Just A Small Town Girl

You’re What The French Call, “Villegois”

Oh, life in a little African village! Just as in America, there are some dramatic lifestyle differences between those of us who live in little towns scattered along dirt roads and those who live amongst the hustle and bustle of big city chaos. The shock and awe of the differences are evident in simple utterances quibbled back in forth on post visits between Volunteers:

From a city-kid: “Wait, what do you mean that you can’t buy baguette bread here? Where do you live?”
From a townie: “They are charging me HOW MANY francs for HOW MUCH rice? Do you spend all your money on food?!”

In small towns, everybody knows your name, and likewise, everyone expects a formal greeting at every meeting and re-meeting during the day. In large cities, you can blend in more easily among a large, diverse crowd, but sometimes, you don’t even really get to know your own neighbors. In little villages, the people are a little less civilized, the food is a little more authentic, and the smiles come from the heart. Village life suits me just fine. Here in Kalale, I’ve had the opportunity to delve into four very unique local languages, dance around a drum circle with old, bare-breasted tanties, show off my beloved hamlet to as a budding tour guide. Big city - eat your heart out … here’s my story of life on the wild side.

A Hello-Line Without a Chord in Its Butt

I recently read a quote from ex-pat and one-time New Yorker columnist Adam Gopnik, in which he says: “We breathe in our first language and swim in our second.” Nothing could be closer to the truth. I finally have reached a point in my French language ability where I know I can swim. I’m not going to drown if I’m suddenly thrust into an argument over the price of a piece of jewelry or a new shirt. Go, ahead, get me lost on the way to the bus station … I have the vocabulary to get me where I need to go. But at times, as I listen to the Michael Phelpses around me prattle off in lightening-speed français, I realize that I am still very much in the lap lane, putting my tail between my legs and surrendering to the doggie paddle. However, I am keeping afloat, so I figured now was about the time I should try my hand a learning some of the tribal tongues spoken in my village.

As I’ve forestated, there are four commonly spoken African languages in Kalale: Peuhl (the language of the Fulani tribe), Bo-ka (a language solely spoken in the commune of Kalale), Bariba (the most widely spoken language in the Borgou department), and Yoruba (the most commonly spoken tribal language in Nigeria). Because of our proximity to Nigeria, our unique cluster of Fulani tribe, and our outskirted position between the Alibori and Borgou departments of Benin, each language is easy to differentiate among when spoken, but you can never guess who speaks what. Sometimes, seeing and old woman cloaked in a Muslim hajab with broken teeth and a little bit of a cellulous demeanor, I’ll choose Bariba and greet her with, “A-BWAN-DOH” (or good morning) She, in turn, looks at me bug-eyed, as if I just went rambling away in English, and kindly responds, “NAH-PIN-DAY” (hello in Peuhl). It’s enough to drive a person mad, but that isn’t even the worst of it.

When speaking in another language, I’ve found that your brain in some way switches over and starts allowing you to think and process words different in the other language. In French, for instance, I am not twenty-three years old, but instead I have twenty-three years (this occurs in other romance languages as well). In French, I am not hot, but I have heat, or for that matter, coldness. Like my age, I am in possession of my temperature in French, the ruler of its domain and power, whereas, in English, it is a part of me and the very structure of who I am. What separates thinking in French from thinking in say, Peuhl, is that French language and culture progressed on a similar timeline and trajectory with the English language. The introduction of electricity and cell phones and motorcycles opened up the brain to a slew of new vocabulary without enough time for the rough edges of its formation to be smoothed over. There was no opportunity for progression like that. Like most developing countries, Benin went straight from being without telephones, without the infrastructure of land lines, to having cell phone towers in every commune head serving just about everyone you can shake a stick at with his or her own personal, portable, internet-accessible, music-playing, hand-held phone. Therefore, the progression of the vocabulary evolution became very rushed as well. So, you have great words like the Bo-ka term for mobile phone, “A-HA TA-QUE-SADA MA-FAN-DOH,” which literally translate to “a hello-line without a chord in its butt.” A “hello line” derived from the words for hello and clothesline are with words for a traditional, land line phone, which are very, very rare. Because a mobile phone is indeed a phone, but is not bound to any particular place with a “chord in its butt” or a line at the end of it, it has given its long and exasperating title, “a hello-line without a chord in its butt.” But it is hard to think in a language like that, when you can not predict where on Earth the origins of the word parts are coming from.

