Greetings again from Africa. I know, I’ve been sluggish about updating, but please forgive. Here is my November ode to Africa.
Lockdown
For all Peace Corps Volunteers, it is a general requirement that you spend your first three months of service at your post. New volunteers are not allowed to leave for any reason other than administrative business, grave health issues, and banking. (There are not bank in many small towns and villages here. You need to go to a larger city in most cases get money in mass). The idea is that we are supposed to stay in our place and get a true sense of where we are living – get to know the people, the local customs and culture, the way of life in your new setting.
Lockdown is actually been a blessing. I’ve had the opportunity to make great friends in village, learn the secret passage ways, hidden nooks and crannies of the terrain, and spend time being a good teacher and community member for my students. However, my health and training schedule has afforded me many opportunities to break free. Here is my story – inside and outside my Kalale cage.
The Eye of the Beholder
Beautiful is in the eye of the beholder. Although I’ve given descriptions of Kalale before, I haven’t had the chance to really paint the picture of my Beninese commune head. It is aptly suited to me, and I do consider it home already. Let me get out my brush and canvas and see what kind of images I can conjure for you.
The “New Jersey” of Benin
Kalale is trashy. It has its share of toothless yokels, for sure, but I am talking about more of a general waste management problem. The dirt roads are caked with trash – paper wrapping, black plastic bags, tin cans, bits and pieces of broken plastic. Villagers just jettison anything that is not worthy keeping, and what is not picked up by children or other citizens that can find a use for it, just sits where it is thrown until is rots away into oblivion (which I believe is centuries for plastic products). Coupled its status as a growing trash heap, Kalale also has immense problems with drainage. On its developmental path to progress, Kalale missed the boat when it came to designing a system that allows waste water (the dirty stuff) to not congeal with rain water (the stuff that eventually becomes what I shower in). The problem is most easily recognizable in the center of town, where the gutter canals overflow will an electric green sludge that I can only imagine to be Kryptonite itself, liquefy and potent enough to kill.
Walk This Way
If you can look behind the grit and grim of Kalale, it is impossible not to notice that is a magical and beautiful. The commune is cradled between two rolling mountains covered in a mix of palm trees and craggy greener that snakes up the sides of the hills. My morning walk to school through town as the early sun breaks through the horizon is one the most breath-taking experiences I get to endure here –and it’s every day. My red dirt roads glow as the light hits it and the roadsides are decorated with tall, old trees that look as old as the Earth and sweet like palm shoots pop out from behind store fronts and tiny houses. At night, as the sun sets, the sky turns every single color the rainbow has to offer, and the sun – the sun – just glows. It may be my mind playing tricks on me, but I swear the sun is actually bigger here. Maybe it has something to do with my closer proximity to the equator; maybe that is just me being romantic; either way, it is enormous and rolling, and doesn’t so much shimmer or sparkle as it does radiate, project, and intensify everything it touches. West Africa is beautiful. I don’t know that a picture can capture it or if I even tried to type a thousand words worth of description that I’d even be able to illustrate a corner of the panorama.
Starry Night
I woke up at 2:00 AM one fine African morning to that internal sloshy feeling that can only signify one thing – diarrhea. I had going to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It means there is no electricity, I have to search for my flashlight in the dark, and then go outside and around the corner to Latrine Alley, just to meet the late-night party of lizards and cockroaches festooning around my cement hole. Lovely. On this particular night, still in a groggy daze of slumber, I marched my fanny out to the latrine to take care of business. On the way back, I looked up at the sky. I hadn’t noticed it before, but it was beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. The black sky was gigantic and lit with was seemed to be a million different stars in a thousand different shapes and sizes, all glimmering with an intensity I believe they reserve for midnight gazers, the few and infrequent who stay up to see them shine. I stood in awe for what seemed like forever, just counting and watching and taking in everything I could and then – the moment I was hoping for. Before I left, my Dad told me told me to take special note of the night sky. There would be magical things in the sky – like shooting stars. And lo and behold – his promises came to fruition. One right after the next four brilliant shooting stars launched themselves across the sky as if they were trying with great effort to slam themselves into the moon. I feel in love with the African sky that night, and now I await my sloshy morning feelings with a sense of hope, awe, and expectation.
The (Mis)Education of Madame Loren Lee
Like a Virgin
It’s true; I may be the one standing in front of my English classroom, but it is not lost on me, even for one moment, that we are all students in that room. My first year of teaching brings with it its own particular sense of adventure. As I teach them English, my students teach me new French vocabulary, what works and what does not as an effective lesson plan, and more than anything – how to be a teacher. Learning is never one dimensional; it comes at the students as they listen, when they speak, as they copy, and when they go out and attempt to practice their newly acquired language skills. I have developed a reputation for incorporating a lot of singing and dancing in my lessons, because I find that learning words to a rhythm and a beat keeps the sounds, the flow, and pronunciation cemented in the brains of my students. At my first APE meeting (the Benin version of the PTA), a parent came up to me and said, “You are my son’s favorite teacher this year. He loves his English class. He comes home and loves to sing his English songs with this brothers and sisters.” He then proceeded to serenade me with his rendition of “Skinamirinky Dinky Dink” – complete with the accompanying hand motions. I’d be lying if I said that I can’t believe that the American government is actually paying me to be this happy and have this much fun doing something I genuinely enjoy. Viva l’anglais!
Doing It the Write Way
As you know, I am a writer. It would only make sense then, that as an English teacher here in Benin, I would force my love of writing upon my unsuspecting student. I decided to take part of the World Wise program that the Peace Corps offers to serving volunteers that connect them with a classroom in America. In doing so, the volunteer can have a transatlantic, cross-cultural exchange in an educational environment. Immediately upon hearing about it, I signed up and was paired with a sixth grade Social Studies class in Rhode Island who are learning about African history, geography, and culture. After a few emails back and forth, the other teacher and I decided Pen Pal letters between the students would be great practice in English reading and writing for my cinqueme (second year) English class, and a good exercise in cultural exchange for her students. It was a learning experience for all.
Writing is not an element of Beninese education that is heavily emphasized, and in saying that, what I truly mean is that is glanced over with the same attention given to airborne dust particles. So, when my students submitted their first drafts of Pen Pal letters, they were a mess. I was convinced I’d gotten myself into a hole too deep to climb out of, yet Africa never fails to impress. I developed a template for their letters; now, all they had to do was follow the template and write about their favorite things – food, activities, school subjects (a majority brown-nosed and flattered me by scribing “English!”), and colors. Some of the answers were funny – favorite drinks included beer (perfectly legal for twelve year-olds here). Some had favorite activities that included, “jumping, running, and blue.” By the second drafts, however, it was clear that they had a handle on it and were enjoying the process. I sent the letters to America after Halloween, and now we all wait, patiently, for the American class’s responses.
My Girls
Club GLOW (the girls club – Girls Leading Our World) in Kalale is a success! We have about 30 regular members that come to each Wednesday meeting, and we recently just had elections. I have developed a reputation for inspiring lots of dances and songs, and I love the two hours per week that I get to spend hanging out and talking with the girls. We cover a variety of topics – how school is going, what is going on at home, the general affect of mistrusting and being perplexed by boys (which seems to be a universal issue amongst women of all ages). Although it is very flattering, I am having some difficulty coming into my role as a model for young girls. I have never been one follow directions nor do things according to social norms, so I am constantly unsure of what type of image I am projecting for the girls. Internally vacillating between what kind of woman I want them to see me as and what type of woman I want to be is a huge struggle that must mostly be achieve through physical representation and gestures – as my French is not nearly advanced enough to express deeper thoughts and feelings. It will be a challenge for me to find that balance and mold myself to be the best Club GLOW supervisor I can be.
Bright Lights, Big City … and Bandages?
I got eaten alive by mosquitoes during my stage training in Porto-Novo, and I spent the better parts of my days there scratching away at the bites until my legs looked like a watershed, tiny little streams flowing red with blood, winding down my calves. It seemed only natural then to continue to grate my legs like a wedge of parmesan cheese while I was a post. Wrong. There is one huge sanitation road block separating between Porto-Novo and Kalale: running water. Washing the wounds in well water allowed tiny little staphylococcus bacteria to set up shop in both of my gams (for the third time since moving to Africa). There is nothing like falling ill to remind yourself that you are in the Third World. It is manageable to muster through difficulties and the trials of life in Africa when all your corporal parts are working with you. When you are sick, there is nothing more you want in life than the creature comforts of home. This time, the infection was serious to earn me a week of antibiotics and rest in Parakou.
Parakou is the third largest city in Benin, and is the de facto capital of the north. Located just southwest of Kalale, by bush taxi through the dirt roads of the brush, it takes me about four hours to get to Parakou from Kalale. Parakou is my oasis. It is a friendly, fun ville with a can-do attitude and laid back atmosphere. You can find just about anything you’d want or need in Parakou between the Grand Marche and many Yovo markets in town. There is also Peace Corps workstation located in Parakou where volunteers can go to use the internet, take a shower under running water, and read one of the many books from the well-stocked library while sitting on a hopper with flush capability. For a volunteer like me, basically, Parakou is Mecca, and any excuse I can use to get into the city, I abuse with eager enthusiasm. The Medical Office agreed that the third time was the charm as far as staph infections go, and the only cure for what ailed me was a week of medical surveillance by a doctor at the Parakou Hospital and a week-long stay at the workstation.
Essentially, for a week, I gorged myself with food, took two showers a day, and spent the morning getting the multiple infections on my legs gauzed, bandaged, and slathered in antiseptic ointment by a team of nurses at the hospital. I kept myself busy as much free internet as the workstation’s dial-up connection could handle and the libraries of movies and books. I didn’t realize how much my body needed the break, going straight from stage to working as a teacher as post, and my stint in the Med Unit was a much-needed sanity salvation. After a week, my legs were tattooed with tiny pink scars that heralded the success of the bandages and antibiotics, and my spirit had recharged and was ready to return to life in the village.
A Reason for Giving Thanks
This year, I will be spending my Thanksgiving in Parakou. This week, as luck would have it, I have teacher training for all the Peace Corps English teachers in my stage. Because we will all be in the same place at the same time over the Great American Feasting Holiday, we decided to throw our own Beninese Thanksgiving. The menu is pretty great: Paula Dean’s TurDuckEn (traditionally a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a turkey, but we had to improvise on the duck meat are instead using a Guinea fowl), sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and both apple and pumpkin pie. This will be the first Thanksgiving I’ve spent outside of America, and it will be the first Thanksgiving I get to actually thank the fowls for their generous sacrifice before I dig into their gingerly grilled and marinated carcasses fork-first.
However, the turkey is not the only thing I have to be thankful for this holiday season. In honor of the festivities, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has supported me on my journey to the Peace Corps. Thank you all for taking the time to read the blog, send me letters and emails, and for all the positive support and encouragement I’ve had before and since arriving in Benin. Bearing the burdens of Africa would be infinitely more difficult without the strong, loving backbone of my friends and family. I’d like to thank my parents, my grandparents, my sister, Ro Osborn, and my Aunts Arlene and Uncle Ray, and the Holub clan for the amazing packages they have sent for any packages that are still making the transatlantic voyage. Any little reminder of America, any little creature comfort from home is a huge help and an amazing gift. I appreciate everything more than you know, and I am incredibly grateful. I’d like to give a shout-out also to my parents, my Aunt Arlene, and Michelle Knoll for my weekly phone call sessions. Thank you for allowing me to partake in one of my favorite American pastimes (gabbing on the phone); thank you for listening to me drone on endlessly about Africa; thank you for letting me hear your voice, your laugh, and letting me listen to your stories and life in America (and an extra special thanks to Michelle for showing all the others how do use Skype to make the calls!).
Please remember all of you – I love you, and I miss you. My heart is merely a mosaic made of all the people I have ever loved. You are all here with me in everything that I do and in all my memories that I recall upon for comfort, solace, and guidance. I am incredibly lucky and fortunate to have every single one of you as a part of my life. Thank you. Merci beaucoup. Mille grazie. May you all enjoy your Thanksgiving holiday with good food, good friends, and healthy families.
And, in the interest of being nostalgic, I WILL be sorely disappointed if someone from home does not email me the score of the Easton-P’burg Turkey Day game! Thanks again.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Bienvenue Kalale
Be forewarned: what you are about to read may disturb, shock, and horrify you. Rest easy in the comforting knowledge that I am typing this on a computer, powered by electricity, locked away tightly and securely behind towering slabs of cement and many deadbolts and doohickeys, all while guzzling down red wine straight from the bottle (I really see no reason to dirty a perfectly clean glass when it’s just me chugging away). I’m OK - I‘m better than OK. I’m alive and well-nourished. Welcome to Kalale.
