Scared and unsure the only moment I let my guard down upon arriving to Matéri was at the sight of two puppies. Bennie and Izzy, which are the names I gave them a week after my arrival, when my Maman quickly discovered their presence always made me smile.
I have to admit I liked Izzy more than Bennie at first. She was the more attractive of the two, and Bennie would not let me pick him up right away. Then one night he slept in my lap for a couple hours, and after that day he was loyally mine. I felt like I had not chose him, but rather he had chosen me. When he got in trouble he knew he could run to me for safety. When I sit outside trying to read or nap, he’d insist on playing around me, and then nuzzling his head underneath my shoulder and sleeping. With the arrival of Beaugarde, Bennie’s jealousy, normally reserved for times when I petted Izzy, increased. He became increasingly needed, and when I would take Beaugard for walks, he always followed along. I thought of him as mine, but never took ownership, as he was my Maman’s dog.
I wasn’t surprised on Christmas Day when I found him sleeping in my chair on the front porch. But something seemed off, then my Grand-mama, said the word vomir, one of the few French words she knows. Bennie was sick. I picked him up and put him in my lap. Comforting him the best I could. He just looked tired and weak; I could see it in his eyes. I let him sleep, as I bustled around. Beaugard had acted the same way two days before and was fine an hour later.
The day after Christmas I left for Safari. I did not give much thought to Bennie, preoccupied with my own stresses. When I returned from Safari, I was so happy to see Beaugarde, and I vaguely noticed Izzy and Dit Peux Toi (Beaugarde’s mother) hoping about me. An hour later as I was talking with my Maman, she mentioned, as Beaugarde entered the house, that Bennie had died.
Talking about death does not leave me unnerved, but death here in Benin takes getting used to, especially since I have not known many people close to me who have died. I do acknowledge though that death as it exists in Benin might bring a slight smile to Charles Darwins’ face. Survival here exists in such a raw form, the strong or the rich survive, and the rest is a crapshoot it seems. A student of mines little sister died a month ago. The son of my surveillant died a couple years ago. The son of my friend died a year ago. Days of drumming can go by, all signaling a death. The louder and longer the drums go the older the person was who died. Dogs don’t get drums.
The Beninese don’t treat their dogs the way we do. In fact, I recently learned that the rumors were true. They kill dogs and eat them here, which explains the high quantity of dogs always running around in village. Now my family happens to be relatively nice to their pets in comparison to others here, but that does not mean they shed a single tear or thought when Bennie died. Knowing this and the way death can come into ones life so easily here, I tried not to look to upset at Bennie’s death.
That whole first day back in village I felt slightly depressed. I don’t know whether it was from not being around Americans, or the fact that it was New Year’s Eve, or as much as I did not want to admit, I was sad about Bennie. I noticed the sadness in Izzy and Beaugard, who slept all day; I was worried they were sick too.
I have recovered, and so has Beaugarde. We have each other, but I have noticed Izzy wanders more and seems distant. The day after I returned she went missing completely. We thought she had died too. She turned up later that day, so excited to see me. Her neediness and nuzzles now remind me of Bennie, and it as if she, like Bennie once did, has now chosen me.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
“At least you can say you did it”
I can think of almost no instances where I have watched a movie or a show in which a person has jumped off a waterfall and thought to myself that I would not want to do that. “That looks like so much fun,” I’d always say to whoever was with me, or if I was by myself I would think it. And after 23 years of talk I finally had the occasion to act on doing something I was so sure I would enjoy.
I am going to be honest with myself. I am a stable person. I am cautious, not to a fault of course. I go out of my way to secure my safety. In the states I carry keys between my knuckles at night and always call a friend as I walked to my car—my logic no one will attack someone on a phone. In Benin I rarely am caught out at night, and if I am I always have a male volunteer make sure I get home safely. In general I understand the risks of certain behaviors, and avoid them. This makes me sound like a square, which is misleading, but so is what I did a week ago.
After leaving Safari, we asked our guide to stop at the waterfalls. We had heard a lot about the waterfalls, including that you could swim and jump off them. I was so excited about the prospects of finally proofing all my talk all these years, wasn’t just that, talk.
I really can’t say what was more dangerous; the climb up to the top of the waterfall or the jump itself.
After expressing interest in jumping the falls, our waterfall guide, went and searched for a guide to climb to the top with us. Perhaps, he thought after explaining we had to swim across the water, and climb up rocks, we might reconsider. Nope.
So when the guide arrived, Jonny, Clay, and I entered the water, which is when I began to realize I had not thought this through really. I am not a strong swimmer, I mean don’t get me wrong I can swim, but dreading water and floating have never been strong points. About three-fourths across the water, which I imagine was maybe about a lap in a swimming pool, I was worried I couldn’t make it. I am half-ashamed and not to admit I did resort to the doggy paddle a few times.
Once across we mounted onto a small ledge, by grabbing a nearby tree that sacrificed living in rocks for what I imagine to be a constant abundance of water. I was last to climb up, and as we made it to the first jumping point, Clay decided he would jump from there. He hesitated and finally went only after our guide jumped in the water to show him it was safe.
Then there were two.
Jonny and I continued the climb, following the steps of our guide, who had returned after a quick dip for Clay’s sake. I am short and so the whole time climbing the rocks I worried about coming to an instance where my limbs just would not allow me to stretch and reach. Furthermore we were climbing up barefooted obviously on slippery rocks. I was more scared then I realized I know, because I had to stay focus on making it up without slipping. I did not even complete the images of falling onto rocks, even though the thoughts kept trying to cross my mind. Once at the top, I told Jonny I wanted to go last.
We watched as our guide jumped fearlessly the 48 feet down to the water. Standing behind Jonny I could see his leg shaking. I did not say anything. I don’t think either of us really wanted to admit that we were nervous, especially after gaffing a little at Clay jumping early. Before jumping Jonny turned and made sure I did not want to go first. I told him I was fine, and then he made the leap. I don’t remember the jump, but more or less watching to make sure he came back to the surface safe. He did, but he exhaled a little, and in his face I could see pain.
Alone looking out at the water and the trees surrounding me, I returned to myself. Calculating what I must do on my jump and worrying about what might happen to me if something did not go right. I needed to land like a pencil, and then I worried about not holding my breath right as I entered the water and then how could I swim all the way back. I am not sure how long I stood up there, probably a few months. I even crossed myself. A couple times I told myself, OK on the count of three. 1,2,3. Nothing. OK, on the count of five, 1,2,3,4,5. Nothing. Finally the guide motioned something that looked like he wanted me to climb back down. There was no way I was climbing back down the way I came, no fu***** way, I thought. I jumped. I don’t think I could mimic how horrified I looked, and I was so scared. I don’t think I have ever felt that scared.
The jump felt like forever. At first I was scared. Then I enjoyed the weightlessness and registered I had in fact did it. Then the insecurity returned as I had not hit the water yet. I did not even think of all the things that had worried me before jumping. I just wanted to land. And land I did, and not like a pencil. Like my face, I could not mimic that landing twice, but needless to say immediately after emerging from the water the whole side of my left thigh was red and bruising—and I don’t bruise easily.
Walking back to the car, I felt regret immediately for my body. Jonny asked, “Was that your first time jumping something that high?”
“That was my first time jumping anything like that.”
“Seriously,” Jonny said laughing slightly. “That’s intense.”
I am going to be honest with myself. I am a stable person. I am cautious, not to a fault of course. I go out of my way to secure my safety. In the states I carry keys between my knuckles at night and always call a friend as I walked to my car—my logic no one will attack someone on a phone. In Benin I rarely am caught out at night, and if I am I always have a male volunteer make sure I get home safely. In general I understand the risks of certain behaviors, and avoid them. This makes me sound like a square, which is misleading, but so is what I did a week ago.
After leaving Safari, we asked our guide to stop at the waterfalls. We had heard a lot about the waterfalls, including that you could swim and jump off them. I was so excited about the prospects of finally proofing all my talk all these years, wasn’t just that, talk.
I really can’t say what was more dangerous; the climb up to the top of the waterfall or the jump itself.
After expressing interest in jumping the falls, our waterfall guide, went and searched for a guide to climb to the top with us. Perhaps, he thought after explaining we had to swim across the water, and climb up rocks, we might reconsider. Nope.
So when the guide arrived, Jonny, Clay, and I entered the water, which is when I began to realize I had not thought this through really. I am not a strong swimmer, I mean don’t get me wrong I can swim, but dreading water and floating have never been strong points. About three-fourths across the water, which I imagine was maybe about a lap in a swimming pool, I was worried I couldn’t make it. I am half-ashamed and not to admit I did resort to the doggy paddle a few times.
Once across we mounted onto a small ledge, by grabbing a nearby tree that sacrificed living in rocks for what I imagine to be a constant abundance of water. I was last to climb up, and as we made it to the first jumping point, Clay decided he would jump from there. He hesitated and finally went only after our guide jumped in the water to show him it was safe.
Then there were two.
Jonny and I continued the climb, following the steps of our guide, who had returned after a quick dip for Clay’s sake. I am short and so the whole time climbing the rocks I worried about coming to an instance where my limbs just would not allow me to stretch and reach. Furthermore we were climbing up barefooted obviously on slippery rocks. I was more scared then I realized I know, because I had to stay focus on making it up without slipping. I did not even complete the images of falling onto rocks, even though the thoughts kept trying to cross my mind. Once at the top, I told Jonny I wanted to go last.
We watched as our guide jumped fearlessly the 48 feet down to the water. Standing behind Jonny I could see his leg shaking. I did not say anything. I don’t think either of us really wanted to admit that we were nervous, especially after gaffing a little at Clay jumping early. Before jumping Jonny turned and made sure I did not want to go first. I told him I was fine, and then he made the leap. I don’t remember the jump, but more or less watching to make sure he came back to the surface safe. He did, but he exhaled a little, and in his face I could see pain.
Alone looking out at the water and the trees surrounding me, I returned to myself. Calculating what I must do on my jump and worrying about what might happen to me if something did not go right. I needed to land like a pencil, and then I worried about not holding my breath right as I entered the water and then how could I swim all the way back. I am not sure how long I stood up there, probably a few months. I even crossed myself. A couple times I told myself, OK on the count of three. 1,2,3. Nothing. OK, on the count of five, 1,2,3,4,5. Nothing. Finally the guide motioned something that looked like he wanted me to climb back down. There was no way I was climbing back down the way I came, no fu***** way, I thought. I jumped. I don’t think I could mimic how horrified I looked, and I was so scared. I don’t think I have ever felt that scared.
The jump felt like forever. At first I was scared. Then I enjoyed the weightlessness and registered I had in fact did it. Then the insecurity returned as I had not hit the water yet. I did not even think of all the things that had worried me before jumping. I just wanted to land. And land I did, and not like a pencil. Like my face, I could not mimic that landing twice, but needless to say immediately after emerging from the water the whole side of my left thigh was red and bruising—and I don’t bruise easily.
Walking back to the car, I felt regret immediately for my body. Jonny asked, “Was that your first time jumping something that high?”
“That was my first time jumping anything like that.”
“Seriously,” Jonny said laughing slightly. “That’s intense.”
Safari Part II: Peace and Quiet
I think when you are own Safari your soul can’t help but feel at ease. I was reminded of a time right before I left for Benin. I was watching “The Bucket List” with my grandmother, and they went to Africa on safari. I remember my heart fluttered at that scene, with the excitement of my impending move, and the serene beauty and rawness Africa offered.
I am willing to admit not all of Benin is beautiful, there have been many times when I can do nothing but let my thoughts be consumed by the wide expanses of open land that surround me. On Safari though, I truly believe I finally took in the definition of clean air.
Sitting on top of an old van, pumping along a dirt road, going an hour or more with seeing nothing more than the birds and deer that are everywhere, I just wish I could have captured my face. The wind, much cooler than I am used to, whipping my hair around, knowing had nothing to do today except look for animals.
I am willing to admit not all of Benin is beautiful, there have been many times when I can do nothing but let my thoughts be consumed by the wide expanses of open land that surround me. On Safari though, I truly believe I finally took in the definition of clean air.
Sitting on top of an old van, pumping along a dirt road, going an hour or more with seeing nothing more than the birds and deer that are everywhere, I just wish I could have captured my face. The wind, much cooler than I am used to, whipping my hair around, knowing had nothing to do today except look for animals.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Safari Part I: Adventure
Around noon on Monday we finally arrive to our hotel—we left around 6 a.m. Our hotel is nestled in the middle of the park, and me and the other volunteers have been dreaming about the swimming pool. We enter our room, with a fan, two twin beds, with nice high wooden frames and mosquito nets. After my bags hit the floor with a mild thud, I search for my bathing suit. After everyone has emptied their bladders I enter the bathroom to change.
