywhere, and helping hands are not, one must use what resources and know-how are available to address the most basic and pressing, among them. I come to you with a request for help with a project that addresses just that.
Like safe drinking water and paved roads, having a private place to relieve one’s self that does not endanger the health of others is something we take for granted in the developing world. I say this not to guilt you, but as reality, fact. I have seen firsthand people defecating in the fields that grow their neighbor’s livelihood, in the market where daily dinner is bought, near the waters in which they bathe, on the side of the road, where children play, in plain view of many; I have seen women forced to clear their courtyards and markets of fecal matter with just their hands and leaves; and I have seen the toll diarrheal and intestinal sicknesses can have on a child or adult.
Nearly a billion people worldwide lack some form of bathroom. I realize that these 25 latrines make barely a dent in that number, but those latrines will create a safe, private place for 200 people to use. That’s removing 200 people’s worth of fecal matter from public spaces, streams, and fields. The impact this has on the health of individuals within this community can indeed be great.These latrines are low-cost, durable, and lasting. A pit latrine at a depth of 10 meters can suffice for a household for more than a decade. Each household will provide an estimated 35% of the latrine cost in the form of hauling water, gathering sand, and constructing a mud brick house to enclose the latrine. Each household will also receive education on proper hygiene including hand washing, food preparation and storage, and waste management.
To donate to this project please visit https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-196
I’d like to say “many thanks” for any and all donations from the people of Zè, Benin. Oddly, in local language that translates to “awanu kaka” (say that one aloud for the full effect). If you feel so inclined, please forward this email to family, friends, and co-workers.
Love from Benin, Kim
On September 25 I celebrated one year of Peace Corps service in Zè, Benin. I have a year's worth of memories, photos, and friendships, comparatively little to speak of in the way of volunteer work. I have seen countless project ideas born and die in this time, because when need is everywhere, and helping hands are not, one must use what resources and know-how are available to address the most basic and pressing, among them. I come to you with a request for help with a project that addresses just that.
Like safe drinking water and paved roads, having a private place to relieve one’s self that does not endanger the health of others is something we take for granted in the developing world. I say this not to guilt you, but as reality, fact. I have seen firsthand people defecating in the fields that grow their neighbor’s livelihood, in the market where daily dinner is bought, near the waters in which they bathe, on the side of the road, where children play, in plain view of many; I have seen women forced to clear their courtyards and markets of fecal matter with just their hands and leaves; and I have seen the toll diarrheal and intestinal sicknesses can have on a child or adult.
Nearly a billion people worldwide lack some form of bathroom. I realize that these 25 latrines make barely a dent in that number, but those latrines will create a safe, private place for 200 people to use. That’s removing 200 people’s worth of fecal matter from public spaces, streams, and fields. The impact this has on the health of individuals within this community can indeed be great.These latrines are low-cost, durable, and lasting. A pit latrine at a depth of 10 meters can suffice for a household for more than a decade. Each household will provide an estimated 35% of the latrine cost in the form of hauling water, gathering sand, and constructing a mud brick house to enclose the latrine. Each household will also receive education on proper hygiene including hand washing, food preparation and storage, and waste management.
To donate to this project please visit https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-196
I’d like to say “many thanks” for any and all donations from the people of Zè, Benin. Oddly, in local language that translates to “awanu kaka” (say that one aloud for the full effect). If you feel so inclined, please forward this email to family, friends, and co-workers.
Love from Benin, Kim
Friday, September 3, 2010
Rabbit Rabbit
Not sure when I’ll be able to post this but as I’m writing it is September 1st, which means we are 2/3 of the way through 2010, and when it does come to a close, I will have spent every single day of 2010 on the African continent. Crazy!