Send Me On My Way
It is a 13- hour bush taxi cab ride through brush countryside from Porto-Novo on the coastline of southern Benin to my post, Kalale. It is the eastern-most post in Peace Corps Benin and arguably the closest to Nigeria (although depending on mode of transportation taken, I can be outdone). Having grown up in eastern Pennsylvania, neighboring New Jersey, I have come to accept that it is my lot in life to be inescapably bound to small, northeastern border towns. On Monday, September 28, 2009, I bid adieu to Porto-Novo in search of a tiny town to teach in, nestled in the arid, lush savanna lands of the Borgou region. I arrived at dusk, in the wake of one of the ending rainy season’s final storms, with just enough daylight encroaching on the horizon to hurl all my earthly belongings (and I really don’t have many) through the threshold of the new living quarters that will be my personal dwelling for the next two years. The reality of that moment hit me as hard and cold as the cement walls surrounding me. It was night, I was alone, and I was in Africa - Neebo and I were home.
I woke up the next morning and immediately got busy with my housewifery. This was my first real place - all to myself and on my own - and it was going to shine like the morning sun if I had to be saturated in blood, sweat, and tears to achieve it. As I should; I, in fact, live in the ritziest concession in the entire village, so it is only right that I maintain appearances for the sake of the neighborhood. My immediate voisins are the richest man in Kalale (who flaunts his wealth with such showy items as a three-meter satellite dish and a massive, noisy generator) and the Fulani tribe chieftain. It’s good company to keep. But moving up and moving in has it drawbacks and pit falls. Let me explain.
Howdy, Neighbor!
The Village People
Life in the village will be a trial of fortitude. There are no paved roads in, around, coming to, or going out of Kalale. It’s strictly terra rouge paths snaking throughout the village. Women walk around town from dawn ‘til dusk carting wares to vend on their heads in giant plastic or wooden tubs with the poise and grace of classically trained ballerinas. I watched a local woman bend over, pick up a kicking, screaming little rug rat, beat the pulp out of him, and then thrown him descending to the ground in a pile of red dust without pouring a drop of the ten gallons of water she was negotiating atop her crown. It is just stand back in awe, because I can find ways to trip over my own two feet on flat surfaces. The Fulani tribe is one the most respected and historical of all the tribes in West Africa, and arguable the most notable in all of Benin. Kalale happens to be the Times Square of Fulani culture, and I am lucky to get to walk among these beautifully decorated, time-honored people. You can tell a Fulani the second you look at him or her; they are ostentatiously dressed in vibrant silk tunics with intricately beaded, gleaming jewelry handing from every body part exposed to sunlight, with their obsidian complexions adorned with bright tribal face paint. I always feel plain and underdressed on my walk into town when I greet a Fulani; the sad thing is - from the way they look at me - I can tell they are thinking the same thing. Many people live in mud huts with thatched roofs. Everyone here is undyingly friendly and welcoming.
If a kind word goes a long way in America, in Africa you could encircle the globe with a sincere handshake and a warm grin. Everyone is so excited to meet, entertain, and shove food into the pie hole of the new Yovo in town. The little children in town are at extremes in terms of their welcoming dispositions. Some children sit in from my house for hours, their little noses pressed up against my screen door, tediously watching me do the most boring things in the world: fed my cat, make lesson plans, or arrange my bookshelf in alphabetical order by author. Nevertheless, they sit there salivating, transfixed by my every movement, lying in wait to see what the New White Girl In Town will do next, as if I am acting out the plot to a Jean Claud Van Dam flick. The only resistance I receive is from some small children who are scared stiff of me. They catch one look at my pale skin, light brown eyes, and gently waving honey hair and run in the opposite direction screaming blooding murder like they’ve seen a ghost. It doesn’t matter how much American candy I throw in their direction as peace offerings or how many times I try to gently pat the tops of their heads; I am obvious and foreign and need to keep my witchy ways to myself.
Along with all the furniture and a wide array of cutlery, Sandy, the volunteer that I am replacing, let a laundry list of social contacts for me in village, which has made integration in-village rather easy-breezy and pleasant. My first weekend at my new crib coincided with my 23rd birthday, and I already had a soiree well-in-preparation awaiting me before I even stepped foot in Kalale. Some of my new, closest companions in Kalale. There is the kind family next door which consists of Tomas (the guy with the gluttonous satellite dish), his toddler son Felix, and his wife, who is known around town as Mama Felix. Mama Felix runs a small boutique in our concession where I can get most of my basic needs from toilet paper and batteries to macaroni. Adissa is one of the many town merchants who gets most of her sales on Market Day (Thursdays), which leaves her free most other days to gossip relentlessly about the comings and goings of everyone else in town. Souleman is another good friend. He owns a small shop on the main road that leads to my house. Souleman is a devout Muslim and is impeccably consistent with his daily prayers. One day, while chatting him up under the shade of a giant papaya tree next to his shop, he invited me to pray with him. Never one to turn her nose up at any opportunity to explore a new religious ritual, I threw on a borrowed hijab from one of the neighbors, washed up, and got down on all fours to praise Allah. It was a uniquely calming experience. So now, when our paths cross and the call to prayer beckons, I kneel with Souleman.
He gets a big kick out of it, and I get a little closer to G-d.
My Menagerie
The Tokens famously sung about the sleeping patterns of ferocious felines with their classic one-hit-wonder, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” But what they neglected to include in their little ditty was the myriad of other exotic (and decidedly commonplace) animals that roam the jungle (and my concession) in search of a warm and loving place to rest their heads. Animals walk around Kalale just as freely as anything on two legs. On my daily kilometer walk to and from school, I see warthogs, rams, cows, chickens, pigs, monkeys, and penguins (Ha! No penguins - just wanted to see if you were paying attention). However, the most prolific animal frolicking the cities and villages of Benin are the goats. My concession is home to no fewer than fifteen goats and many of the are impregnated with more little goats. The goats are small in stature - no more than 36 inches in height), but what they lack in grandiosity, they make up in gumption. They are noisy little creatures, hemming and hawing all hours of the day in night, sometimes screaming as if they are in abject torture. They scare the bejesus out of Neebo on a regular basis by putting their snouts against the screen door and beckoning him to come outside and play. Once, during my post visit to Kalale, I thoughtless left my metal screen door ajar. While I was in the back master bedroom, a neighborhood goat just waltzed into my living room - without knocking, mind you - to check up on me. In spite the breaking-and-entry, most goats won’t let you within two feet of them without scurrying off the opposite direction. Yet, they are considerate. If both a goat and you want to walk down the same narrow alleyway between two mud huts and you both recognize there’s only room for one of you, the goat will politely bow out and give you the right-of-way, graciously awaiting its turn. It’s a phenomenon that I can’t quite get my head around, because I know a ton of New Yorkers that simply cannot grasp that kind of courtesy.
Maybe It’s the Third World or May It’s Just My First Time Around
Make no bones about it, I live in an African village. Even if your only knowledge of African villages is gleaned from The Lion King and late-night infomercials that desperately beg you to donate the change you find underneath your couch cushions to starving children in Africa, you can surmise the basic look and feel of Kalale. In fact, when I arrived hailing from the big city of Porto- Novo, one of the assistants to the mayor, and acculturated man, promptly greeted me with, “Bienvenue a la brosse,” which basically means “Welcome to the brush.” In all honesty, I did not arrive in Kalale sight-unseen. I came in mid-August on post visit, which was basically a humble, whirlwind tour given to me by the Censeur (vice principal) of my school. I met all the Whose Who of the village and school administration, but my French was still pretty weak, and I gathered just enough to smile and nod my way through salutary introductions. I knew what I was getting into, but only in the way a pregnant mother grasps the difficulties of raising a child. And as the famous African proverb decries: It takes a village to raise a child.
The Bare Necessities
“Forget about your worries and your strife; all you need are the bare necessities,” or at least that is what I gathered from The Jungle Book. As aforementioned, my palace consists of seven huge rooms that include an indoor and outdoor kitchen (complete with fire pit!), an open-air showering room, a courtyard, a master bedroom, and living room. It came fully-furnished and done so with excellent taste (the volunteer that I replaced was a grande dame of sorts and would tolerate nothing less). Notice that I did not mention a bathroom. I should probably take this opportunity to mention I have no running water and my electricity exists from 7:00 PM to midnight, if I’m lucky. Thomas Edison forgot Kalale on his way to making the whole world alight, therefore AC/DC electric output is hit or miss here. Not that I am not positively thrilled to have what little I have. Given the choice, I would have forgone the awe-inspiring sounds of the drip-drip of a faucet or the whirling glory that is a flushing toilet in place of power. According to Genesis, the first thing G-d said was, “Let there be light,” and he did so for good reason. Being able to type on my netbook, listen to music freshly charged from my iPod, and regenerate the ever-dying battery of my deadbeat mobile phone are small, daily miracles I would never dream of taking for granted. They are little touches of home - the First World - that make everything seem conquerable.
But the lack of running water has some serious drawbacks. Water for washing comes from a well, which basically collects undrinkable ground water and rain water. The drinkable water - pump water - must be boiled and then filtered before it can pass through my lips in order to avoid such maladies as amoebic dysentery and giardia. Because I lack power, I also have a butane-driven cook top stove, which has leant itself to some interesting culinary mishaps. I grew up with one of the flat top, ultra-modern cooking ranges and mostly ignored the numbers on the heat adjustment dial, because, well…if the water is boiling and thing seems to be heating up just fine, what else do I really need to know? Wrong, wrong, terribly wrong. Those numbers have hidden meaning - heat level! Maybe now is an apt time to mention at I live in a desert climate. The average temperature here this time of year is a toasty 110ºF which leaves you inhumanely bake in the African sun. There is no “swell” in swelter in Kalale. So, once you light the match to the butane range, things literally go up in flames. There is a dial that controls how much gas gets thrust through the tiny pipe connecting the range to the tank, but it’s looks very MacGyvered. Cement retains heat so anytime I cook, boil water to drink, or heat up leftovers, I wind up soaking wet in my own \perspiration brought on by the combined forces of arid heat and burning flames. Even some chores that are somewhat outdated and bothersome in The States become routine afternoon projects here. There are two byproducts of cooking: sustenance and dirty dishes. Washing dishes without a Maytag consists of taking two large plastic basins, filling them with pump water, and then putting powder detergent in one (the wash cycle) and a cap full of bleach in the other (the rinse cycle). Each plate, fork, ladle, mug, and glass that is used must go through this water treatment system in order to be used again in the not-so-distant future. Everything I consume has the faint aftertaste of Clorox. I guess here in Africa it’s going to be white on the outside, white on the inside. And then there is the latrine…
Queen Jean: The Latrine Queen
My most difficult transition by far in this move from Beninese metropolis to Beninese shanty town has been getting used to life without The Porcelain Throne. Admittedly, in the United States I was definitely one of those people that cherished her time with John. It is where I went to relax, catch up on my reading, to dream up my next road trip or neuroses, to get away from the Public-at-Large, and just be one with my bowel movements. Well, boy oh boy, have I kissed those leisurely moments of bathroom bliss good-bye! In order to relieve myself, I must walk around the confines of my concession to a row of outhouses lined up next to each other, jutting from the ground like headstones in a graveyard. Thankfully, I have my own private latrine so I do not have to share my end-roads with the other inhabitants of my concession. Well, my pit-o-despair is as sparse as can be expected. It is a 4”x4”cement space with a tin roof and a tin swinging-hinge door that houses a concrete, dirt-level slab with a hole in the middle that is coincidentally shaped exactly like Benin. A wooden plank with a handle covers the hole in an effort to keep other unbordered tenants (roaches, spiders, lizards, snakes) from sneaking up and biting me in the tukus as a crouch in submission. Everyday, I leave my dignity at the door as I unlock my latrine and prepare myself mentality to get down to the Dirty Work. As my dearest neighbor Ro Osborn can attest, in my former American life, I used to have a problem with clogging up toilet bowls. Well, Ro Ro, Benin has out-maneuvered my shortcomings in that arena! It sure is the pits.
Where There Is One, There Are More
My former business partner, Mike Aslett, once said, “Where there is one, there are more. If you have four, you have an army.” In it’s original context, the quote was meant as an entrepreneurial, small business rally cry against the greed of Corporate America. When you apply the same quote to household insects, it has a totally frightening connotation. It’s an African village, so it’s practically a given that the place is swarming with creepy crawlers and other critters that go bump in the night; no surprises there. What is surprising - at least to me - is how many of them are there! I feel \my little bungalow could send the Orkin Man into cardiac arrest. The army I face is banded by spiders of every shape and size: daddy-long-leggers that could put supermodels to shame in a Longest Legs competition, microscopic ones that you can confuse for dust or your own dander, and tarantulas (which are unbelievably fast little buggers). There are beetles, moths, mosquitoes, and - last but not least - cockroaches. The cockroaches are the most nerve-wracking. I realize they are relatively harmless and really can’t do too much but be persistently annoying, but they are an international sign of filth and disgust, which, in and of itself, is appalling. I actually had the gall to brag to other volunteers when they called that luckily, my house had been spared the presence of such disturbing little bastards. That was until one fateful evening I entered my outdoor shower to find a cafard the size of my index finger grinning up at me as if to say, “Need help lathering your back?”