“Jamie, hurry get out here,” shouts Clay. I throw on my pants over my bathing suit and shuffle out the door, not quickly, but not slowly. I know sometimes with Clay, the hurry is not always necessary.
After throwing the spare mattress on top of our safari van, I learn that there has been a lion sighting, and sometimes you can go days without seeing a lion. We drive along at a fast pace. I sit near the front, with Clay, and we dodge tree branches that hang in our way. Dust flies up around our car and we are all excited like children at the zoo for the first time.
I heard it before I saw it. We pulled up behind two other cars, and the lion did not roar but rather was growling. It sounded very far away. A few hundred yards away from us is a short tree, its branches hang low, reminding me of a bonsai tree. Under the tree there isn’t the same tall grass that surrounds the area. This, we find, is where the lion is, with his femme. He continues to make noises, or warnings, and our guide tells us that if he gets in the car to make sure we hold on, because we will be moving out of there fast. The lion is forced to stand-up, as us we continue to look-on unafraid. He roars and runs a little ways off. We stay for a few more minutes and then on our own terms depart.
They say it is rare to see lions in the park. I saw two the first day, the second day, and the third day.
In the evening of the second day we headed toward the Niger River, which borders Benin and Burkina Faso in the park. As we round a corner in the road, like immigrant police trying to meet a quota, two lions lie in the road, in a posture that could only be interpreted as, this is my road mother-fu*****. Our response; stop, pause, register what is happening, and immediately gas it in reverse.
We turn to go back the way we came and as we leave we run into another group. Our guide explains the lions ahead, but the group decides to continue anyways. This of course makes us want to go back. Our guide reluctantly agrees, but tells us to get into the vehicle and clothes up all the windows.
Literally driving back into the lions den a second time, we don’t see the other car, where the lions were, and at first we don’t see the lions either. But then they emerge again from the bush and head towards us. Our response; stop, pause, register what is happening, and immediately gas it in reverse.
We turn to go back the way we came and as we leave we run into another group. Our guide explains the lions ahead, but the group decides to continue anyways. (I am aware this is the same paragraph as before.) Like Groundhog’s Day, trying to get things right, this of course makes us want to go back.
This time we follow the vehicle relatively closely and it almost passes the lions, before the lions see them. We linger a safe distance away, watching flashes going off in the car ahead of us. Clay keeps repeating all the great photos he is missing. We can barely see the lions ahead. Then, all of sudden, the male lion comes running out of the bush and attacks the car in front of us. We don’t think they are going to move, but then they gas it, with the girl in the back getting in some last shots in on her camera. Our guide does not turn back, at our insistence we decide to go past the lions.
We drive slowly. It is like in a scary movie when the damsel-in-distress knows the villain lurks behind the closet door, but has to look to make sure. She opens the door slowly and at first sees nothing, only to realize the villain is right behind her. While the lion wasn’t behind us, he was right after the bush on the right side of the road, which happened to be the side of the car I was sitting on. I was the first to see him.
He was just lying there, so majestic. I was staring into his eyes and him into mine. We stared at each other for a long time, and then he jumped up quickly. Screams followed from inside the car, as if to signal to our guide to hurry, get out of here.
“Jamie, hurry get out here,” shouts Clay. I throw on my pants over my bathing suit and shuffle out the door, not quickly, but not slowly. I know sometimes with Clay, the hurry is not always necessary.
After throwing the spare mattress on top of our safari van, I learn that there has been a lion sighting, and sometimes you can go days without seeing a lion. We drive along at a fast pace. I sit near the front, with Clay, and we dodge tree branches that hang in our way. Dust flies up around our car and we are all excited like children at the zoo for the first time.
I heard it before I saw it. We pulled up behind two other cars, and the lion did not roar but rather was growling. It sounded very far away. A few hundred yards away from us is a short tree, its branches hang low, reminding me of a bonsai tree. Under the tree there isn’t the same tall grass that surrounds the area. This, we find, is where the lion is, with his femme. He continues to make noises, or warnings, and our guide tells us that if he gets in the car to make sure we hold on, because we will be moving out of there fast. The lion is forced to stand-up, as us we continue to look-on unafraid. He roars and runs a little ways off. We stay for a few more minutes and then on our own terms depart.
They say it is rare to see lions in the park. I saw two the first day, the second day, and the third day.
In the evening of the second day we headed toward the Niger River, which borders Benin and Burkina Faso in the park. As we round a corner in the road, like immigrant police trying to meet a quota, two lions lie in the road, in a posture that could only be interpreted as, this is my road mother-fu*****. Our response; stop, pause, register what is happening, and immediately gas it in reverse.
We turn to go back the way we came and as we leave we run into another group. Our guide explains the lions ahead, but the group decides to continue anyways. This of course makes us want to go back. Our guide reluctantly agrees, but tells us to get into the vehicle and clothes up all the windows.
Literally driving back into the lions den a second time, we don’t see the other car, where the lions were, and at first we don’t see the lions either. But then they emerge again from the bush and head towards us. Our response; stop, pause, register what is happening, and immediately gas it in reverse.
We turn to go back the way we came and as we leave we run into another group. Our guide explains the lions ahead, but the group decides to continue anyways. (I am aware this is the same paragraph as before.) Like Groundhog’s Day, trying to get things right, this of course makes us want to go back.
This time we follow the vehicle relatively closely and it almost passes the lions, before the lions see them. We linger a safe distance away, watching flashes going off in the car ahead of us. Clay keeps repeating all the great photos he is missing. We can barely see the lions ahead. Then, all of sudden, the male lion comes running out of the bush and attacks the car in front of us. We don’t think they are going to move, but then they gas it, with the girl in the back getting in some last shots in on her camera. Our guide does not turn back, at our insistence we decide to go past the lions.
We drive slowly. It is like in a scary movie when the damsel-in-distress knows the villain lurks behind the closet door, but has to look to make sure. She opens the door slowly and at first sees nothing, only to realize the villain is right behind her. While the lion wasn’t behind us, he was right after the bush on the right side of the road, which happened to be the side of the car I was sitting on. I was the first to see him.
He was just lying there, so majestic. I was staring into his eyes and him into mine. We stared at each other for a long time, and then he jumped up quickly. Screams followed from inside the car, as if to signal to our guide to hurry, get out of here.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
My Favorite Time of the Year
It is late Monday morning. The air is the cool. They say this is the coldest it will be all year here, yet I still find myself sweating. I sit inside my house, on the twin bed given to me by the Peace Corps, which I have transformed into a day bed. Hunched over the metal bucket I used to mix paint in the previous months. No painting today. Just small pieces of white paper—only paper whose sides have been completely been filled front and back—fall to the bucket. I will discard them later in my compost pile—or at least my attempt at one. I work swiftly and diligently, cutting one snowflake after another.
I remember in elementary school my teacher said, no two snowflakes are the same. Each one is its own unique shape. An amazing fact when you consider the number of snowflakes that have existed in the world. I do my best to vary my cuts, as to uphold the integrity of real snowflakes in my paper ones.
It is December 21st and aside from the calendar and reminders from the States it does not feel like Christmas time. I am grateful for the heat in part. It makes life feel like a permanent summer, and therefore makes Christmas feel far away. I almost feel silly cutting snowflakes, listening to “Winter Wonderland.” The only signs of winter are the Beninese people who wear giant winter coats in the morning these days. Barely below 70 calls for a parka here.
With each snowflake and each song I am reminded of all the Christmas’ of the past: The Christmas calendar on the door in the kitchen every year; decorating gingerbread cookies; leaving notes for Santa to sign to obtain proof of his existence; bon fires; watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” on Christmas eve; not being able to escape “A Christmas Story” on Christmas; and always cutting up snowflakes. I don’t think I ever realized how much I enjoy Christmas, and honestly it isn’t even the presents.
It’s 12:30 on Christmas Day. I am standing in my kitchen over the gas stove looking at sugar cookie dough in hopes they won’t slide across the pan in the Dutch oven like the first batch. My phone rings. Erin is working on making chipatis, and Clay is lying on the bed resting. I know who is calling me.
When I was a kid my family would get up really early to open presents. A great debate always occurred Christmas Eve on what time we’d rise. Of course my dad, who has always woke-up early, wants to sleep in. We normally settled on around 5:30 or so. My brothers woke first, and would have to make me up. My mom was easy to get up, but it would take a half hour or more to get my dad to get up. I remember times getting on the bed hoping up and down at the end of the bed, giggling, at his disgruntled looks.
“Merry Christmas,” says my mother as I answer the phone. “It smells like something is burning,” I say to Erin, throwing in a Merry Christmas mid-sentence to my mom. Feeling stressed, I ask if they are ready to open presents. I can tell from her voice though that she has just woke up, which means most likely everyone else is still asleep. Clay chimes in, “It smells like something is burning.” I feel flushed and annoyed, I tell my mom to call me back when they are ready, and that I am sorry.
A little while she calls back, the kitchen has calmed down a bit. Sugar cookies are piled on a plate now. It is finally time to open presents at 1:30 p.m. I don’t think I have ever waited to open presents this late before, but it is worth it to open them at the same time as my family. We always open our presents up one by one. I go first, and as everyone opens there presents, I try my best to make sure I take into account what everyone has received, via Skype—without video. It is comforting, being able to continue the timeless tradition. It’s like paper snowflakes in Africa. They can’t melt from the heat and they will never fall to the ground and loose their uniqueness.
I remember in elementary school my teacher said, no two snowflakes are the same. Each one is its own unique shape. An amazing fact when you consider the number of snowflakes that have existed in the world. I do my best to vary my cuts, as to uphold the integrity of real snowflakes in my paper ones.
It is December 21st and aside from the calendar and reminders from the States it does not feel like Christmas time. I am grateful for the heat in part. It makes life feel like a permanent summer, and therefore makes Christmas feel far away. I almost feel silly cutting snowflakes, listening to “Winter Wonderland.” The only signs of winter are the Beninese people who wear giant winter coats in the morning these days. Barely below 70 calls for a parka here.
With each snowflake and each song I am reminded of all the Christmas’ of the past: The Christmas calendar on the door in the kitchen every year; decorating gingerbread cookies; leaving notes for Santa to sign to obtain proof of his existence; bon fires; watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” on Christmas eve; not being able to escape “A Christmas Story” on Christmas; and always cutting up snowflakes. I don’t think I ever realized how much I enjoy Christmas, and honestly it isn’t even the presents.
It’s 12:30 on Christmas Day. I am standing in my kitchen over the gas stove looking at sugar cookie dough in hopes they won’t slide across the pan in the Dutch oven like the first batch. My phone rings. Erin is working on making chipatis, and Clay is lying on the bed resting. I know who is calling me.
When I was a kid my family would get up really early to open presents. A great debate always occurred Christmas Eve on what time we’d rise. Of course my dad, who has always woke-up early, wants to sleep in. We normally settled on around 5:30 or so. My brothers woke first, and would have to make me up. My mom was easy to get up, but it would take a half hour or more to get my dad to get up. I remember times getting on the bed hoping up and down at the end of the bed, giggling, at his disgruntled looks.
“Merry Christmas,” says my mother as I answer the phone. “It smells like something is burning,” I say to Erin, throwing in a Merry Christmas mid-sentence to my mom. Feeling stressed, I ask if they are ready to open presents. I can tell from her voice though that she has just woke up, which means most likely everyone else is still asleep. Clay chimes in, “It smells like something is burning.” I feel flushed and annoyed, I tell my mom to call me back when they are ready, and that I am sorry.
A little while she calls back, the kitchen has calmed down a bit. Sugar cookies are piled on a plate now. It is finally time to open presents at 1:30 p.m. I don’t think I have ever waited to open presents this late before, but it is worth it to open them at the same time as my family. We always open our presents up one by one. I go first, and as everyone opens there presents, I try my best to make sure I take into account what everyone has received, via Skype—without video. It is comforting, being able to continue the timeless tradition. It’s like paper snowflakes in Africa. They can’t melt from the heat and they will never fall to the ground and loose their uniqueness.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
PCV Mix II
Sorry this has taken longer than the last couple mixes. It isn’t that I have abandoned listening to music, but rather I am shamefully listening to the same things. Although you will notice some songs without titles—I stool them from music sent from home.
