International Women’s Day Comes to Kalale
Hear ye! Hear ye! Women around the world - we are definitely making progress! Amidst the rubbish and rubble, from inside the mud huts and throughout my tiny village of Kalale, magistrates, mayors, community administrators, counselors, governmental officials, and functioniers from around the Borgou department came to my tiny, respectable commune of Kalale to support and celebrate the education, health, and protection of WOMEN. In the year of Our Lord 2010, on March 8th, thousands of Beninese citizens from surrounding cities and villages gathered to watch as Kalale hosted it’s first-ever fête for the advance of African women, and it was a party for the ages. There were prizes and awards, honorable guest speakers, traditional dances, skits, and presentations. But most of all - and perhaps most importantly - there was a beautiful and wondrous array of men and women from a variety of ethic backgrounds there to pay homage to the fairer sex.
In my small realm of esteem, our girls club, Club GLOW (Girls Leading Our World), was asked by the mayor of Kalale to present a dance routine and a skit of their own creation at the festival. For almost three months, our girls practiced weekly, and as show time neared, they practiced daily, to perfect their presentation. A week before they were slated to perform, the girls came to my house to practice their routine in an effort to guard it from public view before the Big Day. Taking a note from my Mom and Dad, I wanted to be an apt hostess, providing them with water, biscuits, and their favorite - popcorn! Hell hath no fury like fifteen Beninese preteens attacking a large metal bowl of salted popcorn. But all their hard work paid off grandly. When it was time to perform, the Kalale Club GLOW girls delivered - three dance routines an a wonderfully funny sketch about a young girl and her grandmother walking by a school, and other girls encouraging the young girl to come and practice her alphabet and reading. Literacy for women! (It is important to note that even here, in the commune head, 60% of women are illiterate and nearly 80% cannot speak the national language of French.)
I was proud as a peacock. Our girls did tremendously! As is custom, during their dance and skit, audience members showed their appreciation by placing bills of currency on the girls’ foreheads. The girls raised 35 mille francs CFA for Club GLOW (approximately $70 American). The talk around town the next few days of the girls’ performance was twofold: everyone loved their performance and thought it was insightful and inspiring, but they almost couldn’t help but notice they girls lacked … oh, how to put this as politely as most commenting villagers attempted to … couth. Essentially, the word on the street in Kalale was - Club GLOW was a group of brilliant, young, talented, intelligent, beautiful … brat children!
To be honest, my post mate and partner in advising the club, Jocylin, and I had taken note of this for a while. Most of our girls came from village families of means, meaning that they had enough money and support to not want for most of the essential items of life (food, shelter, education, clothing), but they still had a very “from the village” mindset that kept them from engendering basic social graces such as manners and tact. The girls did costume changes (which required them to disrobe quite a bit) in the presence of young men. They did not offer thanks or any signs of gratitude towards those who offered praise. They were greedy and rabid when it came to dispensing praise, commemorative t-shirts, and food. Jocylin and I had our work cut out for us, and so we started …
Jocylin and Loren’s Club GLOW Reform School for Girls
The name pretty much sums it up. We quickly realized, as advisors of a club thats sole intention was to support the integrity, advancement, education, and professionalism of young girls, we had better start with the basics.
Now granted, if you know anything about me as a person, you know that I am not the Queen of Social Graces. As a child, at dinner, my mother would regard quite matter-of-factly that my table manners were akin to those of Atilla the Hun. (Mom - I will have you know that I now live in a society where it is not only acceptable, but expected, that you eat with your hands.) I spent countless summers in Connecticut with my Aunt Arlene and Uncle Ray as they kindly and gently persuaded me into proper use of silverware at dinner, placing a napkin on my lap, chewing with my mouth closed, and blessing the table with a simple grace before eating like a civilized young women of good breeding. I picked up a thing or two along the way, and rather unexpectedly, I came into my role as Madame Loren Lee: Reform School Governess.
The goal was basic and clear-cut. The girls needed to learn how to behave in public like respectful young women if they ever intended to one day grow up and become respectable women. At our first club meeting after the International Women’s Day festival, we went over some social graces. Use, “s’il vous plait” to ask politely for something. If you are given a gift or regarded with a kindness, offer a gentle, “Merci.” Form lines to accept hand-outs given in mass. (Oddly enough, as I’ve mention before, line formation has never occurred to most Beninese people. It’s usually just a blob of people yelling and vying for position. It boggles my mind how this place has cell phone service, but refuse to form lines). We also explained that they now had developing female bodies that they were growing into their rightful feminine forms, and it was no longer appropriate to change in front of curious young boys. It was important they kept their cleavage, midriff, and backside covered at all times in public. The girls were very responsive. We did a few activities to demonstrate how each new social grace worked and affected not only their behavior but the behaviors of the people around them. Jocylin and I gave out stickers to the girls, if they formed a civilized line and said “please” and “thank you.” We practice eating politely and generously in public with large bowls of popcorn (we noticed they couldn’t get enough of the stuff, even if they were passing it around graciously and taking small, reasonable handfuls). Yet, just as my Mom, Aunt, and Uncle taught me, the road to being a Respectable Woman is long and paved with endless amounts of practice, patience, and - as to be expected - guffaws.
Kernels in Kalale
As you may have noticed, popcorn has been a reoccurring theme in this blog entry. In Kalale, corn is not a staple starch. It is hard to find it outside of the major cities. Likewise, the kernels used to make popcorn are just as scarce, therefore, having popcorn in village is a rare treat and a delicacy. So here we are, in a village with an open segment in the market for popcorn and girls club that has just recently raised 35 mille CFA performing at a festival.
As soon as Jocylin and I realized this, a light bulb when off in our minds: We found a niche market! The girls could sell popcorn and raise money for the club. Suddenly, my Girls Scout days of selling cookies came flooding back to me. They could use the money they had just earned and reinvested in the club - in themselves - in order to gain greater rewards, such as trips into a big city like Parakou for a nice dinner or new khaki uniforms and supplies for school. The market was in need and the opportunity for fundraising was endless. Jocylin and I proposed the idea to the girls, and they were all in agreement. Just as quickly, my year as a partner at PrintPOD, Inc. came back to me: the hours I spent in front of a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet with Mike crunching numbers on quantity, input, output, costs, values, gains, and expenses. We would apply the same business principles I learned in running a start-up company with organizing a popcorn vending operation. Once we crunched the numbers, we realized the girls stood to gain a hefty profit by selling their popcorn on Market Day, at school events, sporting games, and at administrative festivals.
And so, Kalale Korn was born! Jocylin and I showed the girls how to pop the kernels in a large metal bowl over a fire using oil and seasoning the corn with salt. It was easy; and the girls, being naturals at cooking over an open flame and knowing how to prepare food, were quick studies. In its premiere week of sales, the girls sold their popcorn at the middle school’s Track and Field Games Day. It has been a huge success thus far.
