The Year Mark

Get Back To Where You Once Belonged

For two weeks, at the end of August through the beginning of September, I returned to where it all began. As a trainer for stage (stage: the first nine weeks a new volunteer spends in country, learning language, skills, and techniques they then employ throughout their service), I was sent to Porto-Novo, the capital of Benin, to instruct the in-coming group of TEFL volunteers how to teach English in Benin.

At first, it was just plain weird. Almost immediately upon arrival, I was flooded with memories of my own time during stage – and most of them were uncomfortable and unpleasant. Porto-Novo, in my calm, subjective opinion, is an absolute wasteland. It is crowded, dirty, and filled with the most annoying racism I’ve ever encountered in this country. In Benin, the word for white-person in most southern local language dialects is “Yovo,” (but its usage can be extended to include anymore who is foreign, associates with white people, or has occidental behaviors or mannerism). EVERYWHERE I went, some Porto-Novan - be it man, woman, or child so small you can barely believe it can talk - screamed and pointed, “Yovo, yovo, bonsoir!” This was definitely an unhappy memory I know that I suppressed, because as soon as it heard their taunting on repeat, skipping away like a broken record, all the stress and frustration came rushing back to me, awakened and renewed. Everywhere smells like an odd mixture of urine, burning plastic, and things being fried in hot oil. I was there in the midst of the rainy season, so all the cracked and broken dirt roads were overflowing with red sludge and mud. I quickly realized that the Peace Corps Administration must hold stage in Porto-Novo for the same reason Frank Sinatra felt people chose to live in thrive in New York City: if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.

But I wasn’t there to judge the beauty and glamour of life in Porto-Novo. I had a very specific job: teaching new “stagiares” how to manage Beninese preteens while simultaneously teaching them basic English vocabulary and sentence structures. No small task, especially when you consider that a typical class size amounts to around fifty students and the vast majority of them despise English class. As I walked through the gates on my first day of training and onto the campus of CEG Davie, my old stage stomping grounds, I was taken aback my how full-circle I’d come. Everything looked exactly the same as I remembered it: bare, cement classrooms connected into a broad U-shape with venders hawking candy and a variety of oil-fried food options just outside the compound’s gates. Stagiares locked their Peace Corps-issued Trek bikes to the same trees we used last year. And as the newbies filed in, one after the other, they had the hard, worn, sleep-deprived look I know must have been across my face the entirety of my own stage experience. The more things change; the more they stay the same.

Teaching teachers was quite a role-reversal for me. Most days, my job was to sit in on two-hour long lessons and critique the stagiare teacher on his/her performance in front of the class for the day. Going in, I was completely intimidated by the whole idea of it: What do I say? How do I say it? What’s the most polite way to give someone bad news? But quickly, I got the hang out it. I found that most people actually don’t mind (even welcomed) criticism, so long as I had ideas to offer them on how to fix their mistakes. Easy enough, seeing as I had an entire year of in-class experiences under my belt to draw from. Most of the critiques were simple, basic things you’d expect: project your voice more, be stern when disciplining, move around the classroom while teaching, or bring in teaching aids to help your class better understand the material. I have to say, over the two weeks I worked as a trainer, I saw all the stagiares improve and gain confidence in themselves in front of the classroom. I even took away some great ideas I observed from watching them teach. Two weeks later, as I watched them all swear-into the Peace Corps, reciting he same oaths of service I avowed a year before, I could not have been prouder. Working as a trainer for stage was a rewarding experience, despite the location, and I’m glad to say that I’ve done it, but I will not be going back for seconds next year. You have my word on that.

Farewell to a Dear Friend

After my two weeks in Porto-Novo, all I wanted to do my go back to my village. I wanted to sleep in my bed, read my books, and shower with my own bucket of well water. But most of all, I wanted to see my cat. I really missed him after being away for almost three weeks. As soon as I got home, I opened the door, expecting to see Neebo’s happy little mug, but instead … there was nothing. I talked to my next-door neighbor who had been feeding him in my absence, and she said about four days before, he’d made a break for it and fled the house. I could understand that. Being cooped up in a cement box for three weeks would drive anything stir-crazy. My neighbor assured me she’d seen him and that he would return soon. So, I waited. For two days, I walked around my concession, calling his name into the thick, green African brush behind my house. I stalked around impatiently, jumping to attention each time I heard a pig squeal or a goat yell or baby crying, hoping it was Neebo announcing his victorious return. And for two days … nothing changed. No sighting of Neebo by anyone in the concession. I started to worry a little bit.

Three days after I’d return home, I make my last fruitless call into the thicket behind my house while on an early evening latrine break. I called his name, “Neebo, Neebo …” but it was to no avail. It was then that my neighbor-friend, an eleven year-old girl who runs the small supplies boutique in my concession (you may remember her from a previous blog as Can-Opener Girl) finally let me have it. See looked at me with sad eyes, not wanting to say it as much as I didn’t want to hear it.

- “He’s left.”
- “Yes, Baké, I know he left.”
- “But he is not coming back, Madame.”
- “How do you know this? Is he dead?”
- “Madame, Neebo was just too big and too beautiful. People are hungry. A thief took him, and they ate him. He went into the brush, and he’s not coming back.”