Another Travelin’ Song by Bright Eyes
Electric Feel by MGMT
Getting Scared by Imogen Heap
Giving Up by Ingrid Michaelson
Hard Way to Fall by Ryan Adams
The Hardest Part by Ryan Adams
Heartbeats by Jose Gonzalez
Maddening Shroud by Frou Frou
Melt Your Heart by Jenny Lewis
Take the Dance by Deux Process
Track 03 by Yelle
Track 07 from M & J’s mix
Track 19 from M & J’s mix something by Passion Pits
Another Travelin’ Song by Bright Eyes
Electric Feel by MGMT
Getting Scared by Imogen Heap
Giving Up by Ingrid Michaelson
Hard Way to Fall by Ryan Adams
The Hardest Part by Ryan Adams
Heartbeats by Jose Gonzalez
Maddening Shroud by Frou Frou
Melt Your Heart by Jenny Lewis
Take the Dance by Deux Process
Track 03 by Yelle
Track 07 from M & J’s mix
Track 19 from M & J’s mix something by Passion Pits
Thursday, December 3, 2009
What You Look For
It is nearing six in the evening, or dix-huit heures. The time of day casts a dark shadow on the classroom of students, all boys to be precise, working at a methodical pace to complete their English exams. I pull myself away from “The Poisonwood Bible,” which I hurry to finish, partially because it is good, and partially because I have a new stack of books piling up at home from family and friends in the States and other PCV in villages far from here. Leaning against the classroom door way only as a silhouette is another English professor. I think to myself, this would make an excellent photo, although I am not sure it could capture everything it actually represents.
I won’t give anyone or anything away, but I think perhaps some people, myself perhaps included, could be left with a false sense of tranquility and love that exists in Benin, and from my point of reference, Matéri. I don’t think the pain and tragedy here is any more or any less important or severe than say the demented current events revealed in the U.S. media. I do think however, evil exists everywhere, but in most cases you have to go looking for it to truly understand how deep it is. I don’t plan on going on a witch.
I don’t think I even like to admit myself how some things do get to me. I only recently notice it comes out in my mood or tone of voice when I can’t get the simplest thing done, like cleaning a dish. Of course I know as soon as I set that dish down, a wind will blow African dust on it—nothing can ever be pure here.
The other night I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Inevitably every night I wake up around this time for one reason or another, stomach problems, nausea, heat, sudden feeling of bug bites, even though I have my mosquito net over me, or like last night the crying of the puppy locked up. But on Saturday night it was the screaming of a child, a girl to be exact. It grew louder, piercing the night air, and in my in and out state of sleeping I thought I heard the sound of something, most likely a broom hitting skin. It alarmed me, but I knew there was nothing I could do, and forced myself to go to sleep. How heartless do I feel? It isn’t the first time I have heard these sounds, sometimes it has been at closer range, which is why I know it is a broom being used. Brooms are made of sticks here. Sometimes it isn’t even a person, but an animal. Honestly, I don’t know which I feel is worse.
Yesterday I was running late to school, and heard the loud piercing cries coming from another direction. There is a pattern that it is girls crying. It is day time, and emerging from a side road is a girl. I stare; she looks as if she is holding her private parts, like a five year old needing to pee. I look away. I want to pretend I did not see the pain in her face as she cried and held onto herself. It is the first time that it has dawned on me what these girls could really be crying about. I am ignorant. I look back at her again, out of pity. This time she looks like she is holding her arm now. Perhaps, I imagined what I saw the first time, but perhaps imagine or not that sort of thing is happening—I know for certain, more and more everyday that I have lived content on not looking for evil.
I want to believe the world is a beautiful place. I want to see it as a nostalgic image, like that of the professor looking out into a courtyard of students bustling by, holding hands, living out their childhoods.
I won’t give anyone or anything away, but I think perhaps some people, myself perhaps included, could be left with a false sense of tranquility and love that exists in Benin, and from my point of reference, Matéri. I don’t think the pain and tragedy here is any more or any less important or severe than say the demented current events revealed in the U.S. media. I do think however, evil exists everywhere, but in most cases you have to go looking for it to truly understand how deep it is. I don’t plan on going on a witch.
I don’t think I even like to admit myself how some things do get to me. I only recently notice it comes out in my mood or tone of voice when I can’t get the simplest thing done, like cleaning a dish. Of course I know as soon as I set that dish down, a wind will blow African dust on it—nothing can ever be pure here.
The other night I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Inevitably every night I wake up around this time for one reason or another, stomach problems, nausea, heat, sudden feeling of bug bites, even though I have my mosquito net over me, or like last night the crying of the puppy locked up. But on Saturday night it was the screaming of a child, a girl to be exact. It grew louder, piercing the night air, and in my in and out state of sleeping I thought I heard the sound of something, most likely a broom hitting skin. It alarmed me, but I knew there was nothing I could do, and forced myself to go to sleep. How heartless do I feel? It isn’t the first time I have heard these sounds, sometimes it has been at closer range, which is why I know it is a broom being used. Brooms are made of sticks here. Sometimes it isn’t even a person, but an animal. Honestly, I don’t know which I feel is worse.
Yesterday I was running late to school, and heard the loud piercing cries coming from another direction. There is a pattern that it is girls crying. It is day time, and emerging from a side road is a girl. I stare; she looks as if she is holding her private parts, like a five year old needing to pee. I look away. I want to pretend I did not see the pain in her face as she cried and held onto herself. It is the first time that it has dawned on me what these girls could really be crying about. I am ignorant. I look back at her again, out of pity. This time she looks like she is holding her arm now. Perhaps, I imagined what I saw the first time, but perhaps imagine or not that sort of thing is happening—I know for certain, more and more everyday that I have lived content on not looking for evil.
I want to believe the world is a beautiful place. I want to see it as a nostalgic image, like that of the professor looking out into a courtyard of students bustling by, holding hands, living out their childhoods.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Sisterhood
“I have never had a sister,” I say to Erin one Tuesday evening as I am walking back home from taking Beaugard for a walk. “So should I be worried Petra will stay mad at me for good, or will she eventually get over it?” I add, semi-desperately. I face enough isolation on a weekly basis without making it worse by permanently angering my host sister. Erin assures me not to worry; “My sister used to always tattle on me, and I hated when she did it, but I know now she was watching out for me. Just give it some time.” It’s been two days. I lack patients.
Last Saturday my Maman left for Parakou. She frequently takes leave from Matéri for health information sessions. Normally she is not gone more than five days or so. On this particular journey she would not return for close to two weeks. Why does any of this matter? Let me put this in perspective.
My family consists of my Maman, who is widowed, her youngest daughter, Petra, Petra’s cousin, Huguette (both are teenagers), and two girls Meuveille (Maman’s granddaughter), and Presca (of no family relations). Not that I advocate it is necessary to have a male role model, but when my Maman is gone the supervisors of these girls are the soft, push-over, white girl (yours truly), and old grand-mama, who doesn’t speak a lick of French. Neither of us will resort to hitting the girls, and so the fear of god is lifted from the girls’ shoulders, and their tongues and bodies run wild.
The first couple days after Maman leaves normally occur with the same normalcy as if she was still around. It’s like they don’t believe she is really gone, and may come flying out of her bedroom at any moment yelling their names, confusing them at the same time, and telling them they are acting like imbeciles (I use the English word here, but the Biali word sounds very similar).
Thursday things start to deteriorate. I attribute part of this to it being market day, and just the general flow of weeks here. People enjoy drinking in my village. When asked on a questionnaire given by the other volunteer in Matéri, what people spend their money on one person answered, alcohol. I believe it. Now I am not insinuating that my sisters go out and drink on Thursday, but Petra begins to set the tone. She is the oldest, and the only actual child of Maman. She is given the money, and more or less is in charge. So she is out most of Thursday, which is not unusual, but it continues into Friday.
Friday night. I return home from meeting with the director at my school. It is approaching dusk. I go next door, to find the concession empty. I return to my house and set to doing work and cleaning my house. Later I hear noise coming from next door, which I take to mean the girls have returned. I lock up my door and go next door. The girls, minus Petra, are making dinner. Huguette, next in charge, is yelling out the two younger ones. I say something to Presca, who ignores me. Huguette five minutes later takes a broom to Presca. I find out the next day, it is because she did not speak to me when I was talking to her. I ask where Petra is, and Huguette says she does not know. I must buy phone credit, and so I go to the boutique near my house, and this is where I find Petra.
Now, I am sure many can imagine from personal experience the upheaval caused when teenagers are left to their own devices. While here in Matéri they can’t get into hard drugs, go to the mall and loiter, join a gang, or hold massive parties, they can still certainly break social norms.
I rarely if ever go out at night, and neither do my sisters, not without the permission of my Maman, who knows their every move and scolds them if they are ten minutes late from school. So imagine my surprise when I enter the boutique and find Petra behind the counter with the owner helping him serve up Sodobe (Benin’s moonshine). I buy my credit, go back home, tell Huguette what I have seen. Huguette has this looks she gives when she knows something has occurred that isn’t proper, but she doesn’t want to say anything. It is something along the lines of an uncomfortable, nervous, smile.
I forgot to mention that the reason I wanted phone credit, is because I wanted to call Maman to saluer. I also let the girls talk to her, which they are excited to do. I tell Huguette I will not lie to Maman, so she can explain where Petra is. We wait for twenty minutes, thinking Petra will return. When she does not Huguette lies and says she is with Grand-mama. Around 10 p.m. I go to bed. Petra has yet to arrive.
I don’t like to assume, and I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, which on many occasions makes me naïve. But at the same time I live my life here in many ways considering what people may assume of my actions. This is why I don’t go to buvettes (bars) here or go out at night alone. If you are out at night, especially if you are at or with a man, it is assumed you two are together, and here that means you are sleeping together. This is serious business. I don’t even let men on my front porch stoop for this exact reason.
Over the next couple days, Petra continued to be frequently absent from the concession. She very well may have been with her friends, but after Friday night I do not know. Not to mention the increase of male students coming by the concessions on a daily basis since Maman left. It is like a red alarm light goes off in every man’s house when my Maman leaves signaling it is time to attack.
On Sunday I don’t feel well and spent the morning sleeping. When I wake up at lunch time and go next door it is like the scene in Western movies right before a duel, and empty and dusty space. It is clear the concession has not been swept well in a couple days. I go outside and talk with my aunts, who have also been witnessing all these things unfolding. They seem more concerned with the fact that I have not been fed, and one says what I have feared all along about Petra’s actions. “She is going to get pregnant going out like that.” It is not an exaggeration.
Around this time, my Maman calls, and I just unload about everything that has been going on, at the encouragement of my aunts. And for the record it wasn’t even me being worried about being fed, but more about the principle. All this behavior was a result of Maman being gone. Immediately after I call I feel guilty with betrayal. My aunt’s tell me to leave it be, and that it will be fine. They take amusement in my reactions.
Shortly after this, hungry, I go to buy an egg sandwich, return home, and go to meet with another English professor to do some work. I come home near dusk. Everyone is home, but no one is speaking to me. I remain at my house. My aunt tells me to go eat next door, and when I go over there the girls just look at me. I don’t need to fight for my food, in preparation for this very moment I had already cooked some pasta. When I return my aunt, forces me back over, and yells at them to feed me, which they do reluctantly.
The freeze begins thawing gradually. It starts with the youngest girls, then Huguette. I resolve to taking my meals at my house, as to avoid further conflict. The freeze has not only affected me, but Grand-mama, whom they do not give feed on Monday. She also called and told Maman about their antics. I buy her bread, and make her tea for a couple days, until Maman returns.
When Maman returns on Wednesday night, I give her a huge hug. I am so relieved to see her. At this point Petra is still tolerating my existence, but won’t admit she is mad. I begin to feel better, because I feel like her silence has turned into less anger for anger sake, but more anger because she knows I am right, but does not want to admit it.
Last Saturday my Maman left for Parakou. She frequently takes leave from Matéri for health information sessions. Normally she is not gone more than five days or so. On this particular journey she would not return for close to two weeks. Why does any of this matter? Let me put this in perspective.
My family consists of my Maman, who is widowed, her youngest daughter, Petra, Petra’s cousin, Huguette (both are teenagers), and two girls Meuveille (Maman’s granddaughter), and Presca (of no family relations). Not that I advocate it is necessary to have a male role model, but when my Maman is gone the supervisors of these girls are the soft, push-over, white girl (yours truly), and old grand-mama, who doesn’t speak a lick of French. Neither of us will resort to hitting the girls, and so the fear of god is lifted from the girls’ shoulders, and their tongues and bodies run wild.