August was hands down the most fun-filled month I’ve had here. My aunt and uncle (returned Peace Corps volunteers who met while serving in the Philippines) and 3 cousins visited for two weeks, one of which was spent in Zè and the other traveling up north and visiting some off the map tourist gems. Travel with the Cary family is always interesting, like a new millennium National Lampoon’s. Here are the highlights:
-Hotels! Hot showers, swimming pools, the customer service that a foreign clientele commands (and tips for), someone else cleaning up after me, etc. However, though I believed them to be luxurious I think they were comparable to a Travel Lodge. (Funny story- when I went to check in for the hotel the first night, before their flight arrived, I had just gotten off an 8-hour bus ride and looked like, well, a Peace Corps volunteer. I tried to convince the hotel reception to let me into the room so I could shower, but that my family would be paying when they came in that night. They hesitantly let me in.When I came back down, after a hot shower, they realized I was a high-class lady under all that filth and apologized profusely for treating me like anything less.)
-Swimming in the rain with the entire Cary/Fisher clan.
-Showing them my office and work partners.
-My family’s (particularly Uncle Tim’s) infatuation with the tiny goats here.
-Dinner with the mayor on Ron’s birthday- the mayor’s son peed on Uncle Tim while sleeping and the mayor gave Ron an elephant carved out of wood for his birthday.
-All the markets we visited. I think my Uncle Tim could write “bargaining” on his resume under “Skills.”
-Moto biking through the forest in Zè.
-Having traditional outfits made.
-Visiting the orphanage where I’ll be planting a garden this month.
-The 12 hour voyage to the north, starting with motos at 6am, then a 2 hour taxi, a 7 hour bus (made longer because of the torrential downpour on the way which nearly forced my cousin Eve to use a GoGirl on the bus-if you don’t know what that is Google it), followed by another moto ride.
-Meeting a local artist who makes all of his paintings out of once-used canvas and natural pigments: cobalt, red dirt, leaves, hibiscus and other flowers, etc. He doesn’t even buy paintbrushes, just uses his hands. We bought a Beninese fortune in paintings from him and he gave us handmade necklaces and bracelets as a gift.
-Taking the volunteers in the north out for dinner so that my family got to hear other volunteer’s perspectives and stories (and I got a break from talking and translating).
-Going to a village on the Togo border called Boukoumbè for my birthday. We rented a car and hired a guide for the day. It was a gorgeous (if not comfortable) hour and a half ride on red dirt roads with stunning vistas and deep green hills. This area is known for its “tata sambas”: houses made by the Samba people out of mud that are very intricate-several storied with multiple rooms each serving its own purpose. Like little mud fortress mansions. We just stopped along the road at one family’s house and paid them to take a tour. Sadly because the houses are built high and there are (super sketchy) ladders all over to navigate the stories, old people have to live on the ground floor with the livestock. (Next time Grandma complains about the nursing home someone tell her about this.)
-Visiting the weaving center in Djougou where women make traditional Beninese fabrics that each take weeks to complete.
-Taking them to the airport and finding out that a guy from my village had actually driven the whole way to the airport just to say goodbye to them (again). That’s the Beninese for you.
August was hands down the most fun-filled month I’ve had here. My aunt and uncle (returned Peace Corps volunteers who met while serving in the Philippines) and 3 cousins visited for two weeks, one of which was spent in Zè and the other traveling up north and visiting some off the map tourist gems. Travel with the Cary family is always interesting, like a new millennium National Lampoon’s. Here are the highlights:
-Hotels! Hot showers, swimming pools, the customer service that a foreign clientele commands (and tips for), someone else cleaning up after me, etc. However, though I believed them to be luxurious I think they were comparable to a Travel Lodge. (Funny story- when I went to check in for the hotel the first night, before their flight arrived, I had just gotten off an 8-hour bus ride and looked like, well, a Peace Corps volunteer. I tried to convince the hotel reception to let me into the room so I could shower, but that my family would be paying when they came in that night. They hesitantly let me in.When I came back down, after a hot shower, they realized I was a high-class lady under all that filth and apologized profusely for treating me like anything less.)
-Swimming in the rain with the entire Cary/Fisher clan.
-Showing them my office and work partners.
-The house we stayed at (my house is far too small for 6 people) had a ton of “cute” kids with whichmy family loved to play and take pictures. I was less amused and was constantly yelling at them to not feed the kids lest all the neighborhood kids come begging for things. They probably think I’ve lost a bit of heart.