It was then that Baké made the hand motion that strikes a sick, maddening fear into the hearts of all Peace Corps Benin Volunteers. Sullenly, she drew her finger across her neck, in a throat-slicing motion, and repeated one last time, “He’s left.” I asked her if she was certain, and she nodded confidently. I thanked her for her honesty, used the latrine, and make it back into my house just before I broke down into tears. For a few days, I was a mess. I knew going into Beninese pet ownership that this could happen. Heck, I’d heard stories of it happening to other volunteers fairly frequently. But just like any of life’s other “common tragedies,” you don’t really think it can or will happen to you until it does. I was sad and disappointed. But I wasn’t angry at anyone or anything. It’s the culture here. Cats are food, and August is a rough month in Benin. Many people go hungry because the torrential rains wash away crops and destroy fields of vegetables. My hope is that whatever his fate was, Neebo died with purpose, and if that purpose was to become someone else’s dinner, at least a hungry villager ate well that night. To the credit of my neighbors, they were extremely supportive. They knew I was upset about losing my cat, and even though they couldn’t quite understand why, they rallied, bringing me plates of food and stopping by to give their condolences. The entire situation was one of the strangest, heartbreaking yet hear-warming, melodramatic cross-cultural experiences I’ve had during my service.

In ancient Egypt, when a person died, before they were admitted into the Afterlife, they were asked two questions by the gods. The postmortem fate of the dead lay in the answers to those two questions. The questions were: Did you have happiness in your life? Did you bring happiness to the lives of other people? From what I saw, Neebo had a very happy life: napping around the house all day, dueling to-the-death with grasshoppers and mice, greedily gobbling the remains of my macaroni and cheese and chicken salad sandwiches. And, gosh, did he ever make me happy. He was my partner in crime, my best little buddy at post, and my comrade on crusades against the perils of Beninese life. With that, I can only say that the highway to kitty heaven is open for you now, Neebo, and I know you’ve got the EZ Pass. Adieu, cher ami.

Stranger In A Strange Land

I suppose it is all a part of the natural progression of things. But, for all intents and purposes, Kalale is my home now. It’s where I feel most comfortable in this country. It’s where my house is, where all my belongings reside, where my Beninese friends and counterparts live, and where I work. After a year, it is only fitting that I’ve become accustomed to living life here and settling into familiar and happy routines and patterns. I’m independent and on my own out here, but I rarely ever feel lonely. Yet, as the dawning of a full-year at post has come and passed (September 27th , to be exact), I’ve come to an important realization as I throw myself headlong into my second and final year in Benin: no matter what, I am still a foreigner.

The death of Neebo and working stage were hard, in-your-face wake-up calls to me. I’d come to realize that no matter how much local language I’d mastered, how close I’d become with friends and colleagues in village, or how comfortable and attuned I’d become to my surrounding, I was still always going to be a Yovo, just another white girl in Africa – respected, but always different and apart.

Upon reflection of my last year here, I have to say I’ve definitely grown and learned and taken in so much more than I can realistically believe I could ever actually give back. I’ve come to think of the rewards of my service as small victories that benefit me or make me feel accomplished, and whatever progress I make, I am usually the one most pleased by it. I also accept that I’m completely jaded now. The faces of hungry children have stopped driving a stake through my heart. Seeing dead bodies lying on the side of the road doesn’t phase me as it used to. The open-air slaughter of animals is a natural part of eating in this country, and I’ve definitely jumped on the barbeque bandwagon.

I know the Beninese friends I’ve made genuinely like me. But I also realize that if it ever came down to defending me over one of their people, I’m on my own. I know that given the opportunity, any one of my neighbors would probably steal from me, because in their eyes, I have much more than they do simply because I’m American. I know they will lie to my face about anything, if the need arises. So, as begin my second year here, I no longer have to worry about integrating into my village. What I must balance now is acknowledging my own comfort level in this culture with the honest realization that I will never truly be a part of it. I also realize that, at the end of this year, I will have something no one else in my village will probably ever receive – a plane ticket home to America.

Three’s Company, Too!

Now that the incoming volunteers have officially sworn-in as real, live Peace Corps Volunteers, I am happy to report I have three new post mates in the commune of Kalale. Becca, an environmental volunteer who is within a five-minute walk from my house, has proven to be great company. She is extremely motivated, independent, and ready to work. She’s been doing an excellent job of meeting her work colleagues and making new friends. It’s been great fun to show her around the village and fielding the mundane questions that life in a small village inevitably brings to the forefront. In Dunkassa (approximately 30 km away) is another environmental volunteer, Bailey. Originally from Oregon, Bailey is very interested in land cultivation projects in her village. But she does enjoy coming into the commune head (where Becca and I live) to stock up on supplies, use our electricity, and take a shower (her showering area does not have a cement flooring, so she essentially bathes in dirt – G-d bless her!). Last, but hardly least, there is Tom in Bessassi (approximately 10 km away). Although he is close, we’ve had very few “Tom sightings,” in part because he has no cell-phone reception in his village, and also because he wants to throw himself head-first into village integration. I say, good for him! Every once in a while, when someone from Bessassi comes into Kalale, I ask how the white guy is doing. From all accounts, he’s doing great and he’s making all the villagers laugh. I’m sure there will be more on these three as the year goes on.