The first couple days after Maman leaves normally occur with the same normalcy as if she was still around. It’s like they don’t believe she is really gone, and may come flying out of her bedroom at any moment yelling their names, confusing them at the same time, and telling them they are acting like imbeciles (I use the English word here, but the Biali word sounds very similar).
Thursday things start to deteriorate. I attribute part of this to it being market day, and just the general flow of weeks here. People enjoy drinking in my village. When asked on a questionnaire given by the other volunteer in Matéri, what people spend their money on one person answered, alcohol. I believe it. Now I am not insinuating that my sisters go out and drink on Thursday, but Petra begins to set the tone. She is the oldest, and the only actual child of Maman. She is given the money, and more or less is in charge. So she is out most of Thursday, which is not unusual, but it continues into Friday.
Friday night. I return home from meeting with the director at my school. It is approaching dusk. I go next door, to find the concession empty. I return to my house and set to doing work and cleaning my house. Later I hear noise coming from next door, which I take to mean the girls have returned. I lock up my door and go next door. The girls, minus Petra, are making dinner. Huguette, next in charge, is yelling out the two younger ones. I say something to Presca, who ignores me. Huguette five minutes later takes a broom to Presca. I find out the next day, it is because she did not speak to me when I was talking to her. I ask where Petra is, and Huguette says she does not know. I must buy phone credit, and so I go to the boutique near my house, and this is where I find Petra.
Now, I am sure many can imagine from personal experience the upheaval caused when teenagers are left to their own devices. While here in Matéri they can’t get into hard drugs, go to the mall and loiter, join a gang, or hold massive parties, they can still certainly break social norms.
I rarely if ever go out at night, and neither do my sisters, not without the permission of my Maman, who knows their every move and scolds them if they are ten minutes late from school. So imagine my surprise when I enter the boutique and find Petra behind the counter with the owner helping him serve up Sodobe (Benin’s moonshine). I buy my credit, go back home, tell Huguette what I have seen. Huguette has this looks she gives when she knows something has occurred that isn’t proper, but she doesn’t want to say anything. It is something along the lines of an uncomfortable, nervous, smile.
I forgot to mention that the reason I wanted phone credit, is because I wanted to call Maman to saluer. I also let the girls talk to her, which they are excited to do. I tell Huguette I will not lie to Maman, so she can explain where Petra is. We wait for twenty minutes, thinking Petra will return. When she does not Huguette lies and says she is with Grand-mama. Around 10 p.m. I go to bed. Petra has yet to arrive.
I don’t like to assume, and I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, which on many occasions makes me naïve. But at the same time I live my life here in many ways considering what people may assume of my actions. This is why I don’t go to buvettes (bars) here or go out at night alone. If you are out at night, especially if you are at or with a man, it is assumed you two are together, and here that means you are sleeping together. This is serious business. I don’t even let men on my front porch stoop for this exact reason.
Over the next couple days, Petra continued to be frequently absent from the concession. She very well may have been with her friends, but after Friday night I do not know. Not to mention the increase of male students coming by the concessions on a daily basis since Maman left. It is like a red alarm light goes off in every man’s house when my Maman leaves signaling it is time to attack.
On Sunday I don’t feel well and spent the morning sleeping. When I wake up at lunch time and go next door it is like the scene in Western movies right before a duel, and empty and dusty space. It is clear the concession has not been swept well in a couple days. I go outside and talk with my aunts, who have also been witnessing all these things unfolding. They seem more concerned with the fact that I have not been fed, and one says what I have feared all along about Petra’s actions. “She is going to get pregnant going out like that.” It is not an exaggeration.
Around this time, my Maman calls, and I just unload about everything that has been going on, at the encouragement of my aunts. And for the record it wasn’t even me being worried about being fed, but more about the principle. All this behavior was a result of Maman being gone. Immediately after I call I feel guilty with betrayal. My aunt’s tell me to leave it be, and that it will be fine. They take amusement in my reactions.
Shortly after this, hungry, I go to buy an egg sandwich, return home, and go to meet with another English professor to do some work. I come home near dusk. Everyone is home, but no one is speaking to me. I remain at my house. My aunt tells me to go eat next door, and when I go over there the girls just look at me. I don’t need to fight for my food, in preparation for this very moment I had already cooked some pasta. When I return my aunt, forces me back over, and yells at them to feed me, which they do reluctantly.
The freeze begins thawing gradually. It starts with the youngest girls, then Huguette. I resolve to taking my meals at my house, as to avoid further conflict. The freeze has not only affected me, but Grand-mama, whom they do not give feed on Monday. She also called and told Maman about their antics. I buy her bread, and make her tea for a couple days, until Maman returns.
When Maman returns on Wednesday night, I give her a huge hug. I am so relieved to see her. At this point Petra is still tolerating my existence, but won’t admit she is mad. I begin to feel better, because I feel like her silence has turned into less anger for anger sake, but more anger because she knows I am right, but does not want to admit it.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Big Questions
I find myself falling in love with Africa. At first I did nothing but compare it to the United States, which I miss so much. But then I began to see that Africa had things that the United States as far as I know could not offer.
Imagine in the States a Hispanic man moves into the house next to you, or an Indian woman becomes your new neighbor in your apartment complex. Do you introduce yourself? Probably, but do you offer to feed that neighbor? Help them find the local grocery store, aid him or her in buying groceries, and then spent every evening allowing that neighbor to sit with you, watch your TV and eat your food—not the food he bought. Don’t lie about your response. I would even go as far as to think many Americans would think the Hispanic was going to trash the house, have loud parties, with music blasting all hours of the night, and in the end leave the house, after not paying the rent, leaving it with a smell of beans or rice, or some other stereotypical Hispanic food. If it was an Indian neighbor, you might be so ignorant to not even know she was Indian, and maybe assumed she was Arab, and therefore a terrorist or friend of a terrorist. Because of this you would not even think to trust her. Call me offensive, but this I know is the reality of the United States, we trust no one. But if Benin was the United States I would have starved a long time ago, and be living a life of utter despair.
On days when I really miss the United States—despite its cynicism—I think about the wonderful people in Benin I would have not known. When I arrived in Matéri I worried about how I would feed myself adequately. And even though many Beninese think Americans are spies, cowboys, or ninjas, my Maman took me in and fed me. And I know it isn’t just because she knows I am a Peace Corps volunteer, because she has helped others in my community. When I have a taxi-driver trying to get more money from me than he deserves, in most cases, another Beninese comes to my rescue to make sure I don’t get screwed, even though we probably both know I have the money to give. I don’t have a lot of time to myself, and I am always being watched, but I know I always have someone I can talk to. The sense of community that exists in Africa perhaps existed at one point in the United States, and if advancement means the destruction of this precious social set-up I am not sure if the trade-off would be worth it. It gets deeper.
I became a Peace Corps volunteer because I wanted to make a difference, and I wanted to change the world. I now find myself in Africa, asking the big question, or questions, “Can and Africa be changed?” and “Does it want to be changed?” and “Should it be changed?” Peace Corps has been in Benin for forty years.
Post-colonialism, NGOs have set-up camp throughout Africa, along with missionaries, which have been here since whites first set themselves up here. And I think existing as one of the five white people in this village, could be an accurate representation of things. That is to say that perhaps we don’t belong here. Furthermore, as another volunteer asked, not to say I agree with this, but are some of us here out of guilt, that is to say does this work we do now rectify our work of the past? Or maybe excuse us from living our frivolous lives in the United States, where we throw away computer each year for a newer model, while maybe one computer from the 80s exist in any given village in Africa.
My friends were worried I would come to Africa, and come back to the United States and look down on everyone. While the above statements lead one to think this is exactly what is happening to me, I don’t believe it to be true. I think that with any loving relationship, despite human nature, the key is acceptance. I accept that my life in the States is not the same as the one in Africa, and vice-versa. Perhaps, in this way it isn’t fair to compare the two, but it is the only way I can come to try and answer the big questions.
Imagine in the States a Hispanic man moves into the house next to you, or an Indian woman becomes your new neighbor in your apartment complex. Do you introduce yourself? Probably, but do you offer to feed that neighbor? Help them find the local grocery store, aid him or her in buying groceries, and then spent every evening allowing that neighbor to sit with you, watch your TV and eat your food—not the food he bought. Don’t lie about your response. I would even go as far as to think many Americans would think the Hispanic was going to trash the house, have loud parties, with music blasting all hours of the night, and in the end leave the house, after not paying the rent, leaving it with a smell of beans or rice, or some other stereotypical Hispanic food. If it was an Indian neighbor, you might be so ignorant to not even know she was Indian, and maybe assumed she was Arab, and therefore a terrorist or friend of a terrorist. Because of this you would not even think to trust her. Call me offensive, but this I know is the reality of the United States, we trust no one. But if Benin was the United States I would have starved a long time ago, and be living a life of utter despair.
On days when I really miss the United States—despite its cynicism—I think about the wonderful people in Benin I would have not known. When I arrived in Matéri I worried about how I would feed myself adequately. And even though many Beninese think Americans are spies, cowboys, or ninjas, my Maman took me in and fed me. And I know it isn’t just because she knows I am a Peace Corps volunteer, because she has helped others in my community. When I have a taxi-driver trying to get more money from me than he deserves, in most cases, another Beninese comes to my rescue to make sure I don’t get screwed, even though we probably both know I have the money to give. I don’t have a lot of time to myself, and I am always being watched, but I know I always have someone I can talk to. The sense of community that exists in Africa perhaps existed at one point in the United States, and if advancement means the destruction of this precious social set-up I am not sure if the trade-off would be worth it. It gets deeper.
I became a Peace Corps volunteer because I wanted to make a difference, and I wanted to change the world. I now find myself in Africa, asking the big question, or questions, “Can and Africa be changed?” and “Does it want to be changed?” and “Should it be changed?” Peace Corps has been in Benin for forty years.
Post-colonialism, NGOs have set-up camp throughout Africa, along with missionaries, which have been here since whites first set themselves up here. And I think existing as one of the five white people in this village, could be an accurate representation of things. That is to say that perhaps we don’t belong here. Furthermore, as another volunteer asked, not to say I agree with this, but are some of us here out of guilt, that is to say does this work we do now rectify our work of the past? Or maybe excuse us from living our frivolous lives in the United States, where we throw away computer each year for a newer model, while maybe one computer from the 80s exist in any given village in Africa.
My friends were worried I would come to Africa, and come back to the United States and look down on everyone. While the above statements lead one to think this is exactly what is happening to me, I don’t believe it to be true. I think that with any loving relationship, despite human nature, the key is acceptance. I accept that my life in the States is not the same as the one in Africa, and vice-versa. Perhaps, in this way it isn’t fair to compare the two, but it is the only way I can come to try and answer the big questions.
Monday, November 30, 2009
How Do You Solve a Problem Called Why-Why?
You call Peace Corps and have the villagers threaten to throw him in jail.
Oh the courtship between me and Why-Why started on the second day I arrived in Matéri. I had gone to my school, a twenty minute walk, and upon returning saw a place to buy bread. Fresh off the taxi-bus from Cotonou, where you must discouter everything and bread is cheap I argue over the price they demand for the bread. I finally walked away, not really wanting to buy expensive bread I knew for a fact is not very good. Now, looking back, I can see how ridiculous I must have seemed—which is the overarching feeling I have when I look back at most of my experiences here in Benin. As I began to walk away from the stand, the woman handed me the bread. The man, who had been standing next to her the whole time had bought it for me. I did not really get this until after I almost made it home, which had given me time to replay the conversation in my head and translate it correctly. Then I thought to myself, I hope that doesn’t legally bind me in some way to that man.
The next day I was out saluer again, near the bread stand from the day before. I had befriended a lady next to the stand, who makes yam pilee and knew the volunteer before me. Sitting laughing with her and a few other Beninese women, this same man comes up to me with a close familiarity that makes me immediately uncomfortable. The women tolerate him for a few minutes, but then have to almost hit him to make him leave. He keeps asking if I will be his wife. I tell him I am married. He asks how many children I have. I tell him none, thus canceling out being married in his mind. He tells me he is a doctor. I don’t care.
Sunday, I go to church, and as I walk with my sisters, I hear a voice in the distance yelling ma femme, ma femme. I ignore it, until my sisters turn and laugh. I turn and see the same man. I quicken the pace.
Ever since then that same man has made frequent and annoying appearances in my life here. I finally learned his name was Why-Why, and that he was not in fact a doctor—shocker—but actually the doctor’s assistant. I think he actually just cleans out the trash cans at the health center—shocker.