I really think this is the best example of what amazes me about the Peace Corps. As a teacher, I came in knowing exactly what I was going to be doing - teaching English - but never in my life did I think I would be using my small business background to help young girls became entrepreneurs. You learn to expand yourself, you learn the true depths of what you as an educated, experienced person have to share with other people, and you are given the opportunity to explore and challenge yourself to try it out. Let me tell you, firsthand, there is no feeling in the world that compares to looking at girl with empowerment and self-esteem glowing in her young, bright eyes and knowing that you help put that there.
Neebo’s Nook
Because many of you have asked about his well-being in e-mails, letters, and Facebook messages, I figured I would take this opportunity to let you know that my little man is doing just fine. Neebo is reigning supreme cat here in Kalale. He is far and away the fattest cat in town, and if I do say so myself, the sweetest and most handsome.
Neebo continues his Reign of Terror over cockroaches, lizards, mice and the like, which puts him in my good graces. In one of his most recent exploits, Neebo decided to climb the mango tree outside my house at 1:00 AM, only to find that he was too much of a scaredy-cat to climb down. So, being the doting pet owner that I am, I strapped on my head lamp in the middle of the night and climbed the mango tree in my nightgown to rescue dear Neebo from his summit. Most days he is much less adventurous and expends most of his energy napping away in various cool spots around the house.
All kidding aside, Neebo is an excellent cat. And, if you are so inclined to send me a package, please to remember my dear kitty. My Aunt Tracy has spoiled him, and he does enjoy American kitty treats.
Yes, We Can! (Opener)
It really is the little things in life that make you smile.
In my concession there is a small boutique that vends a lot of household basics: pasta, tomato sauce, candy, rice, toilet paper, things like that. In that boutique, almost everyday of the week, there is a twelve year-old girl named Baké. Baké, for all intents and purpose, is the indentured servant of the couple that lives at the end of my concession. She is the niece of Madame Felix, who owns the boutique. As is common practice here, Baké lives and works for Madame Felix , and in return, they educate, feed, and clothe her. For the most part, it is a symbiotic relationship.
One day, as I walked over to the boutique to buy some milk powder, I noticed Baké kneeling over a gigantic can of tomato paste, sweat flowing from every pore in her body, pounding away at the tin lid with a massive stone and a dull kitchen knife. I asked her if she needed any help. Of course, being the sweet girl she is, she said no and diligently pressed on attempting to open the tomato paste.
As I walked away from the shop, it suddenly dawned on me - I had a spare can opener lying around my house. My parents had sent me a really great super-grip opener from America, but being the second Volunteer to live a chez Americaine, I already had an old, duller opener in a bin somewhere. I quickly found it, and brought it out to Baké.
I hand it over to her and said, “Here a cadeau (a gift), for you.” She looked at me completely puzzled, but stretched out her arm to take the funny black and metal device. I realized she had no idea what it was. So, instead, I told her to hand me the big can of tomato paste. Easily, I placed the opener on the rim and began to crank. As I wound around the edge of the lid, Baké’s eyes began to glow with excitement. Then they began to tear as she realize how much easier it would all be from here on out. I handed her back the opened tin can and the opener, and she smiled at me with awe and amazement. I’m sure it mirrored the look on my face as well.
To think, all it took to crack that smile wide open was a can opener. Ah, alas, yet another mini miracle in Africa.
In Memory of Kate
This March 12th marked the one year anniversary of the death of Peace Corps Benin Volunteer Kate Puzey. In Cotonou, sixty Volunteers, along with Peace Corps Administrators, American Embassy workers, and the Ambassador to Benin, gathered together to memorialize the life and service of a fellow Volunteer. This being my first year in-country, I had never met Kate. I’d only even been told delightful stories of her work and her amazing personality by other Volunteers that knew her.
It was a simple ceremony held at the Peace Corps Benin Bureau Headquarters. It included a candle-lighting ceremony, words from friends and Volunteers, and speeches by Peace Corps Staff and the Ambassador. However, the segment of the ceremony that resonated most with me was a ten minute slide show of photos of Kate throughout her service. In those photos, she became real to me. I could relate to the girl sitting on the rocks of lagoon underneath a waterfall in Tanguetta; the teacher standing up at the blackboard in front a classroom of Beninese students; a helpful friend cooking food with a woman from her village. Through those photos, I saw fragments of memories that will become the landscape of my own service here in Benin. She was just like me. A young, hopeful, optimistic Volunteer who came to Benin to teach English and who learned so much more than she could ever be taught. As I mentioned, I never got to know Kate, but I feel in some ways, I do know her. We walked the same path; I am just following the footprints that she left behind.
Adieu, dear Kate.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 4, 2010
My First African Holiday: Tea Parties, Lion Chasing, and Falling Water
Three Cups of Tea in Benin
It is a tradition as old as civilized culture, I believe, to sit down with those whose company you enjoy a share a steaming cup of something and discuss topics of the world, of life, of liberty, misadventure - you, know coffee shop banter.
I have come to enjoy the taking of tea here in Benin. Several times a week, I am invited to tea with my good friend Souleman and several other familiar faces he conjures to share in the joys of drinking. We assemble under the shade of the mango outside his boutique, and we delight in small talk as he prepares the liquid lovin’. Now, being an ex-Starbucks employee, I have seen my fair share of café accoutrement, but the preparation of this tea is so deliberate and delicate, so crafted and cared for, it greatly outshines the simplicity of its preparatory instruments. In a small metal canister, that looks more carafe than teapot, the basic ingredients are applied to the pot - loose aromatic leaves, raw grainy sugar, and water. The pot is than shaken - not unlike a martini - and nestled in between red, burning coals in a small fire pit. Then we wait - the process is slow-building and soothing - so we use just enjoy one another’s company, the sun on our faces, the soft Harmattan zephyrs flowing through the lazy shade of the trees. As the fire strengthens, so does the brew, and soon enough, the canister is steaming from the spout, ready to be poured through the simple screen into glasses for our refreshment.
There three very distinct rounds of tea that get poured from each canister. More often than not, there are not enough tiny, glass shot glass-like tasses to go around, so we share. As with most things in West Africa, there is a tradition, a purpose, a tale behind the communal consumption of tea. According to folklore, the first round of tea is “bitter like death.“ The second round of tea is “sweet like love.” The third round is “sugary like life.” The week before I was set to leave on my holiday vacation on safari, I did my finally bidding of good-byes to my village friends, and my dear friend Souleman invited me to afternoon tea to celebrate the New Year early. Of course, I enthusiastically accepted. However, I thought, in honor of the New Year, in the spirit of welcoming the new and reflecting upon the old, I held to take this tea in remembrance.