But with personal challenges also come personal victories. I won big time at the beginning of the week in my fight against wasps. It is no secret that I am deathly afraid of anything the has a stinger and buzzes. I overreact to them so dramatically out of fear that I’ve taken to telling people that I am allergic to their sting in the hope that they will not find my cowardice so pathetic. Ergo, when a particularly pesky little wasp would stop at nothing - screen door, nor sealed window - to invade my territory, the fight was on. I encountered the interloper after I emerged from my kitchen, dripping sweat over the open flames of my stove, and immediately heard his distinctive wasp wings flapping too close for comfort. I saw him hover just below the doorframe. Reflexively, I slammed to kitchen door shut and began hyperventilating in fear. Quickly, I realized there was no where to run, no one to run to, and that I was the one running in my own house. So, I grabbed a can of insecticide that was stashed along with the household cleaning supplies, opened the door, crouched like a tigress lying in wait, and zapped that little mother-trucker right in the ass. I watched him fall to the ground in mid-air and then writhe and twitter in his last worldly moments. I am supposedly here in Africa as an operative of peace, but that particular act of violence was cathartically gratifying.
The (Ex)terminator
My greatest ally in my Campaign Against Critters is Neebo. The acquisition of this kitten has been the single best decision I have made since joining the Corps de la Paix. He is sweet, kind, playful, and adorable. He is always happy to see me when I get home, purrs peacefully in my lap while I mercilessly devour pages of books, and curls up beside my pillow as I drift in La La Land each night. Thanks in no small part to Marcheline, the daughter of my neighbor who has also found a soft spot in her heart for him, he is growing up bilingual in French and English. Yet, all that makes him is good company, not an asset to the team. What gives Neebo his MVP status is fervor for the hunt. The little guy just won’t quit when it comes to ending the lives of things creep, crawl, and cricket. I know he does it for his own amusement out of his boundless, curious kitten energy, but he is so accurate and effective that it is worthy of the utmost praise. In his most heroic feat to date, I saw my pint-size kitty tackle a gecko off my cement wall, paw it in his claws like he was flipping a pancake, go for its jugular like vampire, rip it to shreds, and swallow it in chunks. I can’t stop beaming with maternal pride. Rock on, little man. Viva le Neebo! Keep doing what you’re doing ‘cause you do it so well.
Armed and Ready For the First Day of School
October 1st marked the le reentre for Beninese students country-wide. Unlike in America, every school in Benin starts on the same day and most follow the same pattern for their first few weeks. The first days of school at CEG Kalale (which stands for Centre d’Enseignment Generale, or secondary school) were essentially marked with hours of enforced mandatory labor for all students. The students (les eleves) are responsible for maintaining the school ground, so the first days are spend weeding out the summer overgrowth in the fields and gardens surround the CEG. My main job was to sit in a lawn chair next to the Directeur (head master) and read David Sedaris, occasionally looking up to greet other teachers and administrators.
I am the only female teacher at CEG Kalale. I have been warned by other volunteers that being “one of the guys” is a type of survival skill I will have to hone and master `over the next two years in order to avoid being treated like doormat. In the spirit of togetherness, when the male administrators called me into the Directeur’s office at 8:00 AM to take shots of sodabi - the favored Breakfast of Champions among faculty. I womaned-up and down three shots in the span of an hour. Luckily, heaven protects fools and drunks, so I made it home by 10:00 AM in one piece before the midday sun could begin blaring down on me. Hopefully, that little stint earns me enough credibility to last me the rest of school year.
I officially started teaching classes the following week. My schedule is as follows: two-hour classes, two times per day, four days of the week. I teach two levels of English - sixieme (novice) and cinqueme (intermediate low). I dutifully prepared my lessons, handouts, visual aids, and homework assignments the night before my classes. What I did not prepare for was the students themselves. The boys came to school armed with machetes. I was educated in a post-Columbine/9-11 public school system with a very strict Zero Tolerance policy. I had grown accustomed to stories on the nightly news broadcast of students being expelled from their schools for bringing butter knives in their lunch kettles. So, imagine my shock and terror when 24 Beninese boys came trotting into class wielding rusty machetes as if they were pocket pencil sharpeners. I nearly fainted on my first day of school out of pure terror. I walked on eggshells throughout my entire first class, not wanting to be too intimidating or disciplinary. After class, I immediately ran to the Censeur’s office and told him about the machetes. I took all the willpower in his body to hold back the laughter that I could see rolling onto his face and out through his eyes. Here in Benin, children don’t come to school to hack each other to death. Education is not free, is not an equal opportunity employer, and is not to be taken lightly. Apparently, students come here to learn, not to sit in the corner and daydream of ways to annihilate their teachers. The machetes are used for grounds maintenance that all male students must perform as a part of their service to their community and school. My suggestion of student-spawned violence towards another student or myself was absolutely unfathomable to the Censeur, who, dumbfounded, had to beg the question, “Do students really try to kill people with pocket knives at their schools in America?” Yes, yes, Mr. Censeur, they most certainly do. Now who seems ridiculous?
Send Me On My Way
It is a 13- hour bush taxi cab ride through brush countryside from Porto-Novo on the coastline of southern Benin to my post, Kalale. It is the eastern-most post in Peace Corps Benin and arguably the closest to Nigeria (although depending on mode of transportation taken, I can be outdone). Having grown up in eastern Pennsylvania, neighboring New Jersey, I have come to accept that it is my lot in life to be inescapably bound to small, northeastern border towns. On Monday, September 28, 2009, I bid adieu to Porto-Novo in search of a tiny town to teach in, nestled in the arid, lush savanna lands of the Borgou region. I arrived at dusk, in the wake of one of the ending rainy season’s final storms, with just enough daylight encroaching on the horizon to hurl all my earthly belongings (and I really don’t have many) through the threshold of the new living quarters that will be my personal dwelling for the next two years. The reality of that moment hit me as hard and cold as the cement walls surrounding me. It was night, I was alone, and I was in Africa - Neebo and I were home.
I woke up the next morning and immediately got busy with my housewifery. This was my first real place - all to myself and on my own - and it was going to shine like the morning sun if I had to be saturated in blood, sweat, and tears to achieve it. As I should; I, in fact, live in the ritziest concession in the entire village, so it is only right that I maintain appearances for the sake of the neighborhood. My immediate voisins are the richest man in Kalale (who flaunts his wealth with such showy items as a three-meter satellite dish and a massive, noisy generator) and the Fulani tribe chieftain. It’s good company to keep. But moving up and moving in has it drawbacks and pit falls. Let me explain.
Howdy, Neighbor!
The Village People
Life in the village will be a trial of fortitude. There are no paved roads in, around, coming to, or going out of Kalale. It’s strictly terra rouge paths snaking throughout the village. Women walk around town from dawn ‘til dusk carting wares to vend on their heads in giant plastic or wooden tubs with the poise and grace of classically trained ballerinas. I watched a local woman bend over, pick up a kicking, screaming little rug rat, beat the pulp out of him, and then thrown him descending to the ground in a pile of red dust without pouring a drop of the ten gallons of water she was negotiating atop her crown. It is just stand back in awe, because I can find ways to trip over my own two feet on flat surfaces. The Fulani tribe is one the most respected and historical of all the tribes in West Africa, and arguable the most notable in all of Benin. Kalale happens to be the Times Square of Fulani culture, and I am lucky to get to walk among these beautifully decorated, time-honored people. You can tell a Fulani the second you look at him or her; they are ostentatiously dressed in vibrant silk tunics with intricately beaded, gleaming jewelry handing from every body part exposed to sunlight, with their obsidian complexions adorned with bright tribal face paint. I always feel plain and underdressed on my walk into town when I greet a Fulani; the sad thing is - from the way they look at me - I can tell they are thinking the same thing. Many people live in mud huts with thatched roofs. Everyone here is undyingly friendly and welcoming.
If a kind word goes a long way in America, in Africa you could encircle the globe with a sincere handshake and a warm grin. Everyone is so excited to meet, entertain, and shove food into the pie hole of the new Yovo in town. The little children in town are at extremes in terms of their welcoming dispositions. Some children sit in from my house for hours, their little noses pressed up against my screen door, tediously watching me do the most boring things in the world: fed my cat, make lesson plans, or arrange my bookshelf in alphabetical order by author. Nevertheless, they sit there salivating, transfixed by my every movement, lying in wait to see what the New White Girl In Town will do next, as if I am acting out the plot to a Jean Claud Van Dam flick. The only resistance I receive is from some small children who are scared stiff of me. They catch one look at my pale skin, light brown eyes, and gently waving honey hair and run in the opposite direction screaming blooding murder like they’ve seen a ghost. It doesn’t matter how much American candy I throw in their direction as peace offerings or how many times I try to gently pat the tops of their heads; I am obvious and foreign and need to keep my witchy ways to myself.
Along with all the furniture and a wide array of cutlery, Sandy, the volunteer that I am replacing, let a laundry list of social contacts for me in village, which has made integration in-village rather easy-breezy and pleasant. My first weekend at my new crib coincided with my 23rd birthday, and I already had a soiree well-in-preparation awaiting me before I even stepped foot in Kalale. Some of my new, closest companions in Kalale. There is the kind family next door which consists of Tomas (the guy with the gluttonous satellite dish), his toddler son Felix, and his wife, who is known around town as Mama Felix. Mama Felix runs a small boutique in our concession where I can get most of my basic needs from toilet paper and batteries to macaroni. Adissa is one of the many town merchants who gets most of her sales on Market Day (Thursdays), which leaves her free most other days to gossip relentlessly about the comings and goings of everyone else in town. Souleman is another good friend. He owns a small shop on the main road that leads to my house. Souleman is a devout Muslim and is impeccably consistent with his daily prayers. One day, while chatting him up under the shade of a giant papaya tree next to his shop, he invited me to pray with him. Never one to turn her nose up at any opportunity to explore a new religious ritual, I threw on a borrowed hijab from one of the neighbors, washed up, and got down on all fours to praise Allah. It was a uniquely calming experience. So now, when our paths cross and the call to prayer beckons, I kneel with Souleman.
He gets a big kick out of it, and I get a little closer to G-d.
My Menagerie
The Tokens famously sung about the sleeping patterns of ferocious felines with their classic one-hit-wonder, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” But what they neglected to include in their little ditty was the myriad of other exotic (and decidedly commonplace) animals that roam the jungle (and my concession) in search of a warm and loving place to rest their heads. Animals walk around Kalale just as freely as anything on two legs. On my daily kilometer walk to and from school, I see warthogs, rams, cows, chickens, pigs, monkeys, and penguins (Ha! No penguins - just wanted to see if you were paying attention). However, the most prolific animal frolicking the cities and villages of Benin are the goats. My concession is home to no fewer than fifteen goats and many of the are impregnated with more little goats. The goats are small in stature - no more than 36 inches in height), but what they lack in grandiosity, they make up in gumption. They are noisy little creatures, hemming and hawing all hours of the day in night, sometimes screaming as if they are in abject torture. They scare the bejesus out of Neebo on a regular basis by putting their snouts against the screen door and beckoning him to come outside and play. Once, during my post visit to Kalale, I thoughtless left my metal screen door ajar. While I was in the back master bedroom, a neighborhood goat just waltzed into my living room - without knocking, mind you - to check up on me. In spite the breaking-and-entry, most goats won’t let you within two feet of them without scurrying off the opposite direction. Yet, they are considerate. If both a goat and you want to walk down the same narrow alleyway between two mud huts and you both recognize there’s only room for one of you, the goat will politely bow out and give you the right-of-way, graciously awaiting its turn. It’s a phenomenon that I can’t quite get my head around, because I know a ton of New Yorkers that simply cannot grasp that kind of courtesy.
Maybe It’s the Third World or May It’s Just My First Time Around
Make no bones about it, I live in an African village. Even if your only knowledge of African villages is gleaned from The Lion King and late-night infomercials that desperately beg you to donate the change you find underneath your couch cushions to starving children in Africa, you can surmise the basic look and feel of Kalale. In fact, when I arrived hailing from the big city of Porto- Novo, one of the assistants to the mayor, and acculturated man, promptly greeted me with, “Bienvenue a la brosse,” which basically means “Welcome to the brush.” In all honesty, I did not arrive in Kalale sight-unseen. I came in mid-August on post visit, which was basically a humble, whirlwind tour given to me by the Censeur (vice principal) of my school. I met all the Whose Who of the village and school administration, but my French was still pretty weak, and I gathered just enough to smile and nod my way through salutary introductions. I knew what I was getting into, but only in the way a pregnant mother grasps the difficulties of raising a child. And as the famous African proverb decries: It takes a village to raise a child.