-The drum and dance circle at my village chief’s house. Uncle Tim and Ron both got in the middle and danced like, well, like no one I’ve ever seen (someone send me those videos so I can post them here). Ron even got Papa, the chief’s dad who has got to be pushing 90, out there dancing.
-My family’s (particularly Uncle Tim’s) infatuation with the tiny goats here.
-Dinner with the mayor on Ron’s birthday- the mayor’s son peed on Uncle Tim while sleeping and the mayor gave Ron an elephant carved out of wood for his birthday.
-All the markets we visited. I think my Uncle Tim could write “bargaining” on his resume under “Skills.”
-Moto biking through the forest in Zè.
-Having traditional outfits made.
-Visiting the orphanage where I’ll be planting a garden this month.
-The 12 hour voyage to the north, starting with motos at 6am, then a 2 hour taxi, a 7 hour bus (made longer because of the torrential downpour on the way which nearly forced my cousin Eve to use a GoGirl on the bus-if you don’t know what that is Google it), followed by another moto ride.
-Meeting a local artist who makes all of his paintings out of once-used canvas and natural pigments: cobalt, red dirt, leaves, hibiscus and other flowers, etc. He doesn’t even buy paintbrushes, just uses his hands. We bought a Beninese fortune in paintings from him and he gave us handmade necklaces and bracelets as a gift.
-Taking the volunteers in the north out for dinner so that my family got to hear other volunteer’s perspectives and stories (and I got a break from talking and translating).
-Going to a village on the Togo border called Boukoumbè for my birthday. We rented a car and hired a guide for the day. It was a gorgeous (if not comfortable) hour and a half ride on red dirt roads with stunning vistas and deep green hills. This area is known for its “tata sambas”: houses made by the Samba people out of mud that are very intricate-several storied with multiple rooms each serving its own purpose. Like little mud fortress mansions. We just stopped along the road at one family’s house and paid them to take a tour. Sadly because the houses are built high and there are (super sketchy) ladders all over to navigate the stories, old people have to live on the ground floor with the livestock. (Next time Grandma complains about the nursing home someone tell her about this.)
-Visiting the weaving center in Djougou where women make traditional Beninese fabrics that each take weeks to complete.
-Taking them to the airport and finding out that a guy from my village had actually driven the whole way to the airport just to say goodbye to them (again). That’s the Beninese for you.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
One year down!
I have officially been in Benin for one year now! I would cheers myself but I’m on medication for amoebas (intestinal cysts caused by ingestion of food contaminated with fecal matter) and can’t drink alcohol. The day of our anniversary-July 24- was a pretty awesome day. Woke up early and went for a run (early enough that the number of kids chasing me was a minimum), attended the initiation ceremony for Zè’s first library and computer center (where the token drunk guy hassled the visiting French people instead of me for once), learned the 31 voodoo spells you can put on a person to make them die during intercourse, studied for the GRE in my hammock, and ate dinner while watching 30 Rock.
A year in Benin also means a new wave of volunteers. Getting off the airplane in Cotonou is a pretty harrowing experience and as we all remembered that many volunteers were there to welcome us in, many of us left our towns and villages for the weekend to do the same. Being on the other side of it was pretty amazing. They looked so clean! And pretty! I stayed in Cotonou the whole weekend so that when they weren’t being barraged with Peace Corps policy and safety sessions, they could ask questions of us and we could get to know the group that is now half the Americans in this country.
It was pretty amazing to see how far we’ve come using the new volunteers as a gauge for where we were a year ago. I have unstoppable “franglais” and I’m pretty sure half the advice I gave went misunderstood. They brought news of domestic politics, clothing styles, food fads, popular music, the newest technology, the latest you tube crazes, and a slew of trends we’ve missed out on. Their clothes looked as though they walked out of a Tide commercial, their faces a Neutrogena ad. But we had the appeal of experience, albeit crusted in dirt and with lowered standards of hygiene.
I want to thank everyone who has supported me throughout this year. I have high hopes for next year and am looking forward to sharing the ups and downs with you all.
Pictures below are from my friend's end of the year school party. Enjoy :)
Friday, July 30, 2010
I Need Your Help!