Bitter Like Death
The first drip is very, very potent - a taste bud tour de force. As I throw it back against the palette, I can’t help but feel reminiscent of taking shots of cheap whiskey at a drive bar; your face turns disgusted before your lips part of to accept the sacrament. This round is “bitter like death.” And like death, you don’t look forward to it; it’s a shock to the system, but it’s soberingly expected. At the very end of November, I experienced my first death in village. A woman who lived in the concession next to mine dropped death of heart failure in her kitchen - in front of her husband, children, nieces and nephews while preparing food for the Muslim festival of Tabaski. She was not a woman of great wealth or public stature. She held no celebratory, martyred no great cause - yet regardless - everyone in the town grieved her loss. Boutiques closed to show their respect and condolences. It was almost as if everyone in town lost their Mama, their Tanti, their Tata. The outpouring was incredible. It reminded me a Jewish shivah. People came to the family’s concession, baring food and deserts, sat in circles around family next to kin, and shared stories celebrating this simple woman’s life. Her bereavement was overnight; a hole was dug near her family’s concession, her body was buried, and the grave covered in multi-colored stones. A month before I left for Benin, I lost two people very close to me. My childhood friend Michelle’s mother lost her yearlong battle with a brain tumor. In the same week, my neighbor, mentor, and confidant, Edward Osborn, succumbed to his fight against cancer. Truly, it was a godsend to me that I got to see them alive and say goodbye before I left for the Peace Corps. In honor of Mama, Yasmin, and Ed, I swallowed my own bitterness over the inescapable loss that is essential to every life.
Sweet Like Love
There is an old adage proclaiming, “Absence from love is like the wind; it is extinguishes small flames and strengthens great bonfires.” After spending five months, miles oceans, and continents away from all the people and things I’ve ever loved, I’ve learned just how true that expression really is. When the second round of tea, is poured, it is incredibly saccharine. Left steeping, the sugar granules melange with the sweet aromatic flavors of fresh, green tea and it goes down, smooth and easily. As I sip, it’s almost impossible not to be reminded of the incredibly decadence that is the gift of loving. So close to the holiday season, it’s easy to get caught up in the whirlwind and stresses of present-buying, food preparation, Christmas caroling, light-stringing, and the general anxieties of holidays. But in Benin, there is a complete absence of all those distractions. No mega malls with electronic Santas singing holly jolly tunes. No mass-marketing of “sales” and “deals.” You are forced to focus on the simplicity of the season, and the reason for it’s existence in the first place. Even those so subscribe to a more secular view of the holidays have to note it’s magic. You can almost feel the difference as Christmas Eve approaches, as everyone you love - friends, relatives, acquaintances - flow in from all corners of life and celebrate being together. Christmastime (and Hanukkah for that matter) is about being with the people you love, breaking bread, and celebrating the joys of togetherness. It’s not always easy to remember that when you’re caught up in the glitz and glamour and clamor of the holidays, but in less commercially congested part of the world, it’s lot simpler to focus on what you love and who you miss. I am very fortunate that I have found many loves in Benin. The friends I have made, who share the unique bond being here with me - of being Volunteers - and have brought great happiness, joy, and affability to my time in Africa. I spent my holiday with about twenty other Volunteers in the northern city of Kandi, and it helped all of us being together during a time of the year specifically reserved for celebrations with the closest of kin. I have the respect and love of the community of Kalale; I love my job as an English teacher; I love the feeling of the hot, African sun shining down on me as a walk to work in the morning; Pirate love letters plundering my inbox. I am happy here, and I have been happy here, because I found love here. It must be noted that, even though I have opened my heart to this place, I could never have transitioned so easily without the tremendous amount of love and support from home. For all the letters, phone calls, words of wisdom, care packages, and little blurbs and updates on life, I am forever grateful to all those who I left behind five months ago. You are in my thoughts, a part of all my actions, patterns, and quirks, in the stories I tell of my American life. So, I took my second cup of tea, and I as it warms my chest, I can feel the same warmth rising from my heart, reminding me that now, I have expanded my love around the world. A little bit of a sickeningly sweet statement - oui - but so true.
Sugary Like Life
Variety is the spice of life, “they” say. Well, I suppose it “variety” had an actual tang, it would probably be sugary. Sugar is everywhere, and in general, is universally loved. Shooting the last glass of tea, all the flavors of the brew hit you at once. All the sugar that has amassed at the bottom of the canister, the deep simmering flavor of sitting tea leaves, the hot water that has been the kept closest to the coals - it is the most varied and magical tasting round of tea. I have had no trouble finding the versatility of sugar in my life. When a neighbor generously offers to help me string a clothesline I am struggling to McGuyver (much akin to “borrowing a cup of sugar from your neighbor). The giving of a big, warm, bear hug to a grieving woman who has just lost her mother (“Gimme some sugar“). I often use sugary biscuits to bride my students to participate more in class (a highly effective method). Even though sugar came be found quite easily in most parts of the world, it is usually a pricy commodity, and Benin follows that general rule. Because it is expensive, many people have not developed an immense craving taste for it the way it is gorged on in the States. But, alas, there is an exception to every rule. My post mate and I have befriend one of the town’s barbers, and I am pretty sure he is hypoglycemic. He is rail-thin, but he eats like his next meal may never come! He has a sweet-tooth like I’ve never seen before. He is constantly force-feeding himself cookies, cakes, sucking on lollipops and licorice candies. It’s unbelievable! When we dine with him, he is always so generous in generously distributing his supply of sweets, that we have taken to calling him Papa Sucre (Sugar Daddy), and he loves it. But he is also a very interesting, well-versed, traveled man. He runs his barber business, takes on odd jobs in the big cities of Parakou and Cotonou. He is endlessly interested in American customs and culture. He is fluent in more languages than anyone else I know in village. He is always up for a road trip or a refreshing nightly walk around town. He is always introducing us to friends and acquaintances new and old - and it’s a pleasure to hang out with the characters he bring around. Papa Sucre has found the sugar in his life, and it has made him a sweeter man for it. As Volunteers, it is a part of our job description to integrate, to adapt and change, to constantly immerse ourselves in the varieties of our surrounding. But I have found, that often times, it accomplishing those tasks are better done without a lot of impetus on our end. Just sit back, take in the world around you, approach everything different and new with and open mind and heart, and you will be changed for the better - life becomes a lot sweeter. There are so many sweet things life here has to offer - learning new languages, dancing to African music in the streets with children, a surprise serenade by a traveling minstrel playing a gourde violin, walking through the beautiful, multi-colored forests as the sun looms overhead, sprinkling the day with warm and light. The sweetness rubs off onto other facets of your life as you move through it. So, with my last sip of tea, I must remember to find the sweetness in everyday things as I approach the New Year, take time to enjoy the tea, and pass the cup around.