The Bare Necessities
“Forget about your worries and your strife; all you need are the bare necessities,” or at least that is what I gathered from The Jungle Book. As aforementioned, my palace consists of seven huge rooms that include an indoor and outdoor kitchen (complete with fire pit!), an open-air showering room, a courtyard, a master bedroom, and living room. It came fully-furnished and done so with excellent taste (the volunteer that I replaced was a grande dame of sorts and would tolerate nothing less). Notice that I did not mention a bathroom. I should probably take this opportunity to mention I have no running water and my electricity exists from 7:00 PM to midnight, if I’m lucky. Thomas Edison forgot Kalale on his way to making the whole world alight, therefore AC/DC electric output is hit or miss here. Not that I am not positively thrilled to have what little I have. Given the choice, I would have forgone the awe-inspiring sounds of the drip-drip of a faucet or the whirling glory that is a flushing toilet in place of power. According to Genesis, the first thing G-d said was, “Let there be light,” and he did so for good reason. Being able to type on my netbook, listen to music freshly charged from my iPod, and regenerate the ever-dying battery of my deadbeat mobile phone are small, daily miracles I would never dream of taking for granted. They are little touches of home - the First World - that make everything seem conquerable.
But the lack of running water has some serious drawbacks. Water for washing comes from a well, which basically collects undrinkable ground water and rain water. The drinkable water - pump water - must be boiled and then filtered before it can pass through my lips in order to avoid such maladies as amoebic dysentery and giardia. Because I lack power, I also have a butane-driven cook top stove, which has leant itself to some interesting culinary mishaps. I grew up with one of the flat top, ultra-modern cooking ranges and mostly ignored the numbers on the heat adjustment dial, because, well…if the water is boiling and thing seems to be heating up just fine, what else do I really need to know? Wrong, wrong, terribly wrong. Those numbers have hidden meaning - heat level! Maybe now is an apt time to mention at I live in a desert climate. The average temperature here this time of year is a toasty 110ºF which leaves you inhumanely bake in the African sun. There is no “swell” in swelter in Kalale. So, once you light the match to the butane range, things literally go up in flames. There is a dial that controls how much gas gets thrust through the tiny pipe connecting the range to the tank, but it’s looks very MacGyvered. Cement retains heat so anytime I cook, boil water to drink, or heat up leftovers, I wind up soaking wet in my own \perspiration brought on by the combined forces of arid heat and burning flames. Even some chores that are somewhat outdated and bothersome in The States become routine afternoon projects here. There are two byproducts of cooking: sustenance and dirty dishes. Washing dishes without a Maytag consists of taking two large plastic basins, filling them with pump water, and then putting powder detergent in one (the wash cycle) and a cap full of bleach in the other (the rinse cycle). Each plate, fork, ladle, mug, and glass that is used must go through this water treatment system in order to be used again in the not-so-distant future. Everything I consume has the faint aftertaste of Clorox. I guess here in Africa it’s going to be white on the outside, white on the inside. And then there is the latrine…
Queen Jean: The Latrine Queen
My most difficult transition by far in this move from Beninese metropolis to Beninese shanty town has been getting used to life without The Porcelain Throne. Admittedly, in the United States I was definitely one of those people that cherished her time with John. It is where I went to relax, catch up on my reading, to dream up my next road trip or neuroses, to get away from the Public-at-Large, and just be one with my bowel movements. Well, boy oh boy, have I kissed those leisurely moments of bathroom bliss good-bye! In order to relieve myself, I must walk around the confines of my concession to a row of outhouses lined up next to each other, jutting from the ground like headstones in a graveyard. Thankfully, I have my own private latrine so I do not have to share my end-roads with the other inhabitants of my concession. Well, my pit-o-despair is as sparse as can be expected. It is a 4”x4”cement space with a tin roof and a tin swinging-hinge door that houses a concrete, dirt-level slab with a hole in the middle that is coincidentally shaped exactly like Benin. A wooden plank with a handle covers the hole in an effort to keep other unbordered tenants (roaches, spiders, lizards, snakes) from sneaking up and biting me in the tukus as a crouch in submission. Everyday, I leave my dignity at the door as I unlock my latrine and prepare myself mentality to get down to the Dirty Work. As my dearest neighbor Ro Osborn can attest, in my former American life, I used to have a problem with clogging up toilet bowls. Well, Ro Ro, Benin has out-maneuvered my shortcomings in that arena! It sure is the pits.
Where There Is One, There Are More
My former business partner, Mike Aslett, once said, “Where there is one, there are more. If you have four, you have an army.” In it’s original context, the quote was meant as an entrepreneurial, small business rally cry against the greed of Corporate America. When you apply the same quote to household insects, it has a totally frightening connotation. It’s an African village, so it’s practically a given that the place is swarming with creepy crawlers and other critters that go bump in the night; no surprises there. What is surprising - at least to me - is how many of them are there! I feel \my little bungalow could send the Orkin Man into cardiac arrest. The army I face is banded by spiders of every shape and size: daddy-long-leggers that could put supermodels to shame in a Longest Legs competition, microscopic ones that you can confuse for dust or your own dander, and tarantulas (which are unbelievably fast little buggers). There are beetles, moths, mosquitoes, and - last but not least - cockroaches. The cockroaches are the most nerve-wracking. I realize they are relatively harmless and really can’t do too much but be persistently annoying, but they are an international sign of filth and disgust, which, in and of itself, is appalling. I actually had the gall to brag to other volunteers when they called that luckily, my house had been spared the presence of such disturbing little bastards. That was until one fateful evening I entered my outdoor shower to find a cafard the size of my index finger grinning up at me as if to say, “Need help lathering your back?”
But with personal challenges also come personal victories. I won big time at the beginning of the week in my fight against wasps. It is no secret that I am deathly afraid of anything the has a stinger and buzzes. I overreact to them so dramatically out of fear that I’ve taken to telling people that I am allergic to their sting in the hope that they will not find my cowardice so pathetic. Ergo, when a particularly pesky little wasp would stop at nothing - screen door, nor sealed window - to invade my territory, the fight was on. I encountered the interloper after I emerged from my kitchen, dripping sweat over the open flames of my stove, and immediately heard his distinctive wasp wings flapping too close for comfort. I saw him hover just below the doorframe. Reflexively, I slammed to kitchen door shut and began hyperventilating in fear. Quickly, I realized there was no where to run, no one to run to, and that I was the one running in my own house. So, I grabbed a can of insecticide that was stashed along with the household cleaning supplies, opened the door, crouched like a tigress lying in wait, and zapped that little mother-trucker right in the ass. I watched him fall to the ground in mid-air and then writhe and twitter in his last worldly moments. I am supposedly here in Africa as an operative of peace, but that particular act of violence was cathartically gratifying.
The (Ex)terminator
My greatest ally in my Campaign Against Critters is Neebo. The acquisition of this kitten has been the single best decision I have made since joining the Corps de la Paix. He is sweet, kind, playful, and adorable. He is always happy to see me when I get home, purrs peacefully in my lap while I mercilessly devour pages of books, and curls up beside my pillow as I drift in La La Land each night. Thanks in no small part to Marcheline, the daughter of my neighbor who has also found a soft spot in her heart for him, he is growing up bilingual in French and English. Yet, all that makes him is good company, not an asset to the team. What gives Neebo his MVP status is fervor for the hunt. The little guy just won’t quit when it comes to ending the lives of things creep, crawl, and cricket. I know he does it for his own amusement out of his boundless, curious kitten energy, but he is so accurate and effective that it is worthy of the utmost praise. In his most heroic feat to date, I saw my pint-size kitty tackle a gecko off my cement wall, paw it in his claws like he was flipping a pancake, go for its jugular like vampire, rip it to shreds, and swallow it in chunks. I can’t stop beaming with maternal pride. Rock on, little man. Viva le Neebo! Keep doing what you’re doing ‘cause you do it so well.
Armed and Ready For the First Day of School
October 1st marked the le reentre for Beninese students country-wide. Unlike in America, every school in Benin starts on the same day and most follow the same pattern for their first few weeks. The first days of school at CEG Kalale (which stands for Centre d’Enseignment Generale, or secondary school) were essentially marked with hours of enforced mandatory labor for all students. The students (les eleves) are responsible for maintaining the school ground, so the first days are spend weeding out the summer overgrowth in the fields and gardens surround the CEG. My main job was to sit in a lawn chair next to the Directeur (head master) and read David Sedaris, occasionally looking up to greet other teachers and administrators.
I am the only female teacher at CEG Kalale. I have been warned by other volunteers that being “one of the guys” is a type of survival skill I will have to hone and master `over the next two years in order to avoid being treated like doormat. In the spirit of togetherness, when the male administrators called me into the Directeur’s office at 8:00 AM to take shots of sodabi - the favored Breakfast of Champions among faculty. I womaned-up and down three shots in the span of an hour. Luckily, heaven protects fools and drunks, so I made it home by 10:00 AM in one piece before the midday sun could begin blaring down on me. Hopefully, that little stint earns me enough credibility to last me the rest of school year.
I officially started teaching classes the following week. My schedule is as follows: two-hour classes, two times per day, four days of the week. I teach two levels of English - sixieme (novice) and cinqueme (intermediate low). I dutifully prepared my lessons, handouts, visual aids, and homework assignments the night before my classes. What I did not prepare for was the students themselves. The boys came to school armed with machetes. I was educated in a post-Columbine/9-11 public school system with a very strict Zero Tolerance policy. I had grown accustomed to stories on the nightly news broadcast of students being expelled from their schools for bringing butter knives in their lunch kettles. So, imagine my shock and terror when 24 Beninese boys came trotting into class wielding rusty machetes as if they were pocket pencil sharpeners. I nearly fainted on my first day of school out of pure terror. I walked on eggshells throughout my entire first class, not wanting to be too intimidating or disciplinary. After class, I immediately ran to the Censeur’s office and told him about the machetes. I took all the willpower in his body to hold back the laughter that I could see rolling onto his face and out through his eyes. Here in Benin, children don’t come to school to hack each other to death. Education is not free, is not an equal opportunity employer, and is not to be taken lightly. Apparently, students come here to learn, not to sit in the corner and daydream of ways to annihilate their teachers. The machetes are used for grounds maintenance that all male students must perform as a part of their service to their community and school. My suggestion of student-spawned violence towards another student or myself was absolutely unfathomable to the Censeur, who, dumbfounded, had to beg the question, “Do students really try to kill people with pocket knives at their schools in America?” Yes, yes, Mr. Censeur, they most certainly do. Now who seems ridiculous?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
WAWA: West Africa Wins Again & Other Tales From Benin
Dear Everyone: Please forgive me for not writing; it has been months since my last entry. Needless to say, my life is a roller coaster, pulsating from day-to-day, moment-to-moment, with such grapping holes in reason and rationality that I almost feel as if I am emotionally canyon-jumping. It’s been a wild ride, and I will use this time and space to fill you in on as many details as possible. Enjoy the ride.
The Proper Care and Feeding of Your Yovo: A Host Family’s Guide to Maintaining the Life of an American
On July 27th, I arrived in Porto Novo, the capital of Benin. It is the site for our first two months of training, called le stage, before we are sworn in as official Peace Corps Volunteers at the end of September. Three days before my arrival, our trainers handed each of us volunteers a picture of our Beninoise host families. As my fellow stagiaires and I passed around our pictures, gawking and analyzing them like they were baseball trading cards, many could not help but comment as I shared mine: “Wow, you get to live with Naomi Campbell, Tyra Banks, and Iman.” C’est vrai. Inarguably, my host family is beyond gorgeous, each girl more pretty than the next. I have come to live with the Akande family and nothing in my life has been the same (or boring!) since I walked through the threshold.
Where to start? I guess I’ll just start naming names. I have a Mama and a Papa. They are charming folks, quick to laugh and hug - especially Mama, who is a big fan of bear hugs, a trait I usually admire with exception to the mornings when she comes at me open-armed and bare-breasted. Papa is unusually tall for a Beninois man (people here are slightly shorter than average from a lifetime of unbalanced eating and malnutrition), easily towering over me at a lean 6’2”. He is a former Nigerian insurance salesman who moved to Benin to fulfill his calling as an Evangelical minister. We have some pretty interesting conversations about religious beliefs and G-d part in assisting husbands in the sexual gratification of their wives. He considers himself a an “African Hebrew” as his father was a non-practicing Ethiopian Jew. He is undyingly supportive and intrigued by my Judaism (who would have thought?!). Mama is seamstress who works in Lagos, Nigeria, which is a 3-hour commute from our home in Porto Novo (and that is 3 hours ONE WAY). Thanks to her amazing handiwork, I have some of the most admired tissue dresses (tissue is what they call the extremely durable, breathable cotton fabric here used to make clothing) among all the female stagiaires. I live in a very progressive, dare I say Western, host family. Mama is the breadwinner of the tribe, and Papa spends the majority of his days at our house waxing philosophic and making sure that I am well-fed, well-dressed, well-entertained - all in a timely fashion.