Dear Family and Friends,
On September 25 I celebrated one year of Peace Corps service in Zè, Benin. I have a year's worth of memories, photos, and friendships, comparatively little to speak of in the way of volunteer work. I have seen countless project ideas born and die in this time, because when need is everywhere, and helping hands are not, one must use what resources and know-how are available to address the most basic and pressing, among them. I come to you with a request for help with a project that addresses just that.
Like safe drinking water and paved roads, having a private place to relieve one’s self that does not endanger the health of others is something we take for granted in the developing world. I say this not to guilt you, but as reality, fact. I have seen firsthand people defecating in the fields that grow their neighbor’s livelihood, in the market where daily dinner is bought, near the waters in which they bathe, on the side of the road, where children play, in plain view of many; I have seen women forced to clear their courtyards and markets of fecal matter with just their hands and leaves; and I have seen the toll diarrheal and intestinal sicknesses can have on a child or adult.
Nearly a billion people worldwide lack some form of bathroom. I realize that these 25 latrines make barely a dent in that number, but those latrines will create a safe, private place for 200 people to use. That’s removing 200 people’s worth of fecal matter from public spaces, streams, and fields. The impact this has on the health of individuals within this community can indeed be great.
These latrines are low-cost, durable, and lasting. A pit latrine at a depth of 10 meters can suffice for a household for more than a decade. Each household will provide an estimated 35% of the latrine cost in the form of hauling water, gathering sand, and constructing a mud brick house to enclose the latrine. Each household will also receive education on proper hygiene including hand washing, food preparation and storage, and waste management.
To donate to this project please visit https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-196
I’d like to say “many thanks” for any and all donations from the people of Zè, Benin. Oddly, in local language that translates to “awanu kaka” (say that one aloud for the full effect). If you feel so inclined, please forward this email to family, friends, and co-workers.
Love from Benin,
Kim Sanders
On September 25 I celebrated one year of Peace Corps service in Zè, Benin. I have a year's worth of memories, photos, and friendships, comparatively little to speak of in the way of volunteer work. I have seen countless project ideas born and die in this time, because when need is everywhere, and helping hands are not, one must use what resources and know-how are available to address the most basic and pressing, among them. I come to you with a request for help with a project that addresses just that.
Like safe drinking water and paved roads, having a private place to relieve one’s self that does not endanger the health of others is something we take for granted in the developing world. I say this not to guilt you, but as reality, fact. I have seen firsthand people defecating in the fields that grow their neighbor’s livelihood, in the market where daily dinner is bought, near the waters in which they bathe, on the side of the road, where children play, in plain view of many; I have seen women forced to clear their courtyards and markets of fecal matter with just their hands and leaves; and I have seen the toll diarrheal and intestinal sicknesses can have on a child or adult.
Nearly a billion people worldwide lack some form of bathroom. I realize that these 25 latrines make barely a dent in that number, but those latrines will create a safe, private place for 200 people to use. That’s removing 200 people’s worth of fecal matter from public spaces, streams, and fields. The impact this has on the health of individuals within this community can indeed be great.
These latrines are low-cost, durable, and lasting. A pit latrine at a depth of 10 meters can suffice for a household for more than a decade. Each household will provide an estimated 35% of the latrine cost in the form of hauling water, gathering sand, and constructing a mud brick house to enclose the latrine. Each household will also receive education on proper hygiene including hand washing, food preparation and storage, and waste management.
To donate to this project please visit https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-196
I’d like to say “many thanks” for any and all donations from the people of Zè, Benin. Oddly, in local language that translates to “awanu kaka” (say that one aloud for the full effect). If you feel so inclined, please forward this email to family, friends, and co-workers.
Love from Benin,
Kim Sanders
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Much needed vacation
It’s been awhile since my last post and, if I have to be honest, that may be the case for the rest of my service (15 months, in case you were wondering). Things get harder to write about in the outlet of a blog. I have less original thoughts and observations about life here; the bizarre and exciting have become the mundane. And even those aspects of Beninese culture and its people that I still find surprising, hilarious, frustrating, or confusing seem unworthy of repetition here. You’ve all heard my gripes. Conversations among volunteers increasingly breach the bigger subjects- not what comprises their culture but why it is that way, not why we came here but why we stay, which are wholly different. Some of what I’d like to write here might seem insensitive or politically incorrect to you, you who know what you do of Africa from MSNBC special reports, Oxfam newsletters, and glossy coffee table books. I hate to have your opinion lowered of me before I can get back to America and do it myself.