The Park Pendjari
As I have aforementioned, I had the amazing opportunity to spend my holiday vacation this year on safari in West Africa. In the northwestern corner of Benin, is the Park Pendjari - a chunk of Benin used solely as a wildlife preserve that is opened from December through June for safari expeditions. Most of the tourists of this particular park, are European thrill-seekers, local expats, and Peace Corps Volunteers, but they run a good business, and the park is lovely. My good friend Cara is posted near the park, and her assignment as a Small Economic Development volunteer is to facilitate tourism for the park. Well, Cara, being the brilliant mind she is, decided to look no further than her own peer group in rallying troops to support the park. In mid-October, a group of eight of us decided to go on safari at the Park for the holidays in the hopes of spending some time together and having a little African adventure.
Beep, Beep. Who’s Got the Keys to the Jeep ? Vroom . . .
The object of the game when going on safari is quite obvious: see as many animals as possible over the course of three days and two evenings while caravanning atop a large, old Volkswagen van, not alike that used by the Partridge Family. Each day, we’d go out into the brush twice on approximately four-hour long stints, once at dawn and again at twilight. When we got to the entrance of the park, our guide told us to climb onto the roof of the van to get the most scenic view. So, like eager little lemmings, all of us piled atop of van, eyes wide open, just waiting for a lion to attack and gazelle while grazing the vast plains whizzing by us. At first we were snap happy with the cameras around our wrists and necks, taking picture of every little deer and antelope that roamed. But after a bumpy, dusty three-hour tour through the park to our hotel site, we arrived slightly sunburnt and feeling a little empty handed. When we checked in, we asked other safari-goers of their finding, and we hear one Big Fish story after another of lion-sighting, elephant-spottings, hippopotamus photo-ops, and lush, beautiful scenery. We all turned as green and bitter with envy and anxious, debating back and forth on where or not to fire our tour guide and replace him with a better version, to insist on taking the paths of the more fortunate safari spectators. A long afternoon dip in the ground’s pool cooled off our raging tempers. All our griping was put to rest as well settled on waiting for our second tour of the day at twilight before we made any rash decisions about reorganizing our tour and manpower. So, at 16:30 hours, we all boarded the top of our van again, waiting in vain for the twilight to turn out the cast of the Lion King. But as we pulled, back into the park that night, our hopes were shot down like a bird in the sky, and we returned to the hotel that night with little more the scenic vistas of African terrain and a few shots of deadbeat buffalo trapped in the lenses of our point-and-shoot camera. We ate dinner at the restaurant, drowned our sorrows of an unfortunate day of safari sight-seeing in cold beer, and went to bed with a bitter outlook on what once promised to be the adventure of a lifetime.
Welcome to the Jungle, We’ve got Fun and Games
We woke the second morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with the glowing African sunrise, infused with new enthusiasm that today would bring us more luck than yesterday. We embarked atop the van again, wrapped in blankets and sweaters in the cool morning. We cool see the cool fog of our warm breath in the cold, morning air, and something felt different about this sunrise - today was our day to capture Mother Nature, Mama Africa, in all her glory. And deliver she did! As the sunlight broke through the horizon around us, we were taken aback by the beauty of the colors against the sparse, black outlines of the horizons. Brilliant shades of orange, red, yellow, and gold ripped through the early morning black, blues, and purples, dancing between sprawling cracks of morning sun. It hit our shoulders, necks, and backs, warming us slowly and gently, encouraging us of better things to come in the day. As the day brightened, we snaked into a jungle path - grand canopy trees turning everything a glistening green in the sunlight. Just then, Sam yelled, “Arret! Ici! Ici!” The guide stopped immediately and we looked after where his finger pointed, and lo and behold - JACKPOT! A large, brown elephant stood camouflaged between equally massive tree trunks, slowly, yet mightily, lifting his trunk to munch of twiggy tree branches. Click, click, click - our cameras flashed as fast as we could manage, and a rush of hope ignited us all. Once the elephant disappeared into the brush, so did we, continue on our sojourn through the park. Snaking through the park, we looked as brightly colored birds fluttered through treetops, singing songs of the African wild, and small game scurried around in the high-rise grasses. Next stop, the hippo lookout. It was a small, covered wooden porch resting on the banks of a lake in the middle of the park, rather gluttonously referred to as Mare Bari (calling it “sea” seemed like a grave overstatement of size and proportion to me). At the lookout point, we saw large lumps of black flesh almost completed submerged in water. Hippos are rather aggressive monsters who spend the majority of their lives cooling themselves in pool of water. Unimpressed with us tourists, they just lay in the water, oblivious to our earnest, hopeful infatuation with them. A crocodile emerged from behind a small bush on the banks of the lake and trekked quickly to the water’s edge, and then dove into the lake - narrowly escaping our camera lenses. In almost the same instant, as we were distracted with the croc, a massive hippo mouth emerged from the water’s surface, opening his great, toothy jaws to let our a mighty mid-morning yawn. Our luck was in full-swing now, and we once again boarded the van, the gentle breeze of the whizzing vehicle billowing through our hair, hot sun against our grins, excited about what may lie just around the winding brush bend. We approached a gathering of safari cars, all stopped along the sides of the road in a pack. They were looking at something, but what, we could not distinguish from our distance. The guide slowed down and nestled in a spot next to fellow gawkers, and there she saw, lying under the shade of a feathery-leaved trees, being admired in all her glory - a sleek, long, lioness. She was no more than 20 meters away from our van, but she was docile, which made us overwhelming excited and underwhelming nervous considering our proximity and her ability to tear us to bits with her razor-sharp teeth. As so as we had our filled of the Queen of the Jungle, we continued down the road to find yet another safari treasure - a troop of baboons! We regarded them with delight as the shook their big, bare, blue butts in our faces, shrieked with glee as they through pebbles and bits of grass at our van, and gazed on in awe as swung from trees with easy, listless energy, and unyielding grace. We were thrilled! As we headed in for our afternoon break to lounge poolside again, we couldn’t help but compliment the wisdom and acute accuracy of our tour guide, our tremendous luck, our elation and self-pride on being such observant safari-trekkers. On our twilight decent into the bush, we were satiated enough by our earlier finding to just enjoy the magical savannah sunset from our rooftop perches, blasting iPod tracks from portable speakers of the Lion King soundtrack and “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” into the African ambiance surrounding us.