It never resonates with him that I don’t like talking to him and that I am not his wife. I am even resort to saying I don’t speak French, which causes him to try to speak a little English, to which I respond I don’t speak English. And to be honest French or English I really don’t understand him, because on most days he is drunk. I have only seen him on one occasion when he wasn’t drunk. I don’t think he saw me though, because he walked hunched, with his head down, arms dangling as he sauntered by in shame of his existence and angered by it at the same time.
I noticed his visits past my house increased when my Maman was gone, and one occasion my neighbor even tried to tell me what a good worker he was—my neighbor is always trying to find me a Beninese match. I told my Maman all this, and added if he thinks he is such a good worker, why doesn’t he marry him. I was not kidding.
One day, Why-Why popped his head over the door of my Maman’s concession, I guess no one had told him of her return. At the site of him, my Maman told him to leave, and she once again reminded me he was crazy, and I added he drinks too much. Later that same day, as I was preparing to head to Natitingou, I heard his voice outside where my sisters were washing my clothes. I was in my kitchen and remained hidden there, while my sisters covered and told him I was sleeping. Apparently he was hungry and wanted me to make him food, something I rarely do for myself here, and never for him.
Oh Why-Why.
A week later on a Monday evening I was walking my dog and was just about to turn to head back home, when one of my friends called my name. As I walked toward her, my body sent off an “oh-shit” alarm. There was Why-Why, and he had already caught sight of me. Committed to saluer my friend I continued. As we exchanged greetings, Why-Why lingered to my left closely, which allowed him to catch sight of the bandage I had on my arm from a vaccination. That band-aid I imagine was what a butterfly is to a small kitten, irresistible to not touch. And touch my arm Why-Why did. In all the encounters with Why-Why he had never touched me—oh what a gentleman really.
“Don’t touch me,” I said to him abruptly. It sent him off into frenzy, and he began shouting, tiny droplets of spit coming from his mouth as he spouted off. I picked up my dog and my friend guided me away, but of course Why-Why followed. I dare not put my dog down, as he would have laid down in fear and would hinder me from getting home quickly. About 10 or 15 minutes from home, Why-Why continued to follow me, behind him the laughter of his friends could be heard. I kept silent, thinking he quit me, and when he didn’t I threw out a couple insults, including respecting himself and that he was impolite—these are Beninese insults obviously, not American ones. The insults only fuel him, and the shouting of other men for him to leave me alone, go unnoticed. I don’t understand much of what he says, but I do understand his threats to take my dog and steal my money. Finally a man on a moto and a man from his house come and stop Why-Why, I am two minutes from home. I have used all my strength to not break-down in the middle of my village.
Once at home, I go inside, close my door, which I normally only do when I am sleeping at night. I sit on my bed and I cry. I don’t know that I have ever felt so threatened, but I cry more out of embarrassment, because everyone in the village saw him chasing me down the road.
At the urging of a friend, I call Peace Corps, they call my Maman. She calls me and sounds upset. I worry she is angry with me, but I think she is more worried about what might happen to me if Why-Why continues to cause problems. She says, if he comes again, you call me and he will go to prison.
Why-why is my husband, at least that is what I tell the doctor, his supervisor, when I see him. He laughs, and understands I don’t have any hard feelings. My marriage with Why-why is quite beautiful really. I never see him anymore, even in his drunk states, he saunters by without a word or a look. It is matrimonial bliss.
Oh the courtship between me and Why-Why started on the second day I arrived in Matéri. I had gone to my school, a twenty minute walk, and upon returning saw a place to buy bread. Fresh off the taxi-bus from Cotonou, where you must discouter everything and bread is cheap I argue over the price they demand for the bread. I finally walked away, not really wanting to buy expensive bread I knew for a fact is not very good. Now, looking back, I can see how ridiculous I must have seemed—which is the overarching feeling I have when I look back at most of my experiences here in Benin. As I began to walk away from the stand, the woman handed me the bread. The man, who had been standing next to her the whole time had bought it for me. I did not really get this until after I almost made it home, which had given me time to replay the conversation in my head and translate it correctly. Then I thought to myself, I hope that doesn’t legally bind me in some way to that man.
The next day I was out saluer again, near the bread stand from the day before. I had befriended a lady next to the stand, who makes yam pilee and knew the volunteer before me. Sitting laughing with her and a few other Beninese women, this same man comes up to me with a close familiarity that makes me immediately uncomfortable. The women tolerate him for a few minutes, but then have to almost hit him to make him leave. He keeps asking if I will be his wife. I tell him I am married. He asks how many children I have. I tell him none, thus canceling out being married in his mind. He tells me he is a doctor. I don’t care.
Sunday, I go to church, and as I walk with my sisters, I hear a voice in the distance yelling ma femme, ma femme. I ignore it, until my sisters turn and laugh. I turn and see the same man. I quicken the pace.
Ever since then that same man has made frequent and annoying appearances in my life here. I finally learned his name was Why-Why, and that he was not in fact a doctor—shocker—but actually the doctor’s assistant. I think he actually just cleans out the trash cans at the health center—shocker.
It never resonates with him that I don’t like talking to him and that I am not his wife. I am even resort to saying I don’t speak French, which causes him to try to speak a little English, to which I respond I don’t speak English. And to be honest French or English I really don’t understand him, because on most days he is drunk. I have only seen him on one occasion when he wasn’t drunk. I don’t think he saw me though, because he walked hunched, with his head down, arms dangling as he sauntered by in shame of his existence and angered by it at the same time.
I noticed his visits past my house increased when my Maman was gone, and one occasion my neighbor even tried to tell me what a good worker he was—my neighbor is always trying to find me a Beninese match. I told my Maman all this, and added if he thinks he is such a good worker, why doesn’t he marry him. I was not kidding.
One day, Why-Why popped his head over the door of my Maman’s concession, I guess no one had told him of her return. At the site of him, my Maman told him to leave, and she once again reminded me he was crazy, and I added he drinks too much. Later that same day, as I was preparing to head to Natitingou, I heard his voice outside where my sisters were washing my clothes. I was in my kitchen and remained hidden there, while my sisters covered and told him I was sleeping. Apparently he was hungry and wanted me to make him food, something I rarely do for myself here, and never for him.
Oh Why-Why.
A week later on a Monday evening I was walking my dog and was just about to turn to head back home, when one of my friends called my name. As I walked toward her, my body sent off an “oh-shit” alarm. There was Why-Why, and he had already caught sight of me. Committed to saluer my friend I continued. As we exchanged greetings, Why-Why lingered to my left closely, which allowed him to catch sight of the bandage I had on my arm from a vaccination. That band-aid I imagine was what a butterfly is to a small kitten, irresistible to not touch. And touch my arm Why-Why did. In all the encounters with Why-Why he had never touched me—oh what a gentleman really.
“Don’t touch me,” I said to him abruptly. It sent him off into frenzy, and he began shouting, tiny droplets of spit coming from his mouth as he spouted off. I picked up my dog and my friend guided me away, but of course Why-Why followed. I dare not put my dog down, as he would have laid down in fear and would hinder me from getting home quickly. About 10 or 15 minutes from home, Why-Why continued to follow me, behind him the laughter of his friends could be heard. I kept silent, thinking he quit me, and when he didn’t I threw out a couple insults, including respecting himself and that he was impolite—these are Beninese insults obviously, not American ones. The insults only fuel him, and the shouting of other men for him to leave me alone, go unnoticed. I don’t understand much of what he says, but I do understand his threats to take my dog and steal my money. Finally a man on a moto and a man from his house come and stop Why-Why, I am two minutes from home. I have used all my strength to not break-down in the middle of my village.
Once at home, I go inside, close my door, which I normally only do when I am sleeping at night. I sit on my bed and I cry. I don’t know that I have ever felt so threatened, but I cry more out of embarrassment, because everyone in the village saw him chasing me down the road.
At the urging of a friend, I call Peace Corps, they call my Maman. She calls me and sounds upset. I worry she is angry with me, but I think she is more worried about what might happen to me if Why-Why continues to cause problems. She says, if he comes again, you call me and he will go to prison.
Why-why is my husband, at least that is what I tell the doctor, his supervisor, when I see him. He laughs, and understands I don’t have any hard feelings. My marriage with Why-why is quite beautiful really. I never see him anymore, even in his drunk states, he saunters by without a word or a look. It is matrimonial bliss.
Time Is On My Side?
Time is a difficult concept to grapple with these days on many levels. On most weeks Monday through Thursday go quickly, and normally leave me pretty exhausted. Fridays are filled with lesson planning and housekeeping neglected during the week—shuffling dresses from the back of a chair or the top of my mosquito net back to the twin size bed sitting collecting dust. The dust collecting requires attention in itself; sweeping a couple times a day. Saturday and Sunday always feel like the hardest. I have plenty to do, but my mind feels more idle for a reason I can not explain. The weeks pass by and they seem to go slowly, but then a new month arrives. I am beginning to feel like I am living in a permanent summer. Then there is future time, where I have to travel two weeks from now, a couple months from now, when the next devoir is going to be, and that makes time feel like it has the ability to move at a hastened pace. I worry I will never do more than merely teach here for two years, accomplishing secondary tasks seem difficult.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Maternity Ward
Sunday afternoon I find myself sitting with my family next door. As usual a slow, inconsistent stream of people have entered into our concession to saluer; most of the time I sit quietly saying the little local language I know and occasionally listening to my Maman. I usually sit in my chair that has been fashioned out of narrow sticks in forced into a laid back position that is most comfortable, occasionally pausing to call over Bennie or Izzy, the chions. I make a kissing noise to get their attention, and almost immediately they come dashing over, toppling over each other in jealousy trying to be the first to reach me. On this particular Sunday, after one lady has left, my mother says to me so and so is having a baby.
I never feel like I know who is who. I recognize faces, but know very few names. I can’t feel too bad though, just the other day my neighbor called me la blanche, she still didn’t know my name after a couple months. So when my Maman said someone had a baby I did not try to rack my brain on relations.
Going on an outing is always a culmination of false starts. It starts like this: Jamie, we are going out, or my favorite, so and so is sick or in this instance so and so had a baby. Then my Maman will stand up. Her stating an event happened more often than not means she is going out. But she says it as we are going out, but she uses the third person plural form of aller, suggesting they are going out, but then I remind myself that the subject “on” is we—I can never keep subjects and verbs straight. Notice she does not ask, Jamie do you want to go with me? It is more an announcement, not even really a command. It is a peculiarity, which can be confusing, because inevitably I want to make sure I have been invited. By asking for a clarification though, then my Maman thinks I don’t want to go with her, which leads to me having to exude a high level of excitement about the prospects of going out. You can see the relief in my Maman’s face. It is so interesting to observe a person, especially when half the time you have no idea what they are saying. I find myself learning and understanding so much more about my Maman than I could really know by talking with her.
She is prideful and traditional in many ways. I notice that she can be easily offended, but has a passive way of expressing this. She is like many people in a lot of way, but what is interesting is how her kindness comes in conflict with her pride. For example, our other neighbor asks for things all the time, and my mother gives generously. One day the neighbor had a mini-fete for somebody or others sister or husband—again I am horrible at keeping track of who is who. The neighbor practically prepared everything over in our concession, but failed to invite my Maman over. So my Maman was very put off by this. I don’t think it was so much that she wanted the food, but it was the principle of the event. It is proper to invite the person over. Throughout the day my Maman complained about this, and went as far to say she was cutting the neighbor off cold turkey the following day. I never feel like I give quite the reaction my Maman wants in situations such as these. This event actually occurred the same day we intended to set off the maternity center—I watched the midwife’s reaction to this story, and now I try to mimic that response—“Tu a raison.”
Once I have understood my presence is required to an outing the next hurdle to cross is when we will leave. Normally it is within a five to twenty minute time frame. Many factors come into play, each of us has to change, or I have to change, which gives my Maman time to get involved with some other task, which inevitably leads to her yelling at one of the girls over what I can only deduce to be because they are moving to slow. On the specific occasion of going over to the maternity ward though, we wait longer—I am in the process of washing the two week old puppies, which have an absurd number of fleas. Since I was younger I have had a strange obsession with killing all fleas on cats and dogs. Then of course I have to wash off and change after I finish. The sun is on its way down when we finally set off to the maternity center.
At the maternity center it is like my Maman has come home, or arrived at a high school reunion where the classmates actually like each other. She knows everyone, and those she doesn’t know she gets in their business just the same. She gives orders, corrects the new mothers as they try breastfeeding for the first time. I feel grateful that before I left my best friend had a baby, so I know a little about what goes on at this point in a person’s life.