So. It was high time for a vacation. I had gone 10 months without boarding a plane, probably the longest time in my life. Even the flight from Accra (Ghana) to Johannesburg felt luxurious. Getting from Cotonou to Accra, though, was an ordeal. We (Brigitte, the other volunteer I was traveling with) had to take a series of taxis through Togo and Ghana totaling 8 or 9 hours, at least 3 of which were on dirt roads, to reach the airport in Accra. Each country seemed to be sequentially better—cleaner, more developed, less chaotic—than the last, until arriving in South Africa felt somewhat like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. Or when you go to the optometrist to be fitted for glasses and the doctor flips through lenses that go from blurry to tolerable to crystal clear until there is the one that fits just right. Development is my home. Unfortunately, we didn’t look too much like we belonged: we looked pretty haggard after 30 straight hours of travel, our red dirt-caked clothes and faces characteristic of life in West Africa not fitting in to the June winter of South Africa.
Our two-week vacation was spent half in Cape Town and half in Johannesburg. Cape Town is a stunning city sandwiched between the iconic Table Mountain and the picturesque coastline. Even in a country of extraordinary history and a true melting pot of cultures, Cape Town is a gem. It has the eclectic architecture of a city that has seen influence and rule by several different European powers before adopting its own character and style. In some areas, vacant buildings and open fields stand as a tribute to the black tenants once forcibly removed from their homes during the reign of Apartheid. Murals dot the landscape and the rocky crevices of Table Mountain serves as a constant background.
Day one of our vacation was spent marveling at things like sidewalks, marked road lanes, cold weather, and shopping malls; relearning how to use eyeliner and straightening irons; and buying weather appropriate clothes to replace the rags that pass as our clothing in Benin. Cape Town was a blur of omelet breakfasts, sushi dinners, vanilla lattes, shared oogles at the posh and polished South African women, and sightseeing.
Just off the coast of Cape Town, near where the joining of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans causes some of the most dangerous currents in the world, is Robben Island on which Nelson Mandela was imprisoned. The tour of the island and prison blocks was given be an ex-political prisoner, in our case one who was held up until 1994, when the prison was shut down and all its prisoners released. We saw the cell where Nelson Mandela slept every night for almost 20 years, the court where revolutionary minds that would greatly shape the new South Africa came together, and the spot where Mandela hid the manuscript of Long Walk to Freedom before another prisoner in transport was able to smuggle it off the island (Mandela would later name that man his Minister of Transport). One day was spent climbing Table Mountain, a hike that starts off in direct sunlight at the foot of the mountain and ends in biting cold, mist, and fog at the top. We made the estimated 2 ½ hour hike in just over and hour, thawed our bones with hot chocolate at the top of the mountain, and took a cable car down.
The week spent in Cape Town was prior to the start of the World Cup so we were able to see the steady stream of fans of all nationalities flood South Africa streets and bars, donning the colors of their flags and, more likely than not, a vuvuzela, the long thin horn that is fan favorite there. They may be the only thing I don’t miss about South Africa, but then again if I had to pick between the mind-numbing buzz of a thousand vuvuzelas and the ruckus of Benin—bleating goats, moto traffic, and screams of “yovo! yovo!”—I’d choose the former.
Even those whose national teams did not make the Cup came. We met a lot of Irish who claimed they were there to cheer for whoever was playing France. South American team pride dominated the crowds, even though there were more Americans there than any other nationality, about 150,000. I have a theory that Americans were lower key and less patriotic because if you paint your face, wear your flag as a cape, and sing your national anthem obnoxiously loud in enclosed public spaces and you’re American, you’re a jerk. If you’re, say, Ghanaian or Slovak or Uruguayan, you’re just patriotic.