I Can’t Take This Lion Down
On our last afternoon noon in the park, we were quite gleeful. Our morning was filled with elephants, more baboons, beautiful chirping birds, and a marvelous, glowing sunrise. We were contented with what we’d seen, happy to spend the day just admiring our picturesque views from the top. As we traversed along a path we’d been on several times, we came around a sharp bend slowly and we heard it. A deep, mean, agitated roar. We scan the tall brush nervously. The sound came from too close and with too much fury for us feel excited or safe - we were scared and anxious. The van stopped and waited, all of us holding our breath in worry and fear. Another roar sent tingles down my spine, and I suddenly ached for the protection of shelter inside the van. We couldn’t move. We had no idea where this male lion could be. Then, at first just a shadow, striding from behind the tall grass, in one great step the entire hard body of a fully-grown male lion stretched across the dusty brown path in front of us. He was long, strong - the sinews of the muscles in his legs and chest striking fear into our hearts with each leg-length. He was beautiful, regal, majestic. It is easy to see in that instant why the lion is indeed the King of the Jungle. As he crossed the road, his form melted into another path of wide, tall grass, and again, we were anxious with fear. What you can see can make you scream, but it’s the lurking fear that you can’t see that makes you cower. He let out another roar. He again began frantically tapping on the roof of the car, begging the guide to get out of the impending death-trap brush, but he was blocked. A small, white Jeep, which I barely noticed until now, had parked itself in the middle of the road. It has obviously been there for quite sometime. From the roof, I could see some overly eager Europeans inside the fully-enclosed vehicle snapping pictures. They’d been taunting this lion for quite sometime, and now he was pissed. The lion emerged from the tall brush again, and this time, he crossed the street at an angle, heading towards our van. The two guys in front of me on top of the van instantly lost any of the cool they had try to muster, and climbed backward into my lap. The lion moved in again into the tall brush, continuing to a shaded spot under the tree and viciously roared again. That’s when we saw what all the fuss what about. Under the tree, an obviously pregnant lioness lay lazy. The king was protecting his queen and wanted us out of his domain. We began screaming at the parked white Jeep in front of us, urging them to move to the side, so we could get through. Completely entranced from inside their vehicle, they played no mind to us. Guide started the engine and attempted to move around the Jeep, forced to move through tall, dense grass to get around them. We got stuck. The lion, offended by the roar our van’s old, decaying engine, retaliated with and even mightier roar and began approaching us. In a sequence of events that followed each other so rapidly, I am not even sure I can recall it properly, the lion began marching toward us, our engine roared again, and our driver pushed through the tall grass, mere meters before the lion reached the front of our vehicle. For what felt like an eternity, as the lion stood, wild with wrath in front of us, I got a glimpse of his deep, untamed brown eyes. He was the most charismatic killer you could imagine. We all held our breaths van tore the ground underneath us and sped away. We ripped down the dirt path a kilometer, well out of the raging lion’s rage, before the driver slowed and asked us if we were OK. Unsettled and pale-faced, we nodded in agreement, the rush of tension barely cooling in our veins. Every once and a while, it’s great - and terrifying - to be reminded exactly where you link up on the food chain.
Chasing Waterfalls
After our lion chase, we all were thrilled to get out of the park. Too much excited for one afternoon. Just a thirty minute drive outside the park’s limits lay the last stop in our safari adventure. In the tiny, ridgeside village of Tanagou flows a snaking river the runs down the side of the cliffs to a beautiful waterfalls. The most breathtaking of the falls is five stories tall and cascades into a aquamarine lagoon, decorated by Mother Nature with pink and purple flowers and lush vegetation as far as the eye can see. However, the most thrilling things about this romantic setting is not the sculpted rock formations or the crystal-blue, precious water . . . It’s the fact that you can climb the sucker and then jump five stories down into the chilly water from just a ledge perched just above the cascade. To me, there wasn’t even a question; if I was here; I was going to do it. Three of my fellow Volunteers in the party held the same mentality. (What do you expect? The Peace Corps attracts thrill-seekers.)Under the instruction of a Sherpa-like guide, I walked my bumbling, klutzy feet to the water’s edge, dove into the clean, cold water of the lagoon, and swam across to the bottom of the rock face that would behind my ascent. First, you have to climb the branches of a tree jutting out from the side of the cliff to get to the first ledge point, I pulled myself up with my upper body, wrapped my legs around the branches, and swung up. So far, so good. Carefully placing my feet, I climbed the next two ledges, grasping tightly at the wet rocks, feeling the soft spray from the falling water on my face and shoulders. Then, I slipped. I caught myself immediately, but the slight shuffle of my feet shattered my confidence. I began breathing rapidly, now nervous, suddenly and rationally completely aware that I could very well not survive this. This was not a video game simulation. Game over, lights out - I’d been done. Now stunned, I moved slowly and cautious. The fervor of exploration and excitement had succumbed to fear. I’ve climbed almost halfway up now. I saw a ledge about four meters above me that would be a good enough place to jump from. If I could just make it there, I’d do it. This was much more terrifying the lion. The lion I had no control over; climbing the waterfall, the only person I had to depend on was me. Now, with the end in sight, and so much at stake, I climbed with shaking hands and unsteady feet. I breathed in and pulled myself up onto my destination ledge. I looked up at the top of the falls - it was so close, and I’d come so far. But here, right now, I knew I’d survive to tell the tale. And for maybe the first time in my adult life, I admitted defeat. I faced my own mortality. I chose the road more commonly traveled. Then, for the first time since I began climbing, I looked down over the ledge. It was incredibly high. I looked out to the banks of the lagoon where the others stayed to watch us climb. They were happy and waving. Yes, I hadn’t made it to the top, but I still achieved something. Look at where I was! Look at what I did! With my poor, sad, out-of-shape body - I made it here! With a cheek-to-cheek grin, I step of the ledge, my body straight as a pencil, and I jumped off the Tanagou waterfall. Once I crashed into the chilly water, I push up to the surface, my butt split in two by the deepest wedgie I’ve ever had in my life. I came up giggling and grinning. My fellow volunteers applaud my effort. To my surprise, the others followed my lead and jumped off the same ledge I did. Maybe they too felt scared. Maybe they too were afraid to admit defeat. Maybe they too valued their lives, their time here, their youthful bodies too much. Sometimes, it's best to stop chasing waterfalls; I must stick to the rivers and the lakes that I’m used to.
It is a tradition as old as civilized culture, I believe, to sit down with those whose company you enjoy a share a steaming cup of something and discuss topics of the world, of life, of liberty, misadventure - you, know coffee shop banter.
I have come to enjoy the taking of tea here in Benin. Several times a week, I am invited to tea with my good friend Souleman and several other familiar faces he conjures to share in the joys of drinking. We assemble under the shade of the mango outside his boutique, and we delight in small talk as he prepares the liquid lovin’. Now, being an ex-Starbucks employee, I have seen my fair share of café accoutrement, but the preparation of this tea is so deliberate and delicate, so crafted and cared for, it greatly outshines the simplicity of its preparatory instruments. In a small metal canister, that looks more carafe than teapot, the basic ingredients are applied to the pot - loose aromatic leaves, raw grainy sugar, and water. The pot is than shaken - not unlike a martini - and nestled in between red, burning coals in a small fire pit. Then we wait - the process is slow-building and soothing - so we use just enjoy one another’s company, the sun on our faces, the soft Harmattan zephyrs flowing through the lazy shade of the trees. As the fire strengthens, so does the brew, and soon enough, the canister is steaming from the spout, ready to be poured through the simple screen into glasses for our refreshment.