No one can say that Matéri is not doing their part to keep the animal population up. I mean there are babies everywhere. Women, dogs, cats, chickens, guinea hens, spiders; they are all producing, and no one blinks—this is life, literally.
The maternity center faces the outskirts of the marche, which is lined with mini-boutiques. Don’t think boutiques like you’d find in small coastal tourist towns that are filled with useless knick-knacks and local artisan jewelry way over priced. Think the local country convenience store, without the fish bait and mini-grand display of American candy. Like most buildings here the maternity center is cement. You could plop this village right in the middle of tornado alley without a worry.
We cross through some construction work to a room with seven beds. Each bed has metal rods shooting up from the head and foot of it, where the mosquito nets will be attached. At the moment they are bare. These posts loom like a needy insecure teenage girl, who no one will take notice of, despite all her good intentions and security. Although there are seven beds, only six have firm, rubber like mattresses, five are occupied by new mothers. I have long ago given up on guessing the age of Beninese people, but I know these mothers are either the same age as me, but most likely younger.
Very few weeks go by when I am not asked if I am married. One man was very puzzled when I replied, “No I wasn’t married, and no I did not have kids.” I can’t be certain, although I am, and just prefer to be in denial, but that man pointed at my large breasts as a sure sign I was lying and I did in fact have kids. Among the many follow up questions after saying I am not married are, “Why not?.” When I say I am too young and then give me age, they look at me like I haven’t the slightest inclination of what young means. I suppose I don’t when other volunteers have been offered 14 year olds as wives, without the slightest hesitation or shame from the Beninese. I guess it should be no surprise why most men who approach me as jeepers creepers are much older than me. Cougars wouldn’t stand a real chance here. I suppose I welcome a pity parade when I say I am too young to marry, and the Beninese offer up finding me a Beninese man. It puts me in a spot. I can’t say no, because they will think I only want to marry a white man. I can’t say yes, because they might offer themselves. This is just taking their opinion into consideration. Of my own mind I can’t say yes because deep down I know exactly what the men here think of woman, and no amount of western thought on my end would change that I fear. Plus the looks and impolite remarks I have born witness to since being here has spoiled the whole lot for me, as callous as that sounds.
I will be honest though, as uncomfortable as all this is, and boy does it get to me on some days, it is not such an unfamiliar feeling. The questions and culture are different, but the meaning and implications aren’t so different than the States, when a family member asks, “If I have a boyfriend yet?” or if I meet a guy, and he inevitably questions “Why I haven’t been snatched up yet?” The latter question is always an indication that guy is a girlfriend snatcher. And while very few American men are looking to colonize me in the same sense as a Beninese man, meaning making babies and then taking other wives, there is another cultural card at play. Maybe it’s me, but experience says men have rarely really liked me for who I am, although they say so. No, right away, they like me for what they see I could be for them. What this all adds up to is my own criticism of myself, which is that, forgive me, I don’t fall into the more “traditional” female role at this point in my life.
So here I was in the maternity ward around women, who were living up to their roles in society. I saluer all of them, and they stare back at me. Staring is a cultural norm here, which I have come to love—my friends in the States have commented on this habitual flaw of mine, so in a way Benin is coming home for my eyes. We don’t say much beyond hello and me commenting on their babies being pretty or handsome.
As my Maman washes one of the newborns, I sit alone on the lone empty bed in the maternity center. The other mothers are taking turns bathing, while my Maman tends to their new borns. I sit quietly, the 23 year old white woman; the only woman teacher at the school; the woman who gets fed first like the other men in the village; the woman who has yet to bare any children and sees nothing wrong with that; the woman who despite knowing the cultural norms feels pity for these mothers. I know I should feel shame. I look listlessly around, trying to pretend I belong here.
The faces of the new mothers I think may haunt me for a long while. I imagine what I saw hidden in their stares, and how I felt about it and ask, “Was their gaze a result of what they saw in mine? They were exhausted, moving slowly about the room, and one could easily mistake this as the result of giving birth the same day. But no. In their eyes I saw girls whose souls had been stolen from them, without them knowing they had lost them. How could they when this is all they know in their culture? I think back to the first days in Cotonou, the poverty I saw, and still witness everyday. I have pity and sorrow, but get by knowing that this is all these people may ever know, and therefore they don’t know how poor they really are.
My Maman has finished cleaning the first newborn, and handed it over to me, all bundled in clothes it looks like it will never be capable of growing into. I haven’t held a baby this small since my best friend had her girl over a year ago. I am reminded of the fragility of human beings at this young age. I feel calm and tranquil. I have witnessed how some of the babies here are man handled, and know I carry a feeling not many woman here can have or ever know, and that is the choice to hold a baby or not. The baby sleeps easily. It is hungry, I know as it turns its head toward my breast. I give it my finger to grasp onto.
The women around me seem surprised by the baby’s ease and my own. I suspect they think since I don’t have children I don’t care for them or know how to manage them. I look around occasionally at the other mothers, and I feel not only pity, but jealousy. I feel like tears are trying to make their way into my eyes, but they don’t quite reach the point of even forming. It is a bitter sweet thought that causes this sensation. Around women who will most certainly go on to have more babies, I am here, knowing I can make choices and may have already made some choices—although I am young—that may result in me never having a baby. Whose souls are truly at a loss now?
I never feel like I know who is who. I recognize faces, but know very few names. I can’t feel too bad though, just the other day my neighbor called me la blanche, she still didn’t know my name after a couple months. So when my Maman said someone had a baby I did not try to rack my brain on relations.
Going on an outing is always a culmination of false starts. It starts like this: Jamie, we are going out, or my favorite, so and so is sick or in this instance so and so had a baby. Then my Maman will stand up. Her stating an event happened more often than not means she is going out. But she says it as we are going out, but she uses the third person plural form of aller, suggesting they are going out, but then I remind myself that the subject “on” is we—I can never keep subjects and verbs straight. Notice she does not ask, Jamie do you want to go with me? It is more an announcement, not even really a command. It is a peculiarity, which can be confusing, because inevitably I want to make sure I have been invited. By asking for a clarification though, then my Maman thinks I don’t want to go with her, which leads to me having to exude a high level of excitement about the prospects of going out. You can see the relief in my Maman’s face. It is so interesting to observe a person, especially when half the time you have no idea what they are saying. I find myself learning and understanding so much more about my Maman than I could really know by talking with her.
She is prideful and traditional in many ways. I notice that she can be easily offended, but has a passive way of expressing this. She is like many people in a lot of way, but what is interesting is how her kindness comes in conflict with her pride. For example, our other neighbor asks for things all the time, and my mother gives generously. One day the neighbor had a mini-fete for somebody or others sister or husband—again I am horrible at keeping track of who is who. The neighbor practically prepared everything over in our concession, but failed to invite my Maman over. So my Maman was very put off by this. I don’t think it was so much that she wanted the food, but it was the principle of the event. It is proper to invite the person over. Throughout the day my Maman complained about this, and went as far to say she was cutting the neighbor off cold turkey the following day. I never feel like I give quite the reaction my Maman wants in situations such as these. This event actually occurred the same day we intended to set off the maternity center—I watched the midwife’s reaction to this story, and now I try to mimic that response—“Tu a raison.”
Once I have understood my presence is required to an outing the next hurdle to cross is when we will leave. Normally it is within a five to twenty minute time frame. Many factors come into play, each of us has to change, or I have to change, which gives my Maman time to get involved with some other task, which inevitably leads to her yelling at one of the girls over what I can only deduce to be because they are moving to slow. On the specific occasion of going over to the maternity ward though, we wait longer—I am in the process of washing the two week old puppies, which have an absurd number of fleas. Since I was younger I have had a strange obsession with killing all fleas on cats and dogs. Then of course I have to wash off and change after I finish. The sun is on its way down when we finally set off to the maternity center.
At the maternity center it is like my Maman has come home, or arrived at a high school reunion where the classmates actually like each other. She knows everyone, and those she doesn’t know she gets in their business just the same. She gives orders, corrects the new mothers as they try breastfeeding for the first time. I feel grateful that before I left my best friend had a baby, so I know a little about what goes on at this point in a person’s life.
No one can say that Matéri is not doing their part to keep the animal population up. I mean there are babies everywhere. Women, dogs, cats, chickens, guinea hens, spiders; they are all producing, and no one blinks—this is life, literally.
The maternity center faces the outskirts of the marche, which is lined with mini-boutiques. Don’t think boutiques like you’d find in small coastal tourist towns that are filled with useless knick-knacks and local artisan jewelry way over priced. Think the local country convenience store, without the fish bait and mini-grand display of American candy. Like most buildings here the maternity center is cement. You could plop this village right in the middle of tornado alley without a worry.
We cross through some construction work to a room with seven beds. Each bed has metal rods shooting up from the head and foot of it, where the mosquito nets will be attached. At the moment they are bare. These posts loom like a needy insecure teenage girl, who no one will take notice of, despite all her good intentions and security. Although there are seven beds, only six have firm, rubber like mattresses, five are occupied by new mothers. I have long ago given up on guessing the age of Beninese people, but I know these mothers are either the same age as me, but most likely younger.
Very few weeks go by when I am not asked if I am married. One man was very puzzled when I replied, “No I wasn’t married, and no I did not have kids.” I can’t be certain, although I am, and just prefer to be in denial, but that man pointed at my large breasts as a sure sign I was lying and I did in fact have kids. Among the many follow up questions after saying I am not married are, “Why not?.” When I say I am too young and then give me age, they look at me like I haven’t the slightest inclination of what young means. I suppose I don’t when other volunteers have been offered 14 year olds as wives, without the slightest hesitation or shame from the Beninese. I guess it should be no surprise why most men who approach me as jeepers creepers are much older than me. Cougars wouldn’t stand a real chance here. I suppose I welcome a pity parade when I say I am too young to marry, and the Beninese offer up finding me a Beninese man. It puts me in a spot. I can’t say no, because they will think I only want to marry a white man. I can’t say yes, because they might offer themselves. This is just taking their opinion into consideration. Of my own mind I can’t say yes because deep down I know exactly what the men here think of woman, and no amount of western thought on my end would change that I fear. Plus the looks and impolite remarks I have born witness to since being here has spoiled the whole lot for me, as callous as that sounds.
I will be honest though, as uncomfortable as all this is, and boy does it get to me on some days, it is not such an unfamiliar feeling. The questions and culture are different, but the meaning and implications aren’t so different than the States, when a family member asks, “If I have a boyfriend yet?” or if I meet a guy, and he inevitably questions “Why I haven’t been snatched up yet?” The latter question is always an indication that guy is a girlfriend snatcher. And while very few American men are looking to colonize me in the same sense as a Beninese man, meaning making babies and then taking other wives, there is another cultural card at play. Maybe it’s me, but experience says men have rarely really liked me for who I am, although they say so. No, right away, they like me for what they see I could be for them. What this all adds up to is my own criticism of myself, which is that, forgive me, I don’t fall into the more “traditional” female role at this point in my life.
So here I was in the maternity ward around women, who were living up to their roles in society. I saluer all of them, and they stare back at me. Staring is a cultural norm here, which I have come to love—my friends in the States have commented on this habitual flaw of mine, so in a way Benin is coming home for my eyes. We don’t say much beyond hello and me commenting on their babies being pretty or handsome.
As my Maman washes one of the newborns, I sit alone on the lone empty bed in the maternity center. The other mothers are taking turns bathing, while my Maman tends to their new borns. I sit quietly, the 23 year old white woman; the only woman teacher at the school; the woman who gets fed first like the other men in the village; the woman who has yet to bare any children and sees nothing wrong with that; the woman who despite knowing the cultural norms feels pity for these mothers. I know I should feel shame. I look listlessly around, trying to pretend I belong here.
The faces of the new mothers I think may haunt me for a long while. I imagine what I saw hidden in their stares, and how I felt about it and ask, “Was their gaze a result of what they saw in mine? They were exhausted, moving slowly about the room, and one could easily mistake this as the result of giving birth the same day. But no. In their eyes I saw girls whose souls had been stolen from them, without them knowing they had lost them. How could they when this is all they know in their culture? I think back to the first days in Cotonou, the poverty I saw, and still witness everyday. I have pity and sorrow, but get by knowing that this is all these people may ever know, and therefore they don’t know how poor they really are.
My Maman has finished cleaning the first newborn, and handed it over to me, all bundled in clothes it looks like it will never be capable of growing into. I haven’t held a baby this small since my best friend had her girl over a year ago. I am reminded of the fragility of human beings at this young age. I feel calm and tranquil. I have witnessed how some of the babies here are man handled, and know I carry a feeling not many woman here can have or ever know, and that is the choice to hold a baby or not. The baby sleeps easily. It is hungry, I know as it turns its head toward my breast. I give it my finger to grasp onto.