I have three host sisters and two host brothers. My sisters are Dihana, Johannes, and Josette (but everyone calls her Teni). They are all long, lean, tall, and breathtakingly beautiful. When I first arrived, they all scampered to unpack my bags, dying to see en vogue American fashion. It was like ripping presents out of the paws of tiny children on Christmas morning to see the grave disappointment on their faces when they open my bags to discover nothing hip, hot, or high-heeled. Johannes has a 8 month-old baby boy, my baby brother Merveil. From the moment I laid eyes on the tiny tot, it was if the entire core of my being made a complete shift and rotated to concentrate single-mindedly on him. He is the sweetest, happiest, most adorable child I have ever seen in my entire life and is a sheer joy to be around. He is generally content, making him incredibly easy to live with. Shockingly, there are a myriad of cheerful benefits to living with a baby - the constant cuteness, the loving cooing sounds, and the most jubilant giggle that was ever uttered from a human mouth. Last, but hardly least, is my favorite family member: my little brother, Joseph (who also affectionately goes by Bo Bo, which means only son in Yoruba). Oh, the infinite joys and guffaws brought on by little brothers. He is the most fun to play with (we spend many moon-drenched nights on the front porch of the house pretending to kick, torment, and annihilate each other). My brother’s hobbies and further definite the extreme absurdity of African life. We play football (“soccer” does not exist outside of the U.S.A.) with a deflated, dilapidated ball that honestly looks like it has been through a war. But when it rains, we go inside and play original Nintendo Mario Brothers. He greets me everyday with the warmest “Bon Arrive” that I hear all day. Heaven help me if I come home with something in desperate need of a good tinkering. In a way that often reminds me of father, as soon as I something as mundane and commonplace as, “Bo Bo, you think you could take a look at this?“ the object is snatched from my grasp and returned only when the problem has been tidily fixed. Nonetheless, Joseph is a 13 year-old boy, so the ridiculous stunts he pulls in an effort to amuse the live-in white girl are ridiculous. The latest and most notable was his recent adventures in arson. I should have know when he asked, “Shalla (my Yoruba name, meaning the light-shiner) can I have your matches?” that whatever he was contriving would not end well. My darling, African little brother proceeded to gargle a swing of kerosene, light the match, and blow fire. He effectively singed his upper and lower lips and spent a good deal of time afterward spurning the voodoo gri gri demons for his suffering. I will get to the voodoo…give me a second.
The Voodoo That You Do
One of the most alluring tourist traps in all of Benin is the voodoo sites peppered through the country. Benin is the historical birthplace of the voudon religion, or what we call in the Americas, “voodoo.” Hollywood and Saturday morning cartoons popularized the voodoo doll, a miniature effigy used to torture the person from whose likeness it is devised. As you can image, that is only one, quirky aspect this much patronized religion. Although few people actually practice voudon as their primary religion (Christianity and Islam are much more prevalent and germane), the culture of voodoo is still apart of almost every Beninese person’s life. The beliefs are taken extremely seriously. I will further explain using examples.
The Gri Gri’s Gonna Get Ya
According to voudon belief, the gri gri is the demon spirit that floats among us, facilitating every negative things that happens in our life. For instance, I got my pick-pocketed less than a kilometer from my house. Who was at fault? The gri gri. I got two separate staph infections within 8 weeks of each other. What did I do wrong? Nothing - it was the gri gri. But the gri gri is not just a god of small things. If you’re a farmer and your crops did not come up this year, it had absolutely no bearing on your seed selection, lack of crop rotation patterns, or tilling cycles. The gri gri just decided to hate on your sorry butt. Although this Hakuna Matata attitude towards life may seem a bit spiritually freeing if not completely irresponsible, it does cause serious development and educational problems. How do you try to help that farmer grow better crops if he honestly believes his poor harvest is of no fault of his own and cannot be remedied using new techniques, but is simply a gri gri issues - something the medicine man can fix? As I previously mentioned, there is no waste management system here in Benin. Anywhere you walk is also a perfectly acceptable place to jettison your junk. So, when I recently got my 5-inch hair cut outside under the shade a nice tree, I didn’t think twice about leaving my dearly departed locks where they fell (they are biodegradable). However, my Beninese training facilitators had other ideas. I was told that I had to pick up every lock of hair on the ground, put in securely in a plastic bag, and take it home for safekeeping. The reason: if I just leave my strands lying there, they can easily be picked up by someone who could conjure the gri gri and curse me. It took no less than an hour to get enough off the ground to satiate my facilitators.
Needling Haystacks
Voodoo, like many world religions, is very patriarchal. Men rule; women get fooled. One of the most interesting examples of this is the Zambetto. The Zambetto is the vodoun high priest that is so holy and sacred that he must be covered from public view at all times. So, in order to do that and keep preaching to the populous, he hides himself in a thatched costume that resembles a walking haystack. Male voodoo practitioners follow around the Zambetto clanging chimes and beating tom tom drums to keep the gri gri away. All is fair game during daylight hours - you can consult the Zambetto for advice, rekindle conversations with dead relatives, take pictures (for a free, of course). However, at twilight, the rules of the game change drastically. Once dark looms over the city, women can do longer set eyes on the Zambetto, even in his haystack form. If you do, his male followers will hunt you down and kill you. It’s that clear-cut and simple.
I always wondered what Peace Corps Washington would tell my family if the Zambetto clan wiped me out. I’d imagine the letter would read something like this: Mr. and Mrs. Chiesi, we regret to inform you that your daughter is no longer a living, breathing member of our global society. Her early termination occurred at approximately 19:00 hours West Africa Meridian Time. Your daughter saw a walking haystack and was promptly butchered into tiny pieces by a group of local Voodoo men. We extend our sincerest sympathies and condolences to your family for your loss.
Exorcise It
Here’s a good gri gri story compliments of my dear friend Mark. Mark has not been the healthiest stagiaire during our months of training. More than once, Mark has taken the “African Gamble” and lost. (The African Gamble is the nickname for the gastro-intestinal complications brought on by the extreme differences in water purity, bacteria, and food quality in Africa. Complications include shitty farts, - sharts, if you will - diarrhea, and excessive gas. It’s considered a gamble because sometimes, when a the need to let one rip comes upon a person, and he or she decides to let one out into the fresh air, he or she ends up with a pair of soiled shorts. That’s the African answer to high stakes.) Back to Mark: After one particularly debilitating bout of tummy trouble, Mark found himself writhing on the cement floor of his host family’s house, gripping his stomach in the throws of botulism, and screaming in pain. Bewildered and unsure of what to do, his Beninese host family circled around him, clamoring in local African tribal language on how to proceed. What they decided on was a voodoo exorcism. So, eight family members put Mark on a moldy mattress in the middle of the living room, blasted tribal chanting music from boom boxes circa 1990, cried out tribal language anti-curses at the top of their lungs, and threw buckets of water over his feverish body. Mark attested that after several hours of vomiting, intense abdominal discomfort, and being covered in a murky combination of sweat and pump water, he was cured.
Theory of Relativity
Einstein had some great theories, but the one that resonates most with me is relativity. Everything is relative. Here in Benin, my sense of clean, normal, and edible have shifted so profoundly that it is only fair that I share that shift with you.
Cleanliness is Next to Godliness
Since I’ve been in Africa, I have honestly lost touch with what something clean smells like. After the first two weeks, all the smells started to blend together, and now there is just one hovering scent that smells vaguely of wet sawdust (not all together the worst scent one could inhale). As I have previously mentioned, there is no concept of waste management here, so you just through your trash where you stand; everyone else does the same thing. To sum it up, Porto-Novo essentially resembles a tropical French colonial locale that is been ravaged by red dust storms, shaken by earthquakes until the roads are cracked and torn, and then monsooned upon for months by a maelstrom of debris and refuse. Sounds like a real tourist attraction, eh? Running water is difficult to come across, even in the capital city of Porto-Novo. So, I depend most on anti-bacterial hand sanitizer to clean my hands. What I settle for his dirt-smudged hands that smell like Pinesol. That to me, is the scent of clean. I write with these hands, greet with these hands, and most disturbingly eat with these hands. The shower that I wash myself in daily is deplorable. In my former American life, I have outright refused to even urinate in I-95 truck stops that look like rooms in the Ritz Carlton compared to my African bathroom. Essentially the bathroom is a dungy cement room in the center of the house with a large cutout window that scenically overlooks . . .the living room. Privacy is a joke. A flimsy piece of cloth covers the window, but much to my surprise, that cloth becomes transparent when you turn on the light in the bathroom. The bathroom also has a sink with a faucet, but no running water. Actually, the sink drain doesn’t even lead to anywhere. The first time I spit down the sink, my spit promptly landed on my big toe two seconds after it left my mouth. There is a showerhead in the bathroom, but it’s just a sadistic tease; it’s been broken since the third day I arrived. The water that comes out of the pump in the wall makes me itch for a half hour after each bucket shower I take. A bucker shower, for those of you who maybe scratching your heads at my terminology, is exactly what it sounds like. You fill a plastic bucket with water and then you a smaller plastic bowl to throw water over your body parts after you’ve lathered up. Many times, I lift the lid of the toilet seat to find a little cockroach chillin’ and grillin’ in the bowl. Again, just for emphasis, everyday, I shower in that room. Cleanliness is relative.
The Norm
Mama Africa is the homeland of humanity. Being the epicenter of human life spurs some very interesting cultural differences. Here are brief descriptions of some typical Beninese comings and goings.
The most common mode of mass transport here is the zemidjan, a Vespa-like device with the kind of agility necessary for navigating the dense traffic. Catching a zem is only half the battle; once you’re on, you must hang on for dear life. Because they are open and relatively unprotected, when it rains, you get rained on. I’ve seen a woman, in a fit of rage, slap her zem driver with the dead chicken she was carrying (fresh from the market, no doubt), without remorse. Benin is a Child Protective Services nightmare. There are no such things as car seats in Benin. Infant children scoot around town lassoed to their mothers’ backs papoose-style, secured by nothing more than deftly wrapped fabric. God bless Africa.
Although it constantly vacillates, Benin is between the ninth and twelfth poorest country on the planet. For all intents and purposes, I am living in the ghetto of the world. Poverty is normal and the discrepancy between the haves and have nots is enormous. However, there is virtually no homelessness here. If you have no where to go and nothing to eat, the overwhelming sense of community and hospitality that is innately a part of Africa culture ensure that you will be fed and taken in. I am endlessly impressed how a country with so little has virtually eliminated a devastating American problem by simply showing compassion.
I had my parents send me an alarm clock in my first care package from The States, but it seems obsolete and utterly unnecessary here in Benin. My housing has ensured that I will be alive, awake, alert by 5:00 AM every morning without fail. My host family keeps a small rooster in the backyard. His main job is to act as the family’s garbage disposal, but he also moonlights as my own personal early-morning hell. The rooster hates me. I know this. There is no other way to explain his behavior. \Before the sunrise, prompted by the muffled cries of neighboring roosters, the rooster positions himself directly beneath my bedroom window, leaving merely a brittle pane of glass between my REM-cycle and his boisterous crowing. He lets loose and doesn’t stop for until I finally surrender to his siren calls and get out of bed - groggy and irritable. I packed earplugs and the rooster alone would be tolerable. What I did not anticipate was Ramadan. I live approximately 500 feet away from one of the most beautiful mosques in all of Porto-Novo. It is truly a sight to behold, a marvel of architectural integrity. For the majority of September, the Muslims partook in their yearly observance of the fasting month, also known as Ramadan. According to Islamic Law, good Muslims must pray five times per day. To ensure the prayers occur in a timely fashion, the mosques blast the prayers on loudspeakers for everyone is the vicinity to hear, a practice aptly called the call to prayer. So, every morning, almost in perfect synchronization with the rooster, a large, booming voice chanting in Arabic bursts into my room and floods my ear canal. At the end of Ramadan, the praying became more frequent and more intense. Instead of the same booming, chanting voice morning after morning, new voice appeared on the loudspeaker at all hours of the night. On one of final days on Ramadan, they had what I liked to call Open Mic Night at the Mosque, and it seemed as if every single Muslim in Porto-Novo lined up to take his or her turn praising Allah as loud as they could for as long as they could. Merci a Allah for creating earplugs!
To Eat, Or Not To Eat? That Is The Question . . .
When a culture is disenfranchised by generations of terrible bouts of starvation, you can hardly expect culinary excellent. After all, how can you develop or hone an artistic representation through food when your raw materials are in short supply? In Africa, the general rule is quantity over quality. The best place to take in the Beninese cuisine, however, is by hitting pavement and diving fork-first into street food. Over the past two months, I have definitely extended my palate. In short, here is the good, the bad, and the ugly. Bon appetit!
The Good
It is my belief that every culture enjoys frying things in oil. The type of oil is different, the carbohydrate that often gets dunked headlong to the boiling oil varies from region to region, but the facts are the facts, and everybody loves it. Benin is no exception. One of the best things you can possibly eat from the streets of Benin are bignes. Essentially, the are tiny little dough balls, approximately the size of doughnut holes, that are fried in peanut oil and covered in raw sugar. Bless the Tanti that came up with that creation. What is basically tastes like is a delicious, warm, doughy, straight from the county fair FUNNEL CAKE - in a bit-size ball. At the equivalent of nickel a pop, they are the perfect afternoon snack. Another fried joy is breadfruit chips. You can get them from a little woman a block away from my school, and the filled the void in my gut left by the absence of Pringles. Piment (said pea-mon) is a spicy tomato sauce incorporated into most Africa meals. I love my piment hot and heavy and just plainly drizzled over some jasmine rice. Another of my new diet staples is the avocado sandwich. Picture this: a crispy, fresh French baguette sliced down the center and the lusciously coated with chunky guacamole. Yum Yum Yum! I wash down my food with Beninoise beer (it’s light and airy like a Corona) or grapefruit soda.