There three very distinct rounds of tea that get poured from each canister. More often than not, there are not enough tiny, glass shot glass-like tasses to go around, so we share. As with most things in West Africa, there is a tradition, a purpose, a tale behind the communal consumption of tea. According to folklore, the first round of tea is “bitter like death.“ The second round of tea is “sweet like love.” The third round is “sugary like life.” The week before I was set to leave on my holiday vacation on safari, I did my finally bidding of good-byes to my village friends, and my dear friend Souleman invited me to afternoon tea to celebrate the New Year early. Of course, I enthusiastically accepted. However, I thought, in honor of the New Year, in the spirit of welcoming the new and reflecting upon the old, I held to take this tea in remembrance.
Bitter Like Death
The first drip is very, very potent - a taste bud tour de force. As I throw it back against the palette, I can’t help but feel reminiscent of taking shots of cheap whiskey at a drive bar; your face turns disgusted before your lips part of to accept the sacrament. This round is “bitter like death.” And like death, you don’t look forward to it; it’s a shock to the system, but it’s soberingly expected. At the very end of November, I experienced my first death in village. A woman who lived in the concession next to mine dropped death of heart failure in her kitchen - in front of her husband, children, nieces and nephews while preparing food for the Muslim festival of Tabaski. She was not a woman of great wealth or public stature. She held no celebratory, martyred no great cause - yet regardless - everyone in the town grieved her loss. Boutiques closed to show their respect and condolences. It was almost as if everyone in town lost their Mama, their Tanti, their Tata. The outpouring was incredible. It reminded me a Jewish shivah. People came to the family’s concession, baring food and deserts, sat in circles around family next to kin, and shared stories celebrating this simple woman’s life. Her bereavement was overnight; a hole was dug near her family’s concession, her body was buried, and the grave covered in multi-colored stones. A month before I left for Benin, I lost two people very close to me. My childhood friend Michelle’s mother lost her yearlong battle with a brain tumor. In the same week, my neighbor, mentor, and confidant, Edward Osborn, succumbed to his fight against cancer. Truly, it was a godsend to me that I got to see them alive and say goodbye before I left for the Peace Corps. In honor of Mama, Yasmin, and Ed, I swallowed my own bitterness over the inescapable loss that is essential to every life.
Sweet Like Love
There is an old adage proclaiming, “Absence from love is like the wind; it is extinguishes small flames and strengthens great bonfires.” After spending five months, miles oceans, and continents away from all the people and things I’ve ever loved, I’ve learned just how true that expression really is. When the second round of tea, is poured, it is incredibly saccharine. Left steeping, the sugar granules melange with the sweet aromatic flavors of fresh, green tea and it goes down, smooth and easily. As I sip, it’s almost impossible not to be reminded of the incredibly decadence that is the gift of loving. So close to the holiday season, it’s easy to get caught up in the whirlwind and stresses of present-buying, food preparation, Christmas caroling, light-stringing, and the general anxieties of holidays. But in Benin, there is a complete absence of all those distractions. No mega malls with electronic Santas singing holly jolly tunes. No mass-marketing of “sales” and “deals.” You are forced to focus on the simplicity of the season, and the reason for it’s existence in the first place. Even those so subscribe to a more secular view of the holidays have to note it’s magic. You can almost feel the difference as Christmas Eve approaches, as everyone you love - friends, relatives, acquaintances - flow in from all corners of life and celebrate being together. Christmastime (and Hanukkah for that matter) is about being with the people you love, breaking bread, and celebrating the joys of togetherness. It’s not always easy to remember that when you’re caught up in the glitz and glamour and clamor of the holidays, but in less commercially congested part of the world, it’s lot simpler to focus on what you love and who you miss. I am very fortunate that I have found many loves in Benin. The friends I have made, who share the unique bond being here with me - of being Volunteers - and have brought great happiness, joy, and affability to my time in Africa. I spent my holiday with about twenty other Volunteers in the northern city of Kandi, and it helped all of us being together during a time of the year specifically reserved for celebrations with the closest of kin. I have the respect and love of the community of Kalale; I love my job as an English teacher; I love the feeling of the hot, African sun shining down on me as a walk to work in the morning; Pirate love letters plundering my inbox. I am happy here, and I have been happy here, because I found love here. It must be noted that, even though I have opened my heart to this place, I could never have transitioned so easily without the tremendous amount of love and support from home. For all the letters, phone calls, words of wisdom, care packages, and little blurbs and updates on life, I am forever grateful to all those who I left behind five months ago. You are in my thoughts, a part of all my actions, patterns, and quirks, in the stories I tell of my American life. So, I took my second cup of tea, and I as it warms my chest, I can feel the same warmth rising from my heart, reminding me that now, I have expanded my love around the world. A little bit of a sickeningly sweet statement - oui - but so true.
Sugary Like Life
Variety is the spice of life, “they” say. Well, I suppose it “variety” had an actual tang, it would probably be sugary. Sugar is everywhere, and in general, is universally loved. Shooting the last glass of tea, all the flavors of the brew hit you at once. All the sugar that has amassed at the bottom of the canister, the deep simmering flavor of sitting tea leaves, the hot water that has been the kept closest to the coals - it is the most varied and magical tasting round of tea. I have had no trouble finding the versatility of sugar in my life. When a neighbor generously offers to help me string a clothesline I am struggling to McGuyver (much akin to “borrowing a cup of sugar from your neighbor). The giving of a big, warm, bear hug to a grieving woman who has just lost her mother (“Gimme some sugar“). I often use sugary biscuits to bride my students to participate more in class (a highly effective method). Even though sugar came be found quite easily in most parts of the world, it is usually a pricy commodity, and Benin follows that general rule. Because it is expensive, many people have not developed an immense craving taste for it the way it is gorged on in the States. But, alas, there is an exception to every rule. My post mate and I have befriend one of the town’s barbers, and I am pretty sure he is hypoglycemic. He is rail-thin, but he eats like his next meal may never come! He has a sweet-tooth like I’ve never seen before. He is constantly force-feeding himself cookies, cakes, sucking on lollipops and licorice candies. It’s unbelievable! When we dine with him, he is always so generous in generously distributing his supply of sweets, that we have taken to calling him Papa Sucre (Sugar Daddy), and he loves it. But he is also a very interesting, well-versed, traveled man. He runs his barber business, takes on odd jobs in the big cities of Parakou and Cotonou. He is endlessly interested in American customs and culture. He is fluent in more languages than anyone else I know in village. He is always up for a road trip or a refreshing nightly walk around town. He is always introducing us to friends and acquaintances new and old - and it’s a pleasure to hang out with the characters he bring around. Papa Sucre has found the sugar in his life, and it has made him a sweeter man for it. As Volunteers, it is a part of our job description to integrate, to adapt and change, to constantly immerse ourselves in the varieties of our surrounding. But I have found, that often times, it accomplishing those tasks are better done without a lot of impetus on our end. Just sit back, take in the world around you, approach everything different and new with and open mind and heart, and you will be changed for the better - life becomes a lot sweeter. There are so many sweet things life here has to offer - learning new languages, dancing to African music in the streets with children, a surprise serenade by a traveling minstrel playing a gourde violin, walking through the beautiful, multi-colored forests as the sun looms overhead, sprinkling the day with warm and light. The sweetness rubs off onto other facets of your life as you move through it. So, with my last sip of tea, I must remember to find the sweetness in everyday things as I approach the New Year, take time to enjoy the tea, and pass the cup around.