The second week of our trip was spent in the Johannesburg area. Though Brigitte and I had made reservations at a hostel, long story short, they did not work out and we were left opening day of the World Cup scrambling for a place to stay. Thankfully we were put in touch with a friend of Brigitte’s family friends who made our trip nothing short of perfect. I saw two games—USA v. England and New Zealand v. Slovakia—but we more or less followed all the games, which were conveniently at 1:30pm, 4:00pm, and 8:30pm daily: lunch, happy hour, and dinner. We thought we ate well in Cape Town, little did we know the wonders Johannesburg would hold. Our host Tim has a knack for finding the best of the best so in a week’s span we had the best mojitos, pasta, hamburgers, fries, strawberry daquiris, lattes, and braai (South African barbeque) South Africa--if not all of Africa--has to offer. Not to mention a fair share of wine. The week was a pretty perfect blend of boisterous crowds and electric atmospheres, and calm nights of good wine and good conversation. The last two days we spent at Tim’s house in the bush. Imagine a golf course, clubhouse, and spa in the middle of a safari park (removed of large carnivores) and houses dotting the landscape shared with warthogs, giraffes, zebras, antelope, ostriches, and exotic birds. You’ll have to see the pictures. It was the kind of thing that was too awesome for words—seeing wildlife from the window of your bath in the morning and hearing the calls of different animals while barbequing at night.
South Africa is more than interesting; it’s an anomaly within the African continent. The wealth and development, as far as I can tell, are centered around at most twenty cities, and apart from them the expansive savannah is dotted mostly by wildlife reserves, shantytowns, mining towns, and villages. Each city feels like an oasis of sorts, and traveling between them is making the switch from developed world to developing and back in a matter of hours. The South Africans we met were friendly and incredibly hospitable. I can’t say I would’ve enjoyed my trip as much had I come straight from the land o’ plenty, but coming from Benin, it was like the Emerald City.
Leaving South Africa was… is devastating too strong a word? Suffice it to say I almost missed the flight buying wine in duty free and we took full advantage of the free alcohol on the flight back to Accra (where we would have to sleep in the airport till daybreak and then start the hellish 9 hour journey back to Benin). Thankfully before leaving we stocked up on creature comforts like Doritos and crunchy peanut butter to ease the transition back to life in village. Also thankfully we made it from Accra to Cotonou when we did; riots in the capital of Togo have caused it to be declared too dangerous for PCVs to travel within the country, so other Benin PCVs currently on vacation in South Africa will have to stay in Ghana until Togo is declared safe to traverse.
And so here I am now, lucky to hear about the score of a World Cup game or see snippets on a small fuzzy TV screen, sweating out half my weight in water a day, and eating food that may change in color but rarely in texture, consistency, or taste. The kind of food that looks the same coming up as it does going down, if you know what I mean. It’s good to be back.
So. It was high time for a vacation. I had gone 10 months without boarding a plane, probably the longest time in my life. Even the flight from Accra (Ghana) to Johannesburg felt luxurious. Getting from Cotonou to Accra, though, was an ordeal. We (Brigitte, the other volunteer I was traveling with) had to take a series of taxis through Togo and Ghana totaling 8 or 9 hours, at least 3 of which were on dirt roads, to reach the airport in Accra. Each country seemed to be sequentially better—cleaner, more developed, less chaotic—than the last, until arriving in South Africa felt somewhat like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. Or when you go to the optometrist to be fitted for glasses and the doctor flips through lenses that go from blurry to tolerable to crystal clear until there is the one that fits just right. Development is my home. Unfortunately, we didn’t look too much like we belonged: we looked pretty haggard after 30 straight hours of travel, our red dirt-caked clothes and faces characteristic of life in West Africa not fitting in to the June winter of South Africa.
Our two-week vacation was spent half in Cape Town and half in Johannesburg. Cape Town is a stunning city sandwiched between the iconic Table Mountain and the picturesque coastline. Even in a country of extraordinary history and a true melting pot of cultures, Cape Town is a gem. It has the eclectic architecture of a city that has seen influence and rule by several different European powers before adopting its own character and style. In some areas, vacant buildings and open fields stand as a tribute to the black tenants once forcibly removed from their homes during the reign of Apartheid. Murals dot the landscape and the rocky crevices of Table Mountain serves as a constant background.