Sometimes, local language is just fun and funny. For instance, in a typical Beninese greeting, you go through a series of questions you ask a person in order to give them a respectful salutation. The greeting goes: “Hello! How are you? How is your work? How is your health? How is your family? How did you sleep?” Bariba is a wonderful language, with many responses being as simple as saying, very dismissively, “OH” (making sure to keep your mouth dramatically locked in the shape of an “O”) or grunting. Yet, in order to answer the question: “How is your health?” in a positive and chipper manner (the preferred method amongst those living in Kalale), you simply pump your fists in the air and say, “BONG! BONG!” Go ahead, say it. Do it. It’s great fun. You actually feel like you are in good health pumping away, wrists flailing in the air, saying cute phrases like that. Peuhl, on the other hand, is not so much fun as it is beautiful. You learn pull as an outsider, I think, because of the grace and elegant flow of the words. It is a like a ballet being dance using your tongue and breath as its stage. When Peuhl speakers get into heated or excited conversations, it almost seems as if they are singing at one another, competing over who can outshine the other in a choral recital.

Learning languages is a passion of mine, In my short life, I’ve studied five world languages and four tribal languages and I must say, I am only really fluent in one. I guess the moral of the story is to just breathe easy and keep swimming.

Band On The Run

I am not the first American to arrive in Africa and become completely enthralled by its music. In fact, I have a strong lineage of famous predecessors that have come to Africa with the sole purpose of being engulfed by its beats, ensnared by its drums, and brought to their feet, dancing, jumping, and jiving in simulation of the Africans themselves.

For millennia, it has been a global, cultural traditions for musicians to take their talents on the road, roaming from place to place, spreading their beats and harmonies, telling life histories with their lyrics, and in so doing, becoming a critical part of the social fabric. Kalale is no exception to this cross-cultural phenomenon, and it too has its own brand of visiting troubadours. One regular Friday morning, I trekked across town to my post mate’s concession and lo and behold, stumbled upon one of African’s finest traveling musicians. Armed with a small violin-type instruments made from hemp strings and a dried, hollowed out gourd, the troubador serenaded me. His lyrics were sweet and simple: “Bonjour, Madame, ah-hey, Bonjour, Madame.” Yet, his beats were complex, uplifting, and enchanting. I sat down next to him and let him sing to me as he smiled at with a wide, picket-fence grin in his frayed tunic. When his beautiful overture ended, I threw him a few francs and he thanked me generously. Truly, I was the one who was indebted. How many people wake up to their own, sweet personal serenade?

During the last weekend in February, in the village of Nikki, almost seventy kilometers due south of Kalale, there is an annual festival called Gaani that brings in people from all over Benin to celebrate the culture and traditions of the Bariba tribe. Thousands flock to Nikki for the weekend festivities to take in the art and crafts shows, watch the beautiful horse parade, and partake in a myriad of different traditional dances, music, and cuisine. In Kalale, the Bariba people here have been preparing to show off their musical inclinations for weeks. Relentless rehearsals of skits and shows flood our narrow, dirt alley ways, little by little filling the pathways of the village with music and dance. Last Sunday morning, after going into town to grab some brunch (and omelet sandwich at a local café), I was drawn into following a particularly rowdy crowd’s music. A dozen or so musicians gathered in the street, of the hems of a red dirt road banging away passionately at their instruments. There were leather and wood tom tom drums, gourd violins, tin and glass bottle xylophones, and of course, a herd of topless old woman, shaking their dignified, acrobatic, wrinkly bodies to the rhythm of the band. It was glorious.
At first I stood back in awe, kicking myself at another golden photo opportunity lost because I hadn’t thought to bring my camera. Then, a group of my students spotted me in the crowd (granted, I am quite easy to spot), and convinced me to go dancing with the women. At first I pleaded ineptitude. Then I argued that I born with two left feet, essentially rendering me incapable of coordination (which seemed to puzzle them enough until they actually looked at my feet … I suppose some idioms don’t quite translate). Finally, out of excuses and too intrigued not to try, I stepped up to the dance circle and started shaking my body with the women. They all spoke Bariba, and I spoke only European languages. But it didn’t matter. Feebly, I attempted to mimic their dances moves. Realizing quickly I stood no chance, I did what I do best… I channeled my inner Beyonce and started doing the bootylicious butt bump. Boy, oh boy, was that a crowd please. Much to my surprise, several of the women and young girls began copying me, giving dear Ms. Knowles a run for her money in the derriere-dropping department!
Sometimes, you just have to dance to the beat of your own tom tom drummer.

Les Tourists Americains

Kalale is currently the proud owner of what may become known as one of the Wonders of the Sustainable Third World. In a little village within the commune head of Kalale, are the Gardens of Basassi. The gardens are a model for Peace Corps Volunteers and attract visitors from all around the world to come and revel in the irrigation juggernaut that is the Solar Garden. Community run and operated, the gardens produce an enormous amount of agricultural products from the commune using a system of solar panels to operation irrigation pumps that keep the plants moist despite the desert-like arid climate. It truly is a marvel to behold.