The Park Pendjari
As I have aforementioned, I had the amazing opportunity to spend my holiday vacation this year on safari in West Africa. In the northwestern corner of Benin, is the Park Pendjari - a chunk of Benin used solely as a wildlife preserve that is opened from December through June for safari expeditions. Most of the tourists of this particular park, are European thrill-seekers, local expats, and Peace Corps Volunteers, but they run a good business, and the park is lovely. My good friend Cara is posted near the park, and her assignment as a Small Economic Development volunteer is to facilitate tourism for the park. Well, Cara, being the brilliant mind she is, decided to look no further than her own peer group in rallying troops to support the park. In mid-October, a group of eight of us decided to go on safari at the Park for the holidays in the hopes of spending some time together and having a little African adventure.
Beep, Beep. Who’s Got the Keys to the Jeep ? Vroom . . .
The object of the game when going on safari is quite obvious: see as many animals as possible over the course of three days and two evenings while caravanning atop a large, old Volkswagen van, not alike that used by the Partridge Family. Each day, we’d go out into the brush twice on approximately four-hour long stints, once at dawn and again at twilight. When we got to the entrance of the park, our guide told us to climb onto the roof of the van to get the most scenic view. So, like eager little lemmings, all of us piled atop of van, eyes wide open, just waiting for a lion to attack and gazelle while grazing the vast plains whizzing by us. At first we were snap happy with the cameras around our wrists and necks, taking picture of every little deer and antelope that roamed. But after a bumpy, dusty three-hour tour through the park to our hotel site, we arrived slightly sunburnt and feeling a little empty handed. When we checked in, we asked other safari-goers of their finding, and we hear one Big Fish story after another of lion-sighting, elephant-spottings, hippopotamus photo-ops, and lush, beautiful scenery. We all turned as green and bitter with envy and anxious, debating back and forth on where or not to fire our tour guide and replace him with a better version, to insist on taking the paths of the more fortunate safari spectators. A long afternoon dip in the ground’s pool cooled off our raging tempers. All our griping was put to rest as well settled on waiting for our second tour of the day at twilight before we made any rash decisions about reorganizing our tour and manpower. So, at 16:30 hours, we all boarded the top of our van again, waiting in vain for the twilight to turn out the cast of the Lion King. But as we pulled, back into the park that night, our hopes were shot down like a bird in the sky, and we returned to the hotel that night with little more the scenic vistas of African terrain and a few shots of deadbeat buffalo trapped in the lenses of our point-and-shoot camera. We ate dinner at the restaurant, drowned our sorrows of an unfortunate day of safari sight-seeing in cold beer, and went to bed with a bitter outlook on what once promised to be the adventure of a lifetime.
Welcome to the Jungle, We’ve got Fun and Games
We woke the second morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with the glowing African sunrise, infused with new enthusiasm that today would bring us more luck than yesterday. We embarked atop the van again, wrapped in blankets and sweaters in the cool morning. We cool see the cool fog of our warm breath in the cold, morning air, and something felt different about this sunrise - today was our day to capture Mother Nature, Mama Africa, in all her glory. And deliver she did! As the sunlight broke through the horizon around us, we were taken aback by the beauty of the colors against the sparse, black outlines of the horizons. Brilliant shades of orange, red, yellow, and gold ripped through the early morning black, blues, and purples, dancing between sprawling cracks of morning sun. It hit our shoulders, necks, and backs, warming us slowly and gently, encouraging us of better things to come in the day. As the day brightened, we snaked into a jungle path - grand canopy trees turning everything a glistening green in the sunlight. Just then, Sam yelled, “Arret! Ici! Ici!” The guide stopped immediately and we looked after where his finger pointed, and lo and behold - JACKPOT! A large, brown elephant stood camouflaged between equally massive tree trunks, slowly, yet mightily, lifting his trunk to munch of twiggy tree branches. Click, click, click - our cameras flashed as fast as we could manage, and a rush of hope ignited us all. Once the elephant disappeared into the brush, so did we, continue on our sojourn through the park. Snaking through the park, we looked as brightly colored birds fluttered through treetops, singing songs of the African wild, and small game scurried around in the high-rise grasses. Next stop, the hippo lookout. It was a small, covered wooden porch resting on the banks of a lake in the middle of the park, rather gluttonously referred to as Mare Bari (calling it “sea” seemed like a grave overstatement of size and proportion to me). At the lookout point, we saw large lumps of black flesh almost completed submerged in water. Hippos are rather aggressive monsters who spend the majority of their lives cooling themselves in pool of water. Unimpressed with us tourists, they just lay in the water, oblivious to our earnest, hopeful infatuation with them. A crocodile emerged from behind a small bush on the banks of the lake and trekked quickly to the water’s edge, and then dove into the lake - narrowly escaping our camera lenses. In almost the same instant, as we were distracted with the croc, a massive hippo mouth emerged from the water’s surface, opening his great, toothy jaws to let our a mighty mid-morning yawn. Our luck was in full-swing now, and we once again boarded the van, the gentle breeze of the whizzing vehicle billowing through our hair, hot sun against our grins, excited about what may lie just around the winding brush bend. We approached a gathering of safari cars, all stopped along the sides of the road in a pack. They were looking at something, but what, we could not distinguish from our distance. The guide slowed down and nestled in a spot next to fellow gawkers, and there she saw, lying under the shade of a feathery-leaved trees, being admired in all her glory - a sleek, long, lioness. She was no more than 20 meters away from our van, but she was docile, which made us overwhelming excited and underwhelming nervous considering our proximity and her ability to tear us to bits with her razor-sharp teeth. As so as we had our filled of the Queen of the Jungle, we continued down the road to find yet another safari treasure - a troop of baboons! We regarded them with delight as the shook their big, bare, blue butts in our faces, shrieked with glee as they through pebbles and bits of grass at our van, and gazed on in awe as swung from trees with easy, listless energy, and unyielding grace. We were thrilled! As we headed in for our afternoon break to lounge poolside again, we couldn’t help but compliment the wisdom and acute accuracy of our tour guide, our tremendous luck, our elation and self-pride on being such observant safari-trekkers. On our twilight decent into the bush, we were satiated enough by our earlier finding to just enjoy the magical savannah sunset from our rooftop perches, blasting iPod tracks from portable speakers of the Lion King soundtrack and “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” into the African ambiance surrounding us.