The women around me seem surprised by the baby’s ease and my own. I suspect they think since I don’t have children I don’t care for them or know how to manage them. I look around occasionally at the other mothers, and I feel not only pity, but jealousy. I feel like tears are trying to make their way into my eyes, but they don’t quite reach the point of even forming. It is a bitter sweet thought that causes this sensation. Around women who will most certainly go on to have more babies, I am here, knowing I can make choices and may have already made some choices—although I am young—that may result in me never having a baby. Whose souls are truly at a loss now?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Beninese Jamie
I know I could never be Beninese, but I must confess, I have always enjoyed playing dress-up.
Growing up I did not actually have a dress-up box in a traditional sense, and by traditional sense, I mean like those cute girls on television commercials who dig through a giant wooden chest of pearl beaded necklaces, boas, high heals, and dresses made of find sheer, satin, silky like materials. But I did play dress-up the best I could.
I still don’t have a chest, but I do have a stack of African style clothes. Dresses made of crazy patterns, and a two meter piece of fabric that I wrap around myself when I am at home—it has become my version of sweatpants in Africa. I try to look my best on a consistent basis, which is more than can I say when I lived in the United States. I always match my earring, necklace, and bracelets to my dress. I come up with different ways to try and wear my hair, and I have showered three times a day on occasion. I paint my nails once a week, my toenails once every two weeks.
Wearing the costume of a Beninese doesn’t take a lot of time, although I do find myself needing to add more clothes to my wardrobe. Learning the language, however, has been taxing. But it seems that I have up and taken on the persona of a Beninese woman.
It wasn’t until I was around other volunteers I had realized this. I went to buy some credit with a friend at a small boutique in Parakou. My friend also wanted to know where he could find sodobe, the Benin version of moonshine. I find myself thrown into a conversation about sodobe. Nothing earth shattering, just some simple jokes that would barely pass for mildly entertaining in the States, but here they are cherished and the Gold Standard here. As we left the boutique my friend was left asking, what was that? I didn’t know what he meant, and then he was like, you sounded so Beninese.
The next day I went to the marche with another volunteers. I have made it habit to find one vender and then have her show me to the other things I need to buy. I risk finding a vender who leads me to someone who will rip me off, but I take it anyways. At first when we enter the marche I am overwhelmed with the number of people vying for our attention—it is unlike my village marche that I have grown accustomed to. The sun is setting, and in the hazy air there is desperation among the venders. They see us Americans as appropriate targets to take off their hands no Beninese person would buy, even in perhaps the poorest circumstances.
The volunteer with me is about as indecisive as I am, and we fumble over ourselves a little. We find a vender with most of the vegetables that we need, and I set to getting everything, swatting away the venders that are attacking us like flies feeding on meat that has been sitting out all day—not an uncommon phenomenon here. They appear with one item of fruit only to move quickly back for another item, seeing me dismiss the first with a hand, saying “No, ca ce n’est pas nécessaire,” “No pas ajhourd’hui,” “Pas maintenant,” “Ca c’est comme une bebe.” The last response in regard to the largest pineapple I have ever seen in my life, which makes the venders all laugh.
In the mist of all the chaos we come out with most of our things, and I am confronted with the sun nearly set. It is like I have come out of a trance, moving back into the panic state of being swarmed by people. My guard is back up, as I am no longer surrounded what I had perceived to be kind Mamans.
The volunteer turns to me, and nearly in the same tone, shock, and words questions my transformation for a short ten minutes into a Beninese woman. I smile and feel flattered, perhaps I am more bien integre than I thought. On the way back to the work station though I get lost, and I am reminded, I could never be fully Beninese.
Growing up I did not actually have a dress-up box in a traditional sense, and by traditional sense, I mean like those cute girls on television commercials who dig through a giant wooden chest of pearl beaded necklaces, boas, high heals, and dresses made of find sheer, satin, silky like materials. But I did play dress-up the best I could.
I still don’t have a chest, but I do have a stack of African style clothes. Dresses made of crazy patterns, and a two meter piece of fabric that I wrap around myself when I am at home—it has become my version of sweatpants in Africa. I try to look my best on a consistent basis, which is more than can I say when I lived in the United States. I always match my earring, necklace, and bracelets to my dress. I come up with different ways to try and wear my hair, and I have showered three times a day on occasion. I paint my nails once a week, my toenails once every two weeks.
Wearing the costume of a Beninese doesn’t take a lot of time, although I do find myself needing to add more clothes to my wardrobe. Learning the language, however, has been taxing. But it seems that I have up and taken on the persona of a Beninese woman.
It wasn’t until I was around other volunteers I had realized this. I went to buy some credit with a friend at a small boutique in Parakou. My friend also wanted to know where he could find sodobe, the Benin version of moonshine. I find myself thrown into a conversation about sodobe. Nothing earth shattering, just some simple jokes that would barely pass for mildly entertaining in the States, but here they are cherished and the Gold Standard here. As we left the boutique my friend was left asking, what was that? I didn’t know what he meant, and then he was like, you sounded so Beninese.
The next day I went to the marche with another volunteers. I have made it habit to find one vender and then have her show me to the other things I need to buy. I risk finding a vender who leads me to someone who will rip me off, but I take it anyways. At first when we enter the marche I am overwhelmed with the number of people vying for our attention—it is unlike my village marche that I have grown accustomed to. The sun is setting, and in the hazy air there is desperation among the venders. They see us Americans as appropriate targets to take off their hands no Beninese person would buy, even in perhaps the poorest circumstances.
The volunteer with me is about as indecisive as I am, and we fumble over ourselves a little. We find a vender with most of the vegetables that we need, and I set to getting everything, swatting away the venders that are attacking us like flies feeding on meat that has been sitting out all day—not an uncommon phenomenon here. They appear with one item of fruit only to move quickly back for another item, seeing me dismiss the first with a hand, saying “No, ca ce n’est pas nécessaire,” “No pas ajhourd’hui,” “Pas maintenant,” “Ca c’est comme une bebe.” The last response in regard to the largest pineapple I have ever seen in my life, which makes the venders all laugh.
In the mist of all the chaos we come out with most of our things, and I am confronted with the sun nearly set. It is like I have come out of a trance, moving back into the panic state of being swarmed by people. My guard is back up, as I am no longer surrounded what I had perceived to be kind Mamans.
The volunteer turns to me, and nearly in the same tone, shock, and words questions my transformation for a short ten minutes into a Beninese woman. I smile and feel flattered, perhaps I am more bien integre than I thought. On the way back to the work station though I get lost, and I am reminded, I could never be fully Beninese.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
My Passing Grade
Before arriving to Benin I took on a long-term substitute position for the majority of the second semester. Working at an inner-city school was not easy, but the challenges I faced there—from students openly admitting to not studying for exams to the pressure of trying to do everything possible, short of doing the work for them, to make sure the kids pass—taught me how to cope with the reality of being a teacher. It is a job, which can never be perfected.
The first month and half as a substitute teacher was among the hardest months of my life. I am not sure how I made it through some days without crying in front of my students, and to think through most of my public education if a teacher spoke in a less than a friendly tone it would send me into tears immediately. I realize this makes me appear like a weaker soul.
As a substitute I remember one particular day though. I had to call parents and inform them that his or her daughter or son was failing my class. I called one mother, and after going through my spiel she said, “I have heard all about you from my daughter,” in this accusatory tone that could only be compared to a mother speaking to a boy she has never met and that has just broken her daughters heart. She spoke to me as if I was a child, hitting on my weakness of being only 23 years old—a target the kids constantly reminded me of. She continued, “Have you ever thought maybe it’s you? That you are not a good teacher, and that is why my daughter is failing?” I looked down at her daughter’s grade sheet and saw she had turned in two things since I had arrived in February, it was almost April. I am not sure what words I struggled to get out after she said that, but I could feel the rage in her voice. She spoke to me as if she knew me, and she hadn’t the faintest idea of who I was or what I was going through, and I could tell she really didn’t give a shit, either way. I shut down, and hurried the conversation along in the best way I knew possible. Once off the phone I cried. Several of my students failed the third semester and many because they refused to do work. I didn’t take that as my problem, I can’t grade what I don’t have, and I gave them every opportunity to do the work. The administration did not feel the same way, and I spent my fourth semester really doing everything possible to get my kids to pass.
Before beginning to teach in Benin all the TEFL volunteers went through training, which involved four weeks of teaching local kids through a summer school program, and having other volunteers and Beninese teachers observe you. The first week I struggled to get through my entire lessons. The criticism: I was trying to make sure everyone learned. “You are lucky if half of your class passes,” a volunteer said to me, in a tone which made it apparent that it was acceptable when this happened. In my heart I could not accept this, it was my job to teach, and for me that meant everyone.
My first month at post was among the hardest months of my life. I was faced with classrooms of students whose numbers were growing into the 70s. I was teaching English to students, who spoke the local language and a smattering of French. I spoke French, but my accent I imagine is like listening to the Asian teacher, who speaks English well, but you can’t understand most of the words, well because each word has an added Chinese or Japanese sound to it. Of course the kids snickered. I have perhaps a false sense of entitlement. I am American and know English well therefore these kids should be nothing short of as excited as children waiting in line to talk to Santa for the first time at the local mall. They should have their heads open ready for me to dump my infinite wisdom. I realize the naïveté of this now. Humans are an interesting sort, and by humans at this moment I mean myself. I hate making mistakes, I want to do everything right, but I find myself learning infinitely more by making mistakes. After a lecture about getting to angry with my students from the Beninese school teachers, despite my protests I took it to heart. I also took my kids confusion, and waning interest to heart. I needed to find a way for them to learn, all 70 of them.
After the first interrogation (quiz), in which I had well over a quarter of my students below passing grades, I set about to make a change. I rearranged every students seat, and put them in mixes of strong and not so strong students. I developed a team strategy, where by each group became a team. My little ones, or 6eme kids, are named after colors, “Team Purple,” “Team Brown,” etc. and my evil ones, or 5eme students, are named after places in Benin, “Team Parakou,” “Team Kerou,” etc. Doing individual work is a challenge with so many kids, who all write at a pace that puts the movement of a herd of snails to shame. I have taken to the theory the kids may learn better from each other, assuming a couple learn a thing or two from myself.
The kids all had their second interrogation a week ago. The numbers improved exponentially. Sadly I questioned some of the students who jumped ten points, comparing their exams to the smart kids they sit next too. I was unable to find foul play. After I finished grading all their exams I had between 10 to 15 percent of my kids failing, out of nearly 300 kids. There are still some not grasping concepts, and I am not sure what has caused the change, but the ones who don’t get it are starting to not want to be left behind. I am starting to understand how to help my kids bit by bit. I don’t want to fail them.
We will be starting our second semester soon, and I have a handful of new strategies I am itching to try with my kids, including hand puppets, balls, and being the craziest teacher in a goofy kind of way. I suppose I did not take the settling for 50 percent passing to heart and improvements in a few students has given me the hope that perhaps I can get all of my students to pass. I love this job. I love the feeling of my kids’ energy as it calms when I come in the room, and as tired as I feel sometimes I love that I try to perfect a job that I know can’t be perfected.
The first month and half as a substitute teacher was among the hardest months of my life. I am not sure how I made it through some days without crying in front of my students, and to think through most of my public education if a teacher spoke in a less than a friendly tone it would send me into tears immediately. I realize this makes me appear like a weaker soul.
As a substitute I remember one particular day though. I had to call parents and inform them that his or her daughter or son was failing my class. I called one mother, and after going through my spiel she said, “I have heard all about you from my daughter,” in this accusatory tone that could only be compared to a mother speaking to a boy she has never met and that has just broken her daughters heart. She spoke to me as if I was a child, hitting on my weakness of being only 23 years old—a target the kids constantly reminded me of. She continued, “Have you ever thought maybe it’s you? That you are not a good teacher, and that is why my daughter is failing?” I looked down at her daughter’s grade sheet and saw she had turned in two things since I had arrived in February, it was almost April. I am not sure what words I struggled to get out after she said that, but I could feel the rage in her voice. She spoke to me as if she knew me, and she hadn’t the faintest idea of who I was or what I was going through, and I could tell she really didn’t give a shit, either way. I shut down, and hurried the conversation along in the best way I knew possible. Once off the phone I cried. Several of my students failed the third semester and many because they refused to do work. I didn’t take that as my problem, I can’t grade what I don’t have, and I gave them every opportunity to do the work. The administration did not feel the same way, and I spent my fourth semester really doing everything possible to get my kids to pass.