Enter Ray and Bence. Ray and Bence are a tag-team group of IT consultants sent from San Francisco as project developers to oversee the achievements of their company’s funds. Two weeks of their five week-long business sojourn were to be spent recording and relaying the progress and development of the Gardens at Basassi. My post mate, Jocylin, an environmental volunteer, was working with the group, making sure they were able to oversee the technical aspects of their trip. I, on the other hand, quickly adapted to the role of Cultural Ambassador to Fun and Amusement in Kalale. It was my job to make sure they interacted with a wide group of different people, saw the fairs and wares of Market Day, and figured out where to get a nice, cold beer after a long day of working in the fields.

What surprised me most was how open they were to meeting the people of Kalale. They offered to come into my English classes as a part of a show-and-tell day. They spent the mornings teaching children’s songs (complete with hand motions) to my students. The play list included “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” the Beach Boys “Do Run Run,” the classic “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” The went snap-happy documenting their lessons through camera frames. My students, of course, enthusiastically mugged for the cameras, That very next afternoon, as I walked to school for my evening class, I saw a group of my students sitting in a circle jumbling the words while perfecting the motions to “Itsy-Bitsy Spider.“

As Cultural Ambassador to Fun and Amusement, I learned something very critical about my service. I am happy here. This village life suits me very well for where I’m at in my life, and I am more than proud to show it off whenever I get the chance. I’ve become comfortable and confident enough here to not only call his place my home away from home, but a place I can’t stop talking, writing, thinking, and caring about. Pull out the “Bienvenue” mat, Kalale - Madame Loren Lee is coming home.

An American Wish List a.k.a. Pandering for Packages

I must start off with this: Thank you, thank you, Merci beaucoup to everyone who has been kind to send me a care package here in Benin. The contents of this packages are cherished, beloved, shared, and enjoyed and each little package reminds me that there is someone out there - in a land far, far away - thinking of me. In an effort the quell the demand on my parents of interested person wondering what would be good items to send to Loren in Africa, I’ve decided to make a list of things that I need, things I would love, and things I’ve most certainly got a good supply of.
Again, thanks for sending, thanks for reading, thanks for caring. I love you all.

Food Items: I really cannot get enough of American food products. These are a great need. I am not eating the meat here (because I see the goat eating garbage and drinking turgid, green water the day before they barbeque it and attempt to serve it to me), so anything with protein is great. Also, candy is wonderful. I love popping hard candy and just letting the memories of America melt in my mouth, but they also are great bartering tools for young kids in my neighborhood who help me with chores but refuse to take money. I have access to filtered water here by pump, but refrigeration is limited and expensive. Therefore, I use water flavoring packets to make the temperate water go down the old pipes a little more smoothly. I suggest Hawaii Punch and Crystal Lite to-go mixes, but I have an adventurous palate and am always open to surprises. Also, I just have a small, gas table top stove here, but I can use food meals that are pre-packaged and just add water, butter, and milk (think Ramen and mac & cheese). Here are some ideas on the food front:

Twizzlers, canned meats (tuna, chicken, clams, salmon, ham), Slim Jims, beef jerky, M&Ms, hard candies, Ramen noodles, boxed macaroni and cheese, mashed potato packets, Alfredo, spaghetti, and pesto sauce mixes, soup packets, Pringles, rice seasonings, Power Bars, trail mix, granola, mixed cocktail nuts, dried fruit, brownie mix, cake batter, cookie mix, spray cheese, crackers.
American Media and Photos: As you know, I am an avid reader and news hound, so being without my fix of written and pictorial media does leave a hole in heart. I would love news article clippings, transcripts of important media sound bites, tabloids, journals, and magazines. Fashion magazines are excellent, because I use them as sources of inspiration of dress designs I have made here (and my African seamstress loves to see what is all the rage in America). Also, I can not get enough pictures of my friends and family. Please send me current or old photos of friends and family so I can proudly display them around my house. Having everyone around, even just on glossy paper, keeps the homesickness away.

Toiletry Items: I live in the Third World without running water, so I’m going to venture and say that it would be impossible for me to have too much antibacterial liquid hand sanitizer. Please send me the big bottles. I love the stuff! The hard, clean after-scent of rubbing alcohol has quickly become one of my favorite scents in all the world. Hell hath no fury like Loren on a microbe-killing spree. (Along this line, antibacterial hand wipes are also useful). I can always use Q-tips. The are a great, multitasking little tool, and I go through them quite quickly, so I could always use restocking. I have very attractive blood to mosquitoes, and my skin is usually painfully freckled with bite marks, so spare my skin and feel free to send some heavy-duty, alpha male bug spray. I’d much appreciate it.

Items I’m Well Stocked In: I’d like to say a special “Thanks” here to Mike and Jackie and the Holub family for making sure that I have everything I’d every need in the way of craft supplies, art materials, school, and office supplies. Also, as the second Volunteer living in my house, I inherited a generous amount of crafting supplies. I am actually so endowed with crayons that I had a Crayola Give-Away Day for the children living in my concession (and oh boy, did they love it). So, please, don’t waste the space in a package with any of the above. I’ve got more than my fair share and enough to go around the village.