Day one of our vacation was spent marveling at things like sidewalks, marked road lanes, cold weather, and shopping malls; relearning how to use eyeliner and straightening irons; and buying weather appropriate clothes to replace the rags that pass as our clothing in Benin. Cape Town was a blur of omelet breakfasts, sushi dinners, vanilla lattes, shared oogles at the posh and polished South African women, and sightseeing.
Just off the coast of Cape Town, near where the joining of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans causes some of the most dangerous currents in the world, is Robben Island on which Nelson Mandela was imprisoned. The tour of the island and prison blocks was given be an ex-political prisoner, in our case one who was held up until 1994, when the prison was shut down and all its prisoners released. We saw the cell where Nelson Mandela slept every night for almost 20 years, the court where revolutionary minds that would greatly shape the new South Africa came together, and the spot where Mandela hid the manuscript of Long Walk to Freedom before another prisoner in transport was able to smuggle it off the island (Mandela would later name that man his Minister of Transport). One day was spent climbing Table Mountain, a hike that starts off in direct sunlight at the foot of the mountain and ends in biting cold, mist, and fog at the top. We made the estimated 2 ½ hour hike in just over and hour, thawed our bones with hot chocolate at the top of the mountain, and took a cable car down.
The week spent in Cape Town was prior to the start of the World Cup so we were able to see the steady stream of fans of all nationalities flood South Africa streets and bars, donning the colors of their flags and, more likely than not, a vuvuzela, the long thin horn that is fan favorite there. They may be the only thing I don’t miss about South Africa, but then again if I had to pick between the mind-numbing buzz of a thousand vuvuzelas and the ruckus of Benin—bleating goats, moto traffic, and screams of “yovo! yovo!”—I’d choose the former.
Even those whose national teams did not make the Cup came. We met a lot of Irish who claimed they were there to cheer for whoever was playing France. South American team pride dominated the crowds, even though there were more Americans there than any other nationality, about 150,000. I have a theory that Americans were lower key and less patriotic because if you paint your face, wear your flag as a cape, and sing your national anthem obnoxiously loud in enclosed public spaces and you’re American, you’re a jerk. If you’re, say, Ghanaian or Slovak or Uruguayan, you’re just patriotic.
The second week of our trip was spent in the Johannesburg area. Though Brigitte and I had made reservations at a hostel, long story short, they did not work out and we were left opening day of the World Cup scrambling for a place to stay. Thankfully we were put in touch with a friend of Brigitte’s family friends who made our trip nothing short of perfect. I saw two games—USA v. England and New Zealand v. Slovakia—but we more or less followed all the games, which were conveniently at 1:30pm, 4:00pm, and 8:30pm daily: lunch, happy hour, and dinner. We thought we ate well in Cape Town, little did we know the wonders Johannesburg would hold. Our host Tim has a knack for finding the best of the best so in a week’s span we had the best mojitos, pasta, hamburgers, fries, strawberry daquiris, lattes, and braai (South African barbeque) South Africa--if not all of Africa--has to offer. Not to mention a fair share of wine. The week was a pretty perfect blend of boisterous crowds and electric atmospheres, and calm nights of good wine and good conversation. The last two days we spent at Tim’s house in the bush. Imagine a golf course, clubhouse, and spa in the middle of a safari park (removed of large carnivores) and houses dotting the landscape shared with warthogs, giraffes, zebras, antelope, ostriches, and exotic birds. You’ll have to see the pictures. It was the kind of thing that was too awesome for words—seeing wildlife from the window of your bath in the morning and hearing the calls of different animals while barbequing at night.
South Africa is more than interesting; it’s an anomaly within the African continent. The wealth and development, as far as I can tell, are centered around at most twenty cities, and apart from them the expansive savannah is dotted mostly by wildlife reserves, shantytowns, mining towns, and villages. Each city feels like an oasis of sorts, and traveling between them is making the switch from developed world to developing and back in a matter of hours. The South Africans we met were friendly and incredibly hospitable. I can’t say I would’ve enjoyed my trip as much had I come straight from the land o’ plenty, but coming from Benin, it was like the Emerald City.