The Bad
Never, under any circumstances, allow okra sauce to slip through your lips. It’s not worth the trauma that will triumphantly follow that trip down Taste Bud Lane. Essentially, corn meal is mashed up into a dough-type consistency and served in a warm ball in the center of a plate. It essentially has no taste and serves is only purpose during the meal by being dunked into the okra sauce. Okra sauce is disgusting. Let me tell you why. It has the consistency of snot. The comparison is unavoidable, especially as it slithers down your esophagus. It is gooey and warm and tastes like gym sock that’s been shoved into the dark corners of a locker to rot away. Eating that crap is intolerable cruelty. I also not attempt pate blanche. It is made by fermenting rice cereal for weeks in a plastic bag with vinegar. I don’t even have to tell you about the taste; it’s worse than you can even conjure from the preparation description. The bean mush here is OK. In fact, on some days and being served by the right vender, it’s a tasty treat. But never, under any circumstances, accept bean mush offered to you in a tiny black plastic bag. That means it’s been sitting around all afternoon, baking in the hot Africa sun and allowing flies to fertilize your lunch with larva.
The Ugly
In Africa, I am a vegetarian. In the past two months I have tasted far too many pieces of degenerate meat to really feel comfortable allowing animal flesh into my body. I see the goats and the chickens I’m about to eat. They eat African garbage off the street. Garbage is not enough nourishment to make anything large, juicy, and plump, so the pieces of meat that sit on top of my rice and couscous look like they were stripped from the body of an anorexic Olsen twin. It’s criminal to eat something to absolutely helplessly frail; it is also probably unhealthy. I normally love fish, but when it is served to you with the head, tail, and scales still on, it’s difficult to dive in. But my adventures in appetite are not limited to solid food. My most harrowing triumph thus far has liquor. Sodabi is African moonshine, and it’s made from fermented palm oil. I took shots of it from a human skull. What can I say? I’m sure trying to integrate.
Summer School
My job in the Peace Corps is to teach English to secondary students in an African Village. Over the past months, I’ve had model lessons and taught hundreds of different students how to count, how to get directions, how to tell him, and how to use the present continuous tense. It’s the most interesting, rewarding, fun job in the Peace Corps. I feel really positive about what I will be during. Knowing English in West Africa is a valuable life skill. If you know English, you can get jobs and attend schools in neighboring English-speaking countries like Ghana and Nigeria that have better job markets, pay scales, and universities. Being an English teacher in the Peace Corps is great, because I can see the influence I’m making on a community on a daily basis. I may not start a new business or build a dam, start a saving and loan company, or erect a library. Those are grand slams, way out of the ballpark, far beyond my minor league abilities. But I am the Joe DiMaggio of the Peace Corps. When they tally up the stats, I know my RBIs are high. I love hearing my student excited wave at me at scream, “Madame Loren Lee! Good morning!” in their cute little West African accents. Once, while teaching the body parts, I taught my students the song, “The knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone.” After class, later that afternoon, a saw a group of my students walking to the market, and they rushed me and started chanting the song. It was a great moment. It makes all the hours of lesson planning and classroom preparation so worth it.
Please Raise Your Right Hand and Repeat After Me
On Friday, September 25, 2009 I was officially sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I passed my French proficiency exam, I taught five weeks of model school, I had more culture classes than I can handle. It was televised on the national cable channel and the United States ambassador read us our pledge in first in English and then in French. It was one of the greatest moments of my life thus far, and I am very proud to serve. Tomorrow, I leave for Kalale, my post. I live in a massive (for Africa) cement box with seven room including an indoor and outdoor kitchen, a courtyard, two bedroom, and an spacious living room. It is completely furnished, because I am replacing a previous volunteer. I am four hours from Parakou (the closest city that is Googlable). It is as east as you can go without smashing into Nigeria. It is a great little village with beautiful tribal clans (the Fulani), a river filled with sacred crocodiles (that you can swim with!), and an annual lion chase. It am ready to leave my host family and Porto-Novo, although I will miss them, and start life in Africa on my own. I am bringing a little companion with my. I recently bought a kitten named Neebo. Kalale or bust!
I miss you all. Thank you for your emails and packages. Please keep in touch. Sorry it took me so long to update my blog.
The Proper Care and Feeding of Your Yovo: A Host Family’s Guide to Maintaining the Life of an American
On July 27th, I arrived in Porto Novo, the capital of Benin. It is the site for our first two months of training, called le stage, before we are sworn in as official Peace Corps Volunteers at the end of September. Three days before my arrival, our trainers handed each of us volunteers a picture of our Beninoise host families. As my fellow stagiaires and I passed around our pictures, gawking and analyzing them like they were baseball trading cards, many could not help but comment as I shared mine: “Wow, you get to live with Naomi Campbell, Tyra Banks, and Iman.” C’est vrai. Inarguably, my host family is beyond gorgeous, each girl more pretty than the next. I have come to live with the Akande family and nothing in my life has been the same (or boring!) since I walked through the threshold.
Where to start? I guess I’ll just start naming names. I have a Mama and a Papa. They are charming folks, quick to laugh and hug - especially Mama, who is a big fan of bear hugs, a trait I usually admire with exception to the mornings when she comes at me open-armed and bare-breasted. Papa is unusually tall for a Beninois man (people here are slightly shorter than average from a lifetime of unbalanced eating and malnutrition), easily towering over me at a lean 6’2”. He is a former Nigerian insurance salesman who moved to Benin to fulfill his calling as an Evangelical minister. We have some pretty interesting conversations about religious beliefs and G-d part in assisting husbands in the sexual gratification of their wives. He considers himself a an “African Hebrew” as his father was a non-practicing Ethiopian Jew. He is undyingly supportive and intrigued by my Judaism (who would have thought?!). Mama is seamstress who works in Lagos, Nigeria, which is a 3-hour commute from our home in Porto Novo (and that is 3 hours ONE WAY). Thanks to her amazing handiwork, I have some of the most admired tissue dresses (tissue is what they call the extremely durable, breathable cotton fabric here used to make clothing) among all the female stagiaires. I live in a very progressive, dare I say Western, host family. Mama is the breadwinner of the tribe, and Papa spends the majority of his days at our house waxing philosophic and making sure that I am well-fed, well-dressed, well-entertained - all in a timely fashion.
I have three host sisters and two host brothers. My sisters are Dihana, Johannes, and Josette (but everyone calls her Teni). They are all long, lean, tall, and breathtakingly beautiful. When I first arrived, they all scampered to unpack my bags, dying to see en vogue American fashion. It was like ripping presents out of the paws of tiny children on Christmas morning to see the grave disappointment on their faces when they open my bags to discover nothing hip, hot, or high-heeled. Johannes has a 8 month-old baby boy, my baby brother Merveil. From the moment I laid eyes on the tiny tot, it was if the entire core of my being made a complete shift and rotated to concentrate single-mindedly on him. He is the sweetest, happiest, most adorable child I have ever seen in my entire life and is a sheer joy to be around. He is generally content, making him incredibly easy to live with. Shockingly, there are a myriad of cheerful benefits to living with a baby - the constant cuteness, the loving cooing sounds, and the most jubilant giggle that was ever uttered from a human mouth. Last, but hardly least, is my favorite family member: my little brother, Joseph (who also affectionately goes by Bo Bo, which means only son in Yoruba). Oh, the infinite joys and guffaws brought on by little brothers. He is the most fun to play with (we spend many moon-drenched nights on the front porch of the house pretending to kick, torment, and annihilate each other). My brother’s hobbies and further definite the extreme absurdity of African life. We play football (“soccer” does not exist outside of the U.S.A.) with a deflated, dilapidated ball that honestly looks like it has been through a war. But when it rains, we go inside and play original Nintendo Mario Brothers. He greets me everyday with the warmest “Bon Arrive” that I hear all day. Heaven help me if I come home with something in desperate need of a good tinkering. In a way that often reminds me of father, as soon as I something as mundane and commonplace as, “Bo Bo, you think you could take a look at this?“ the object is snatched from my grasp and returned only when the problem has been tidily fixed. Nonetheless, Joseph is a 13 year-old boy, so the ridiculous stunts he pulls in an effort to amuse the live-in white girl are ridiculous. The latest and most notable was his recent adventures in arson. I should have know when he asked, “Shalla (my Yoruba name, meaning the light-shiner) can I have your matches?” that whatever he was contriving would not end well. My darling, African little brother proceeded to gargle a swing of kerosene, light the match, and blow fire. He effectively singed his upper and lower lips and spent a good deal of time afterward spurning the voodoo gri gri demons for his suffering. I will get to the voodoo…give me a second.
The Voodoo That You Do
One of the most alluring tourist traps in all of Benin is the voodoo sites peppered through the country. Benin is the historical birthplace of the voudon religion, or what we call in the Americas, “voodoo.” Hollywood and Saturday morning cartoons popularized the voodoo doll, a miniature effigy used to torture the person from whose likeness it is devised. As you can image, that is only one, quirky aspect this much patronized religion. Although few people actually practice voudon as their primary religion (Christianity and Islam are much more prevalent and germane), the culture of voodoo is still apart of almost every Beninese person’s life. The beliefs are taken extremely seriously. I will further explain using examples.
The Gri Gri’s Gonna Get Ya
According to voudon belief, the gri gri is the demon spirit that floats among us, facilitating every negative things that happens in our life. For instance, I got my pick-pocketed less than a kilometer from my house. Who was at fault? The gri gri. I got two separate staph infections within 8 weeks of each other. What did I do wrong? Nothing - it was the gri gri. But the gri gri is not just a god of small things. If you’re a farmer and your crops did not come up this year, it had absolutely no bearing on your seed selection, lack of crop rotation patterns, or tilling cycles. The gri gri just decided to hate on your sorry butt. Although this Hakuna Matata attitude towards life may seem a bit spiritually freeing if not completely irresponsible, it does cause serious development and educational problems. How do you try to help that farmer grow better crops if he honestly believes his poor harvest is of no fault of his own and cannot be remedied using new techniques, but is simply a gri gri issues - something the medicine man can fix? As I previously mentioned, there is no waste management system here in Benin. Anywhere you walk is also a perfectly acceptable place to jettison your junk. So, when I recently got my 5-inch hair cut outside under the shade a nice tree, I didn’t think twice about leaving my dearly departed locks where they fell (they are biodegradable). However, my Beninese training facilitators had other ideas. I was told that I had to pick up every lock of hair on the ground, put in securely in a plastic bag, and take it home for safekeeping. The reason: if I just leave my strands lying there, they can easily be picked up by someone who could conjure the gri gri and curse me. It took no less than an hour to get enough off the ground to satiate my facilitators.
Needling Haystacks
Voodoo, like many world religions, is very patriarchal. Men rule; women get fooled. One of the most interesting examples of this is the Zambetto. The Zambetto is the vodoun high priest that is so holy and sacred that he must be covered from public view at all times. So, in order to do that and keep preaching to the populous, he hides himself in a thatched costume that resembles a walking haystack. Male voodoo practitioners follow around the Zambetto clanging chimes and beating tom tom drums to keep the gri gri away. All is fair game during daylight hours - you can consult the Zambetto for advice, rekindle conversations with dead relatives, take pictures (for a free, of course). However, at twilight, the rules of the game change drastically. Once dark looms over the city, women can do longer set eyes on the Zambetto, even in his haystack form. If you do, his male followers will hunt you down and kill you. It’s that clear-cut and simple.
I always wondered what Peace Corps Washington would tell my family if the Zambetto clan wiped me out. I’d imagine the letter would read something like this: Mr. and Mrs. Chiesi, we regret to inform you that your daughter is no longer a living, breathing member of our global society. Her early termination occurred at approximately 19:00 hours West Africa Meridian Time. Your daughter saw a walking haystack and was promptly butchered into tiny pieces by a group of local Voodoo men. We extend our sincerest sympathies and condolences to your family for your loss.