I Can’t Take This Lion Down
On our last afternoon noon in the park, we were quite gleeful. Our morning was filled with elephants, more baboons, beautiful chirping birds, and a marvelous, glowing sunrise. We were contented with what we’d seen, happy to spend the day just admiring our picturesque views from the top. As we traversed along a path we’d been on several times, we came around a sharp bend slowly and we heard it. A deep, mean, agitated roar. We scan the tall brush nervously. The sound came from too close and with too much fury for us feel excited or safe - we were scared and anxious. The van stopped and waited, all of us holding our breath in worry and fear. Another roar sent tingles down my spine, and I suddenly ached for the protection of shelter inside the van. We couldn’t move. We had no idea where this male lion could be. Then, at first just a shadow, striding from behind the tall grass, in one great step the entire hard body of a fully-grown male lion stretched across the dusty brown path in front of us. He was long, strong - the sinews of the muscles in his legs and chest striking fear into our hearts with each leg-length. He was beautiful, regal, majestic. It is easy to see in that instant why the lion is indeed the King of the Jungle. As he crossed the road, his form melted into another path of wide, tall grass, and again, we were anxious with fear. What you can see can make you scream, but it’s the lurking fear that you can’t see that makes you cower. He let out another roar. He again began frantically tapping on the roof of the car, begging the guide to get out of the impending death-trap brush, but he was blocked. A small, white Jeep, which I barely noticed until now, had parked itself in the middle of the road. It has obviously been there for quite sometime. From the roof, I could see some overly eager Europeans inside the fully-enclosed vehicle snapping pictures. They’d been taunting this lion for quite sometime, and now he was pissed. The lion emerged from the tall brush again, and this time, he crossed the street at an angle, heading towards our van. The two guys in front of me on top of the van instantly lost any of the cool they had try to muster, and climbed backward into my lap. The lion moved in again into the tall brush, continuing to a shaded spot under the tree and viciously roared again. That’s when we saw what all the fuss what about. Under the tree, an obviously pregnant lioness lay lazy. The king was protecting his queen and wanted us out of his domain. We began screaming at the parked white Jeep in front of us, urging them to move to the side, so we could get through. Completely entranced from inside their vehicle, they played no mind to us. Guide started the engine and attempted to move around the Jeep, forced to move through tall, dense grass to get around them. We got stuck. The lion, offended by the roar our van’s old, decaying engine, retaliated with and even mightier roar and began approaching us. In a sequence of events that followed each other so rapidly, I am not even sure I can recall it properly, the lion began marching toward us, our engine roared again, and our driver pushed through the tall grass, mere meters before the lion reached the front of our vehicle. For what felt like an eternity, as the lion stood, wild with wrath in front of us, I got a glimpse of his deep, untamed brown eyes. He was the most charismatic killer you could imagine. We all held our breaths van tore the ground underneath us and sped away. We ripped down the dirt path a kilometer, well out of the raging lion’s rage, before the driver slowed and asked us if we were OK. Unsettled and pale-faced, we nodded in agreement, the rush of tension barely cooling in our veins. Every once and a while, it’s great - and terrifying - to be reminded exactly where you link up on the food chain.
Chasing Waterfalls
After our lion chase, we all were thrilled to get out of the park. Too much excited for one afternoon. Just a thirty minute drive outside the park’s limits lay the last stop in our safari adventure. In the tiny, ridgeside village of Tanagou flows a snaking river the runs down the side of the cliffs to a beautiful waterfalls. The most breathtaking of the falls is five stories tall and cascades into a aquamarine lagoon, decorated by Mother Nature with pink and purple flowers and lush vegetation as far as the eye can see. However, the most thrilling things about this romantic setting is not the sculpted rock formations or the crystal-blue, precious water . . . It’s the fact that you can climb the sucker and then jump five stories down into the chilly water from just a ledge perched just above the cascade. To me, there wasn’t even a question; if I was here; I was going to do it. Three of my fellow Volunteers in the party held the same mentality. (What do you expect? The Peace Corps attracts thrill-seekers.)Under the instruction of a Sherpa-like guide, I walked my bumbling, klutzy feet to the water’s edge, dove into the clean, cold water of the lagoon, and swam across to the bottom of the rock face that would behind my ascent. First, you have to climb the branches of a tree jutting out from the side of the cliff to get to the first ledge point, I pulled myself up with my upper body, wrapped my legs around the branches, and swung up. So far, so good. Carefully placing my feet, I climbed the next two ledges, grasping tightly at the wet rocks, feeling the soft spray from the falling water on my face and shoulders. Then, I slipped. I caught myself immediately, but the slight shuffle of my feet shattered my confidence. I began breathing rapidly, now nervous, suddenly and rationally completely aware that I could very well not survive this. This was not a video game simulation. Game over, lights out - I’d been done. Now stunned, I moved slowly and cautious. The fervor of exploration and excitement had succumbed to fear. I’ve climbed almost halfway up now. I saw a ledge about four meters above me that would be a good enough place to jump from. If I could just make it there, I’d do it. This was much more terrifying the lion. The lion I had no control over; climbing the waterfall, the only person I had to depend on was me. Now, with the end in sight, and so much at stake, I climbed with shaking hands and unsteady feet. I breathed in and pulled myself up onto my destination ledge. I looked up at the top of the falls - it was so close, and I’d come so far. But here, right now, I knew I’d survive to tell the tale. And for maybe the first time in my adult life, I admitted defeat. I faced my own mortality. I chose the road more commonly traveled. Then, for the first time since I began climbing, I looked down over the ledge. It was incredibly high. I looked out to the banks of the lagoon where the others stayed to watch us climb. They were happy and waving. Yes, I hadn’t made it to the top, but I still achieved something. Look at where I was! Look at what I did! With my poor, sad, out-of-shape body - I made it here! With a cheek-to-cheek grin, I step of the ledge, my body straight as a pencil, and I jumped off the Tanagou waterfall. Once I crashed into the chilly water, I push up to the surface, my butt split in two by the deepest wedgie I’ve ever had in my life. I came up giggling and grinning. My fellow volunteers applaud my effort. To my surprise, the others followed my lead and jumped off the same ledge I did. Maybe they too felt scared. Maybe they too were afraid to admit defeat. Maybe they too valued their lives, their time here, their youthful bodies too much. Sometimes, it's best to stop chasing waterfalls; I must stick to the rivers and the lakes that I’m used to.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A Very African Thanksgiving
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.
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.
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?
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