Leaving South Africa was… is devastating too strong a word? Suffice it to say I almost missed the flight buying wine in duty free and we took full advantage of the free alcohol on the flight back to Accra (where we would have to sleep in the airport till daybreak and then start the hellish 9 hour journey back to Benin). Thankfully before leaving we stocked up on creature comforts like Doritos and crunchy peanut butter to ease the transition back to life in village. Also thankfully we made it from Accra to Cotonou when we did; riots in the capital of Togo have caused it to be declared too dangerous for PCVs to travel within the country, so other Benin PCVs currently on vacation in South Africa will have to stay in Ghana until Togo is declared safe to traverse.
And so here I am now, lucky to hear about the score of a World Cup game or see snippets on a small fuzzy TV screen, sweating out half my weight in water a day, and eating food that may change in color but rarely in texture, consistency, or taste. The kind of food that looks the same coming up as it does going down, if you know what I mean. It’s good to be back.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
"La dote"
Among other practices, like using a typewriter and hunting your own food, the giving of dowries (la dote, in French) still occurs in West Africa. I suppose though, that dowries exist in some sense in our culture. We have retained the practice of a father walking his daughter down the aisle, symbolically giving her away (well, her and several thousands dollars spent on fancy invitations, useless favors, one-time-only dresses and tuxes, and countless yards of toole to be fashioned into large bows on the backs of chairs). Back to the topic. So, the specifics of the dowry depend on your region and local culture (yes, in a country the size of Pennsylvania there are numerous cultures and actually big differences between some of them). In Zè, before the male’s family pays dowry to his future bride and her family, he must first give her a list of what he plans to give her. A sort of starting negotiation, if you will. She then takes the proposal to her paternal aunts and revises it as they see fit, which I’m sure means supplementing it. A typical dowry may look something like this:
Father of the bride: 12 meters of fabric, 3 bottles of alcohol, cash
Mother of the bride: 6 meters of fabrics, a jewelry set, dishes
And so on, with a different combination of food, alcohol, and other gifts for each of the bride’s sisters, brothers, and aunts. In some cases, the dowry is given at a ceremony called “la connaissance.” This is somewhat like a combination engagement party/bridal shower in that its purpose is for family and friends of the bride and of the groom to meet each other as well as for the bride to receive guests and all present play stupid games. The ceremony is traditionally held at the bride’s father’s house, and she is not considered betrothed until all the gifts have been bought, presented, and, finally, accepted by the bride and her family. If a woman’s family finds the gifts to be insufficient, they may refuse to give their permission/blessing. The groom’s female relatives form a caravan in their matching fabrics with the dowry gifts atop their heads. Upon entering, they set the dowry at the feet of the bride’s relatives, take their hands, and ask them to receive the gifts.
In one game, several women’s faces are covered and they walk into a circle of the groom’s family who has to say whether or not it is their future daughter. It’s symbolic of how well they know her spirit. The other game involves kola nuts and a maternal aunt. She must throw four kola nuts on the ground until the way in which they fall indicates their ancestors’ acceptance of the marriage. Many times, there are relatives actually buried under that very floor. The succession of kola nut throws is a type of dialogue, each throw an attempt to appeal to their ancestors on the couple’s behalf. American men have it easy; if they’re old-fashioned they may ask for the blessing of her father, but they certainly don’t have to get the permission of all her dead and living relatives.
Another odd thing, is that if you are marrying a twin, the dowry ceremony is conducted as though you are marrying the both of them, which can be awkward in the case of fraternal twins, like the ceremony I saw. If the groom’s family cannot afford the dowry it is up to the bride’s father to state the terms of an alternate dowry.
I guess when reduced to its basic facts, the process is less different form ours than one might think: where they argue the length of fabric and volume of moonshine here, we might bargain for a bigger diamond or higher clarity. I suppose if I explained the bachelor/bachelorette party to Beninese, they would find it just as bizarre.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