Exorcise It
Here’s a good gri gri story compliments of my dear friend Mark. Mark has not been the healthiest stagiaire during our months of training. More than once, Mark has taken the “African Gamble” and lost. (The African Gamble is the nickname for the gastro-intestinal complications brought on by the extreme differences in water purity, bacteria, and food quality in Africa. Complications include shitty farts, - sharts, if you will - diarrhea, and excessive gas. It’s considered a gamble because sometimes, when a the need to let one rip comes upon a person, and he or she decides to let one out into the fresh air, he or she ends up with a pair of soiled shorts. That’s the African answer to high stakes.) Back to Mark: After one particularly debilitating bout of tummy trouble, Mark found himself writhing on the cement floor of his host family’s house, gripping his stomach in the throws of botulism, and screaming in pain. Bewildered and unsure of what to do, his Beninese host family circled around him, clamoring in local African tribal language on how to proceed. What they decided on was a voodoo exorcism. So, eight family members put Mark on a moldy mattress in the middle of the living room, blasted tribal chanting music from boom boxes circa 1990, cried out tribal language anti-curses at the top of their lungs, and threw buckets of water over his feverish body. Mark attested that after several hours of vomiting, intense abdominal discomfort, and being covered in a murky combination of sweat and pump water, he was cured.
Theory of Relativity
Einstein had some great theories, but the one that resonates most with me is relativity. Everything is relative. Here in Benin, my sense of clean, normal, and edible have shifted so profoundly that it is only fair that I share that shift with you.
Cleanliness is Next to Godliness
Since I’ve been in Africa, I have honestly lost touch with what something clean smells like. After the first two weeks, all the smells started to blend together, and now there is just one hovering scent that smells vaguely of wet sawdust (not all together the worst scent one could inhale). As I have previously mentioned, there is no concept of waste management here, so you just through your trash where you stand; everyone else does the same thing. To sum it up, Porto-Novo essentially resembles a tropical French colonial locale that is been ravaged by red dust storms, shaken by earthquakes until the roads are cracked and torn, and then monsooned upon for months by a maelstrom of debris and refuse. Sounds like a real tourist attraction, eh? Running water is difficult to come across, even in the capital city of Porto-Novo. So, I depend most on anti-bacterial hand sanitizer to clean my hands. What I settle for his dirt-smudged hands that smell like Pinesol. That to me, is the scent of clean. I write with these hands, greet with these hands, and most disturbingly eat with these hands. The shower that I wash myself in daily is deplorable. In my former American life, I have outright refused to even urinate in I-95 truck stops that look like rooms in the Ritz Carlton compared to my African bathroom. Essentially the bathroom is a dungy cement room in the center of the house with a large cutout window that scenically overlooks . . .the living room. Privacy is a joke. A flimsy piece of cloth covers the window, but much to my surprise, that cloth becomes transparent when you turn on the light in the bathroom. The bathroom also has a sink with a faucet, but no running water. Actually, the sink drain doesn’t even lead to anywhere. The first time I spit down the sink, my spit promptly landed on my big toe two seconds after it left my mouth. There is a showerhead in the bathroom, but it’s just a sadistic tease; it’s been broken since the third day I arrived. The water that comes out of the pump in the wall makes me itch for a half hour after each bucket shower I take. A bucker shower, for those of you who maybe scratching your heads at my terminology, is exactly what it sounds like. You fill a plastic bucket with water and then you a smaller plastic bowl to throw water over your body parts after you’ve lathered up. Many times, I lift the lid of the toilet seat to find a little cockroach chillin’ and grillin’ in the bowl. Again, just for emphasis, everyday, I shower in that room. Cleanliness is relative.
The Norm
Mama Africa is the homeland of humanity. Being the epicenter of human life spurs some very interesting cultural differences. Here are brief descriptions of some typical Beninese comings and goings.
The most common mode of mass transport here is the zemidjan, a Vespa-like device with the kind of agility necessary for navigating the dense traffic. Catching a zem is only half the battle; once you’re on, you must hang on for dear life. Because they are open and relatively unprotected, when it rains, you get rained on. I’ve seen a woman, in a fit of rage, slap her zem driver with the dead chicken she was carrying (fresh from the market, no doubt), without remorse. Benin is a Child Protective Services nightmare. There are no such things as car seats in Benin. Infant children scoot around town lassoed to their mothers’ backs papoose-style, secured by nothing more than deftly wrapped fabric. God bless Africa.
Although it constantly vacillates, Benin is between the ninth and twelfth poorest country on the planet. For all intents and purposes, I am living in the ghetto of the world. Poverty is normal and the discrepancy between the haves and have nots is enormous. However, there is virtually no homelessness here. If you have no where to go and nothing to eat, the overwhelming sense of community and hospitality that is innately a part of Africa culture ensure that you will be fed and taken in. I am endlessly impressed how a country with so little has virtually eliminated a devastating American problem by simply showing compassion.
I had my parents send me an alarm clock in my first care package from The States, but it seems obsolete and utterly unnecessary here in Benin. My housing has ensured that I will be alive, awake, alert by 5:00 AM every morning without fail. My host family keeps a small rooster in the backyard. His main job is to act as the family’s garbage disposal, but he also moonlights as my own personal early-morning hell. The rooster hates me. I know this. There is no other way to explain his behavior. \Before the sunrise, prompted by the muffled cries of neighboring roosters, the rooster positions himself directly beneath my bedroom window, leaving merely a brittle pane of glass between my REM-cycle and his boisterous crowing. He lets loose and doesn’t stop for until I finally surrender to his siren calls and get out of bed - groggy and irritable. I packed earplugs and the rooster alone would be tolerable. What I did not anticipate was Ramadan. I live approximately 500 feet away from one of the most beautiful mosques in all of Porto-Novo. It is truly a sight to behold, a marvel of architectural integrity. For the majority of September, the Muslims partook in their yearly observance of the fasting month, also known as Ramadan. According to Islamic Law, good Muslims must pray five times per day. To ensure the prayers occur in a timely fashion, the mosques blast the prayers on loudspeakers for everyone is the vicinity to hear, a practice aptly called the call to prayer. So, every morning, almost in perfect synchronization with the rooster, a large, booming voice chanting in Arabic bursts into my room and floods my ear canal. At the end of Ramadan, the praying became more frequent and more intense. Instead of the same booming, chanting voice morning after morning, new voice appeared on the loudspeaker at all hours of the night. On one of final days on Ramadan, they had what I liked to call Open Mic Night at the Mosque, and it seemed as if every single Muslim in Porto-Novo lined up to take his or her turn praising Allah as loud as they could for as long as they could. Merci a Allah for creating earplugs!
To Eat, Or Not To Eat? That Is The Question . . .
When a culture is disenfranchised by generations of terrible bouts of starvation, you can hardly expect culinary excellent. After all, how can you develop or hone an artistic representation through food when your raw materials are in short supply? In Africa, the general rule is quantity over quality. The best place to take in the Beninese cuisine, however, is by hitting pavement and diving fork-first into street food. Over the past two months, I have definitely extended my palate. In short, here is the good, the bad, and the ugly. Bon appetit!
The Good
It is my belief that every culture enjoys frying things in oil. The type of oil is different, the carbohydrate that often gets dunked headlong to the boiling oil varies from region to region, but the facts are the facts, and everybody loves it. Benin is no exception. One of the best things you can possibly eat from the streets of Benin are bignes. Essentially, the are tiny little dough balls, approximately the size of doughnut holes, that are fried in peanut oil and covered in raw sugar. Bless the Tanti that came up with that creation. What is basically tastes like is a delicious, warm, doughy, straight from the county fair FUNNEL CAKE - in a bit-size ball. At the equivalent of nickel a pop, they are the perfect afternoon snack. Another fried joy is breadfruit chips. You can get them from a little woman a block away from my school, and the filled the void in my gut left by the absence of Pringles. Piment (said pea-mon) is a spicy tomato sauce incorporated into most Africa meals. I love my piment hot and heavy and just plainly drizzled over some jasmine rice. Another of my new diet staples is the avocado sandwich. Picture this: a crispy, fresh French baguette sliced down the center and the lusciously coated with chunky guacamole. Yum Yum Yum! I wash down my food with Beninoise beer (it’s light and airy like a Corona) or grapefruit soda.
The Bad
Never, under any circumstances, allow okra sauce to slip through your lips. It’s not worth the trauma that will triumphantly follow that trip down Taste Bud Lane. Essentially, corn meal is mashed up into a dough-type consistency and served in a warm ball in the center of a plate. It essentially has no taste and serves is only purpose during the meal by being dunked into the okra sauce. Okra sauce is disgusting. Let me tell you why. It has the consistency of snot. The comparison is unavoidable, especially as it slithers down your esophagus. It is gooey and warm and tastes like gym sock that’s been shoved into the dark corners of a locker to rot away. Eating that crap is intolerable cruelty. I also not attempt pate blanche. It is made by fermenting rice cereal for weeks in a plastic bag with vinegar. I don’t even have to tell you about the taste; it’s worse than you can even conjure from the preparation description. The bean mush here is OK. In fact, on some days and being served by the right vender, it’s a tasty treat. But never, under any circumstances, accept bean mush offered to you in a tiny black plastic bag. That means it’s been sitting around all afternoon, baking in the hot Africa sun and allowing flies to fertilize your lunch with larva.
The Ugly
In Africa, I am a vegetarian. In the past two months I have tasted far too many pieces of degenerate meat to really feel comfortable allowing animal flesh into my body. I see the goats and the chickens I’m about to eat. They eat African garbage off the street. Garbage is not enough nourishment to make anything large, juicy, and plump, so the pieces of meat that sit on top of my rice and couscous look like they were stripped from the body of an anorexic Olsen twin. It’s criminal to eat something to absolutely helplessly frail; it is also probably unhealthy. I normally love fish, but when it is served to you with the head, tail, and scales still on, it’s difficult to dive in. But my adventures in appetite are not limited to solid food. My most harrowing triumph thus far has liquor. Sodabi is African moonshine, and it’s made from fermented palm oil. I took shots of it from a human skull. What can I say? I’m sure trying to integrate.
Summer School
My job in the Peace Corps is to teach English to secondary students in an African Village. Over the past months, I’ve had model lessons and taught hundreds of different students how to count, how to get directions, how to tell him, and how to use the present continuous tense. It’s the most interesting, rewarding, fun job in the Peace Corps. I feel really positive about what I will be during. Knowing English in West Africa is a valuable life skill. If you know English, you can get jobs and attend schools in neighboring English-speaking countries like Ghana and Nigeria that have better job markets, pay scales, and universities. Being an English teacher in the Peace Corps is great, because I can see the influence I’m making on a community on a daily basis. I may not start a new business or build a dam, start a saving and loan company, or erect a library. Those are grand slams, way out of the ballpark, far beyond my minor league abilities. But I am the Joe DiMaggio of the Peace Corps. When they tally up the stats, I know my RBIs are high. I love hearing my student excited wave at me at scream, “Madame Loren Lee! Good morning!” in their cute little West African accents. Once, while teaching the body parts, I taught my students the song, “The knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone.” After class, later that afternoon, a saw a group of my students walking to the market, and they rushed me and started chanting the song. It was a great moment. It makes all the hours of lesson planning and classroom preparation so worth it.
Please Raise Your Right Hand and Repeat After Me
On Friday, September 25, 2009 I was officially sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I passed my French proficiency exam, I taught five weeks of model school, I had more culture classes than I can handle. It was televised on the national cable channel and the United States ambassador read us our pledge in first in English and then in French. It was one of the greatest moments of my life thus far, and I am very proud to serve. Tomorrow, I leave for Kalale, my post. I live in a massive (for Africa) cement box with seven room including an indoor and outdoor kitchen, a courtyard, two bedroom, and an spacious living room. It is completely furnished, because I am replacing a previous volunteer. I am four hours from Parakou (the closest city that is Googlable). It is as east as you can go without smashing into Nigeria. It is a great little village with beautiful tribal clans (the Fulani), a river filled with sacred crocodiles (that you can swim with!), and an annual lion chase. It am ready to leave my host family and Porto-Novo, although I will miss them, and start life in Africa on my own. I am bringing a little companion with my. I recently bought a kitten named Neebo. Kalale or bust!
I miss you all. Thank you for your emails and packages. Please keep in touch. Sorry it took me so long to update my blog.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
How Have You Benin?
I arrived safely in Cotonou four days ago. Any fears I had about nervousness or uncertainly were completely unfounded. It was 8 o'clock in the evening and the first smell that hit me we a mix of rust and dust. Baggage retrieval was absolutely chaotic; they do not form "lines" in Benin. People just congregate and herd. As soon as we walked through the doors outside, a group of Peace Corps Volunteers (PVCs) in-country we there waiting for us, cheering us on. Hot, tired, sweaty, and anxious, we all piled into old vans that transported us to a small compound in more suburban Cotonou. The ride was amazing. Brightly colored shacks lined the red dust streets. The one, large main road that runs the length of Benin was packed with small motorized bicycles called zemidjans. Traffic laws are mere suggestions. The dichotomy of lifestyle was apparent even at street level - a Texico gas station that catered to nice automobiles was located directly across the street from a man selling oil in old glass liquor bottles.
The compound were are staying at is nice, but holds no ammenities. Glossamer panes of mosquitos netting guard my very simple bed set - a small plastic mattress, a thin cotton sheet, and a well-worn, flat pillow (I was so glad that I had the foresight to nab the travel pillow off the plane). The bathroom is basic, too. There is just a showerhead and a large tin bucket with a small plastic bowl inside of it. They have not cut the water yet, so I can still take cool, refreshing showers at night without having to use the bucket shower system. I am relishing each shower I take. Last night, I even let the shower flood the room, just because I knew that my times with water raining down on me from a faucet were numbered. Packing an alarm clock was very unnecessary. Very conveniently, there's a rooster that starts up about a half hour before breakfast every morning.
I'm a human pin cushion at this point. I don't even remember all the things I've been vaccinated for now, but I am on weekly malaria meds (which I started the night I arrived in Cotonou), and I know I got a yellow fever shot (the nurse that injected me for that was very funny). I was not sick or irratated at all from the med influx, and I have had no digestive problems to speak of thus far (knock on wood).
The food is surreal. Carbohydrates are my best friend. Breakfast is European-style - tea, a baguette of light, crisp bread and jam. Training Volunteers tell me that the bread is typical; the jam is a treasure. Lunch and dinner are light meals, filled with staple produce such as peas, carrots, tomatoes, beans, and onions. Rice with intresting sauces is served at every meal. I ate goat for what I believe was the first time yesterday and really enjoyed it. Bottled water or "passsatomo" is readily available at our compound. Yesterday, I bought a pineapple off of a woman selling them off of her head (think Chiquita banana lady). She stripped the pineapple expertly with a blade and handed it to me with a tooth pick in a small black plastic bag. It was pure white, sweet, juicy, and absolutely delicious. An entire pineapple cost me 100 francs (twenty cents), which was "expensive" in the city. Currently, it's the waning end of mango season in Benin. Never in my entire life have a I had such a fresh piece of fruit. I bartered for it at the marketplace today. It was beautiful, rose-orange, sweet, and lush. My lips were covered it juice with each bite from the saturation. On a walk around the neighborhood near our compound this past Sunday, we got a delightfully little treat from a street vendor. It's popular all over West Africa; it's called FanChoco. It's a frozen treat served in a plastic packet (about the size of a bar of soap), and it tastes exactly like cold, milky chocolate pudding. I could go on forever about food, but I want to talk about other stuff, too!
This may seem completely ridiculous, but my favorite thing about Benin thus far are the little children. Even in Cotonou, seeing a white person is a very, very rare occurance, so they become so excited to see - from a distance or right up close. In the market today, a little girl ran up to me and just wanted to touch my hand. It made her so happy her eyes tighted up and she squealed the most adorable sound I've ever heard. Our rooms are on the third floor that has a balcony that overlooks a neighboring village. It is here that I discovered my new favorite game. When a group of us white Volunteers at the balcony, the children scream "Yovo!" (which means white person). In response to there gleeful shouting, we wave, and the kids go berzerk. They completely lose there mainds. Hands in the air, feet stamping on the ground, wild head jerks - all in completely jubiliant elation. I feel like a Beatle.
Most of my first few days were spent on the compound in various lecture sessions regarding Pre Service Traning that will be starting on Wednesday. We've had lectures on health, safety, security, technical training, gender roles, and culture. There are three sectors of service in Benin that Volunteers belong to: Enviromental Action, Rural Health, Economic Development, and English Education. Most of it is preliminary and introductory, but everyone is quick to answer questions and very insightful. The lectures are hosted by Traning Volunteers, contracted PC Beninese workers, and PC Benin Staff members. We've met the acting Country Director and other administrative higher-ups over the past few days. French is the predominate language in Benin. I've tested to be intermediate (thanks Rosetta Stone and Madame Nikolic), and we have French classes in small groups (I have three in my group). My instructor's name is Abel. According to all our Training Volunteers, in three months from right now, I should be conversationally fluent in French. The idea of that is so alluring and exciting, but when I open my French books to study at night, it seems daunting.
Not that all my nights are spent studying. The compound has a small outdoor bar area with a cement enclosure, but we all line up tables outside. Beers cost less than a dollar, and most nights my fellow Volunteers and I gather after dinner and studying and lecture sessions to throw a few back and talk about our day. We've been dancing and discussing and getting to know each other. It's been lovely. All the volunteers are so interesting, worldly, and intelligent. It's great to trade stories and ideas. I'm having a great time.
Yesterday, I rode a zemidjan for the first time. A zem is a motorized bike that is the main mode of transport around the country. They are fast, quick, and efficient, and Benin is one of the few Peace Corps posts where Volunteers can ride them. However, it is easy to pick out Peace Corps Volunteers; we're required to wear helmet. No one else in Benin even thinks about wearing a helmet. The Corps takes it extremely seriously. A Volunteer can be administratively terminated on-the-spot for being caught on the back of a zem without a helmet on. Zems are taxi transport here in Benin so we got riding lessons yesterday. We are not allowed - under any circumstance - to drive a zem, but riding them will be a necessary part of our lives. They are surprising stable to ride, but completely thrilling. I love the fresh wind in my hair . . .
Tomorrow, we are leaving the compound in Cotonou and going to Porto Novo to stay with our host families for the next 9 weeks. I am so excited to meet my host family and to see another city in Benin that is supposed to be amazing. I'm having a great time, meeting tons of great people, and seeing and doing some very cool things. I'll keep in touch!
The compound were are staying at is nice, but holds no ammenities. Glossamer panes of mosquitos netting guard my very simple bed set - a small plastic mattress, a thin cotton sheet, and a well-worn, flat pillow (I was so glad that I had the foresight to nab the travel pillow off the plane). The bathroom is basic, too. There is just a showerhead and a large tin bucket with a small plastic bowl inside of it. They have not cut the water yet, so I can still take cool, refreshing showers at night without having to use the bucket shower system. I am relishing each shower I take. Last night, I even let the shower flood the room, just because I knew that my times with water raining down on me from a faucet were numbered. Packing an alarm clock was very unnecessary. Very conveniently, there's a rooster that starts up about a half hour before breakfast every morning.
I'm a human pin cushion at this point. I don't even remember all the things I've been vaccinated for now, but I am on weekly malaria meds (which I started the night I arrived in Cotonou), and I know I got a yellow fever shot (the nurse that injected me for that was very funny). I was not sick or irratated at all from the med influx, and I have had no digestive problems to speak of thus far (knock on wood).
The food is surreal. Carbohydrates are my best friend. Breakfast is European-style - tea, a baguette of light, crisp bread and jam. Training Volunteers tell me that the bread is typical; the jam is a treasure. Lunch and dinner are light meals, filled with staple produce such as peas, carrots, tomatoes, beans, and onions. Rice with intresting sauces is served at every meal. I ate goat for what I believe was the first time yesterday and really enjoyed it. Bottled water or "passsatomo" is readily available at our compound. Yesterday, I bought a pineapple off of a woman selling them off of her head (think Chiquita banana lady). She stripped the pineapple expertly with a blade and handed it to me with a tooth pick in a small black plastic bag. It was pure white, sweet, juicy, and absolutely delicious. An entire pineapple cost me 100 francs (twenty cents), which was "expensive" in the city. Currently, it's the waning end of mango season in Benin. Never in my entire life have a I had such a fresh piece of fruit. I bartered for it at the marketplace today. It was beautiful, rose-orange, sweet, and lush. My lips were covered it juice with each bite from the saturation. On a walk around the neighborhood near our compound this past Sunday, we got a delightfully little treat from a street vendor. It's popular all over West Africa; it's called FanChoco. It's a frozen treat served in a plastic packet (about the size of a bar of soap), and it tastes exactly like cold, milky chocolate pudding. I could go on forever about food, but I want to talk about other stuff, too!
This may seem completely ridiculous, but my favorite thing about Benin thus far are the little children. Even in Cotonou, seeing a white person is a very, very rare occurance, so they become so excited to see - from a distance or right up close. In the market today, a little girl ran up to me and just wanted to touch my hand. It made her so happy her eyes tighted up and she squealed the most adorable sound I've ever heard. Our rooms are on the third floor that has a balcony that overlooks a neighboring village. It is here that I discovered my new favorite game. When a group of us white Volunteers at the balcony, the children scream "Yovo!" (which means white person). In response to there gleeful shouting, we wave, and the kids go berzerk. They completely lose there mainds. Hands in the air, feet stamping on the ground, wild head jerks - all in completely jubiliant elation. I feel like a Beatle.
Most of my first few days were spent on the compound in various lecture sessions regarding Pre Service Traning that will be starting on Wednesday. We've had lectures on health, safety, security, technical training, gender roles, and culture. There are three sectors of service in Benin that Volunteers belong to: Enviromental Action, Rural Health, Economic Development, and English Education. Most of it is preliminary and introductory, but everyone is quick to answer questions and very insightful. The lectures are hosted by Traning Volunteers, contracted PC Beninese workers, and PC Benin Staff members. We've met the acting Country Director and other administrative higher-ups over the past few days. French is the predominate language in Benin. I've tested to be intermediate (thanks Rosetta Stone and Madame Nikolic), and we have French classes in small groups (I have three in my group). My instructor's name is Abel. According to all our Training Volunteers, in three months from right now, I should be conversationally fluent in French. The idea of that is so alluring and exciting, but when I open my French books to study at night, it seems daunting.
Not that all my nights are spent studying. The compound has a small outdoor bar area with a cement enclosure, but we all line up tables outside. Beers cost less than a dollar, and most nights my fellow Volunteers and I gather after dinner and studying and lecture sessions to throw a few back and talk about our day. We've been dancing and discussing and getting to know each other. It's been lovely. All the volunteers are so interesting, worldly, and intelligent. It's great to trade stories and ideas. I'm having a great time.
Yesterday, I rode a zemidjan for the first time. A zem is a motorized bike that is the main mode of transport around the country. They are fast, quick, and efficient, and Benin is one of the few Peace Corps posts where Volunteers can ride them. However, it is easy to pick out Peace Corps Volunteers; we're required to wear helmet. No one else in Benin even thinks about wearing a helmet. The Corps takes it extremely seriously. A Volunteer can be administratively terminated on-the-spot for being caught on the back of a zem without a helmet on. Zems are taxi transport here in Benin so we got riding lessons yesterday. We are not allowed - under any circumstance - to drive a zem, but riding them will be a necessary part of our lives. They are surprising stable to ride, but completely thrilling. I love the fresh wind in my hair . . .
Tomorrow, we are leaving the compound in Cotonou and going to Porto Novo to stay with our host families for the next 9 weeks. I am so excited to meet my host family and to see another city in Benin that is supposed to be amazing. I'm having a great time, meeting tons of great people, and seeing and doing some very cool things. I'll keep in touch!
Monday, July 13, 2009
Loren's Peacin' Out
As of July 23, 2009, I officially PEACE OUT.
For the next 27 months, I will be living in Benin, West Africa, teaching ESL as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I started this blog as a way to chronicle my adventures — there is no doubt in my mind there will be some intense, harrowing, heartbreaking, side-splitting, eye-opening, soul-searching adventures. Friends and family, I'll make you a wager: if you keep reading, I'll keep writing.
Great Expectations
I think the best possible way to attack the beast of completely uprooting my life as I've known it, packing all my belongings into a 60-pound glorified duffel bag, and moving across the Atlantic Ocean - sight unseen - to West Africa is to have as few expectations a possible. Granted, I'd safely venture to say that I know more than most 22 year-old Pennsylvanians about Benin, in so much that I can easily pick it out on a world map and probably prattle off some basic country profile statistics. But beyond that, I intend to initially treat this experience like a sponge; the goal is to remain constant and allow all the porous holes in my thinking soak up the environment, people, customs, and culture around me. However, considering I have only a few expectations, I figured I'd take this opportunity to write my first blog and share them with you.
1. I can almost guarantee the second I step off the plane in Cotonou, I am going to take one 360 degree spin around and think to myself in a nerve-grating panic, What in the name of all that is holy have I just gotten myself into? Inevitably, my breathing will become labored, dizzying thoughts will cloud my mind, but I will press on.
2. I have a funny feeling that there are going to be some really basic things in my current, privileged American life that I've been taking for granted. The absence of such luxuries may become air apparent almost immediately and others will wheedle their way into my consciousness from a slow build. Either way - I'd like to take this opportunity to give some high praise and encomium to some of my favorite things: Charmin toilet paper, mozzarella cheese, electricity, my brimming bookshelf, microwave technology, indoor plumbing, bubble baths, wireless internet access, my washer and dryer, eye contacts, and the ability to have exhausting cell phone conversations at length whenever I want to for as long as I can remain awake. My things: I love you; I'll miss you; I'll be back.
3. This experience is going to change me. That's a given; I know. Like the wise, old sages of days-gone-by proclaimed, "Change is the only constant." I have no idea what I am going to look, think, act, or feel like in two years. That's the best part in my opinion. I don't get to know what is going to happen to me. It's a giant surprise gift just waiting for me unwrap in a distant future I can't even fathom right now. The person I will become will be changed not only physically, but mentality, not only spiritually, but culturally. I'm really excited to meet that young woman. I bet she's going to have some amazing stories to tell (and with any luck, she'll be able to tell them in English or in French).
4. This will be difficult; this will be worth it.
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