Before beginning to teach in Benin all the TEFL volunteers went through training, which involved four weeks of teaching local kids through a summer school program, and having other volunteers and Beninese teachers observe you. The first week I struggled to get through my entire lessons. The criticism: I was trying to make sure everyone learned. “You are lucky if half of your class passes,” a volunteer said to me, in a tone which made it apparent that it was acceptable when this happened. In my heart I could not accept this, it was my job to teach, and for me that meant everyone.
My first month at post was among the hardest months of my life. I was faced with classrooms of students whose numbers were growing into the 70s. I was teaching English to students, who spoke the local language and a smattering of French. I spoke French, but my accent I imagine is like listening to the Asian teacher, who speaks English well, but you can’t understand most of the words, well because each word has an added Chinese or Japanese sound to it. Of course the kids snickered. I have perhaps a false sense of entitlement. I am American and know English well therefore these kids should be nothing short of as excited as children waiting in line to talk to Santa for the first time at the local mall. They should have their heads open ready for me to dump my infinite wisdom. I realize the naïveté of this now. Humans are an interesting sort, and by humans at this moment I mean myself. I hate making mistakes, I want to do everything right, but I find myself learning infinitely more by making mistakes. After a lecture about getting to angry with my students from the Beninese school teachers, despite my protests I took it to heart. I also took my kids confusion, and waning interest to heart. I needed to find a way for them to learn, all 70 of them.
 |
| Students copy in class. Luckily their pace quickens everyday. |
The kids all had their second interrogation a week ago. The numbers improved exponentially. Sadly I questioned some of the students who jumped ten points, comparing their exams to the smart kids they sit next too. I was unable to find foul play. After I finished grading all their exams I had between 10 to 15 percent of my kids failing, out of nearly 300 kids. There are still some not grasping concepts, and I am not sure what has caused the change, but the ones who don’t get it are starting to not want to be left behind. I am starting to understand how to help my kids bit by bit. I don’t want to fail them.
We will be starting our second semester soon, and I have a handful of new strategies I am itching to try with my kids, including hand puppets, balls, and being the craziest teacher in a goofy kind of way. I suppose I did not take the settling for 50 percent passing to heart and improvements in a few students has given me the hope that perhaps I can get all of my students to pass. I love this job. I love the feeling of my kids’ energy as it calms when I come in the room, and as tired as I feel sometimes I love that I try to perfect a job that I know can’t be perfected.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Mother of Matéri
Knowing my Mama now it is no wonder I have been taken in as a family member. She rejects nearly no one. My Mama is a short lady, she is shorter than me. She is strong and thin mostly, except for a little round belly that she admires proudly when she is finished eating. She jokes about making me fat before I go back to the States—it is good to be fat here and considered attractive.
Around the house she has two panyas wrapped around her, and normally wears a western style shirt—shirts that you can by at the mall for going clubbing when you are a teenager. Around her head in the day she wraps a cloth, at night she leaves her head bare, which shows her short hair and makes her look older.
I am not sure how old she really is, she jokes that she is old. I asked my sister once, she said she thought maybe 51. Age is irrelevant here. Her skin is dark, and she has a unique nose that her daughter, Petra shares. It is not a typical African nose, and it comes to a point. Petra acknowledged this, saying it was a “white” person like nose. My Mama has a great big smile, and large white teeth. In the mornings she chews on a stick—the Benin toothbrush—to keep them clean, spitting out bits of wood onto the ground, watching and making sure the children are sweeping and doing their morning choirs in a timely fashion.
Petra is her only actual blood child. There is no mistaking the two are related. Then there is Huegette, a niece—her parents live in Natitingou. Huegette is a tall solid teenage girl. She has a gentle voice, but a strong presence. She works hard, studies a lot, and almost never gives my Mama any problems. Then there is Maiveux, who is my Mama’s grand daughter. She is Sophie’s child. I did not know this for nearly a month. My Mama pays for her to go to private school. It is about 30,000 CFA, which is a lot of Benin. Then there is Presca, who we as of late refer to as a crazy person—she exhibits the hoppng behavior of the aforementioned crazy man. Presca has no family relation, but my Mama feeds and clothes her, and gives her a place to stay.
Then there is me. She calls me and Petra her benjamins, which is the French word for youngest. She knows I am the youngest in my family back home. At the same time I often jokingly called Papa Jamie. Last week, there was a meeting for the parents of students at the private school. I went along as one of Mieuveux’s parents. Mieuviex no runs her homework and studies by both me and Mama. I am not sure when, but I assume recently, like in the last few years, my Mama’s husband passed away. Yesterday I ate my lunch quickly and was given more. My mama explained I should say when I want more food, there is no man here after all, just her and I.
During the course of a week people come in and out of the concession. Last week a lady came in with a baby. The lady was to old to be the baby’s mother, apparently the mother had passed away. The lady did not know how to feed the baby. She gave the baby her breast to feed from, but at age 60 or so, my guess is that did not yield much success. My Mama had one of the girls go get some unsweetened condensed milk, and another boil water. She mixed together some milk, and fed the baby. She explained carefully how she made the concoction and the lady went on her way. Yesterday she went to a nearby village and got a free huge can of powdered milk for babies, which she gave the lady.
On Thursdays the two of us set out into the market. There is an elderly woman, who lives behind the Catholic Church, she had twelve kids, and now uses canes to help her walk—she is over 80 I am sure. I always saluer the woman, and my Mama always quickly gives her 50CFA.
A vendor came by to sell some jewelry. I bought a necklace and earrings. My mama saw a pair she liked, but didn’t by it. She didn’t have the money she said. Yesterday she bought a primary school student all her supplies for school.
Petra told Mama that one of her friends father’s children was sick. Malaria. We left a little after 8 p.m. to go saluer them and see if they were doing better. On arrival my Mama asked if they had a mosquito net. They did not have one big enough for their mattress. After departing the house, my Mama went to the pharmacy and asked about a double size net. They said there wasn’t any, she insisted they look. Five minutes later they found one. They gave it to her, and she had one of the students take it back to the family.
The past few nights the two of us have set off the maternity ward, where my Mama baths some of the babies, and get on the new mothers when they aren’t breastfeeding properly.
Sometimes my Mama takes out old pictures of past volunteers. She is so proud of their work, but I can’t help but want a picture with her, because I am so proud to know her, the mother of Matéri.
Around the house she has two panyas wrapped around her, and normally wears a western style shirt—shirts that you can by at the mall for going clubbing when you are a teenager. Around her head in the day she wraps a cloth, at night she leaves her head bare, which shows her short hair and makes her look older.
I am not sure how old she really is, she jokes that she is old. I asked my sister once, she said she thought maybe 51. Age is irrelevant here. Her skin is dark, and she has a unique nose that her daughter, Petra shares. It is not a typical African nose, and it comes to a point. Petra acknowledged this, saying it was a “white” person like nose. My Mama has a great big smile, and large white teeth. In the mornings she chews on a stick—the Benin toothbrush—to keep them clean, spitting out bits of wood onto the ground, watching and making sure the children are sweeping and doing their morning choirs in a timely fashion.
Petra is her only actual blood child. There is no mistaking the two are related. Then there is Huegette, a niece—her parents live in Natitingou. Huegette is a tall solid teenage girl. She has a gentle voice, but a strong presence. She works hard, studies a lot, and almost never gives my Mama any problems. Then there is Maiveux, who is my Mama’s grand daughter. She is Sophie’s child. I did not know this for nearly a month. My Mama pays for her to go to private school. It is about 30,000 CFA, which is a lot of Benin. Then there is Presca, who we as of late refer to as a crazy person—she exhibits the hoppng behavior of the aforementioned crazy man. Presca has no family relation, but my Mama feeds and clothes her, and gives her a place to stay.
Then there is me. She calls me and Petra her benjamins, which is the French word for youngest. She knows I am the youngest in my family back home. At the same time I often jokingly called Papa Jamie. Last week, there was a meeting for the parents of students at the private school. I went along as one of Mieuveux’s parents. Mieuviex no runs her homework and studies by both me and Mama. I am not sure when, but I assume recently, like in the last few years, my Mama’s husband passed away. Yesterday I ate my lunch quickly and was given more. My mama explained I should say when I want more food, there is no man here after all, just her and I.
During the course of a week people come in and out of the concession. Last week a lady came in with a baby. The lady was to old to be the baby’s mother, apparently the mother had passed away. The lady did not know how to feed the baby. She gave the baby her breast to feed from, but at age 60 or so, my guess is that did not yield much success. My Mama had one of the girls go get some unsweetened condensed milk, and another boil water. She mixed together some milk, and fed the baby. She explained carefully how she made the concoction and the lady went on her way. Yesterday she went to a nearby village and got a free huge can of powdered milk for babies, which she gave the lady.
On Thursdays the two of us set out into the market. There is an elderly woman, who lives behind the Catholic Church, she had twelve kids, and now uses canes to help her walk—she is over 80 I am sure. I always saluer the woman, and my Mama always quickly gives her 50CFA.
A vendor came by to sell some jewelry. I bought a necklace and earrings. My mama saw a pair she liked, but didn’t by it. She didn’t have the money she said. Yesterday she bought a primary school student all her supplies for school.
Petra told Mama that one of her friends father’s children was sick. Malaria. We left a little after 8 p.m. to go saluer them and see if they were doing better. On arrival my Mama asked if they had a mosquito net. They did not have one big enough for their mattress. After departing the house, my Mama went to the pharmacy and asked about a double size net. They said there wasn’t any, she insisted they look. Five minutes later they found one. They gave it to her, and she had one of the students take it back to the family.
The past few nights the two of us have set off the maternity ward, where my Mama baths some of the babies, and get on the new mothers when they aren’t breastfeeding properly.
Sometimes my Mama takes out old pictures of past volunteers. She is so proud of their work, but I can’t help but want a picture with her, because I am so proud to know her, the mother of Matéri.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A Typical Day
It’s 6:30 a.m. I know because the guinea hens and chicken are running across my tin roof once again. They come almost every morning, and even though I know it is them making the thunderous sound I can’t help but always feel initially uneasy.
Like most days I wanted to get up at 6 a.m. but I know I don’t have to get up, and so I lie in my bed, underneath my mosquito net, ignoring my watch, which beeps every five minutes. When I finally get up it is because the light is starting to really peak its way into my room. Most of the time it is because my stomach has started to turn a little and I must use the bathroom. Tearing the mosquito net from out under my mattress I slip on my flip-flops, search for my panya to wrap around me, and make my way to the bathroom.
I am lucky because I don’t have a latrine for my bathroom. I have a toilet, which I dump water down to force “things” down. I have running water that comes out of two sides of the wall. I keep a bucket under the side closest to the toilet, and the other end has a basin, which I use for showering. The mornings are often cold, and so I skip a shower. On occasion I will wash my feet and legs, and my face.
I check the bucket in my kitchen to see how much filtered and boiled water I have, and then I check the time. Normally I need about twenty minutes to boil a sizeable amount of water from the filter. Time permitting I boil water in the morning or throughout Friday and Saturday, when I don’t have class.
Water boiling on my gas stove, I unlock my front door, and put a rock up against it to prevent it from shutting all the way. Then I take to sweeping my house. The floors are made of cement, and I have resolved to know I will never ever get all the dust that blows into my house out.
When the water has made its way to a rolling boil, I set my stop watch and wait for three minutes. After it is finished I make sure my screen door is closed and I cut along the side of my house to my neighbors and saluer everyone—that is if my Mama has not come and done it first.
Around 7:30 I collect my belongings for teaching, and roll my bike out of my living room where it sleeps at night to avoid being stolen and wear and tear from the weather. I make my way over to say good bye to my neighbors, and then I set out on my ten minute bike ride to school.
I teach Monday through Thursday. I have class at 8 a.m. every morning, except for Mondays. The ride to school is not as scenic as other areas of Matéri, such as the pirage. I pass by the maket, which on Thursdays is booming with vendors from all the local villages, and Tangieuta. Past the market I pass by a group of zemijan drivers sitting around, I suppose waiting, not impatiently, for customers. Along a dirt road with bumps and patches of sandy drifts I ride my bike, dodging students on the right, who are walking close to the bush, on their way to the primary school, and the C.E.G., where I teach. I also make my way past students on their bicycles that by and large are to big for them. In some cases an extra student has mounted themselves on top of the metal piece above the back tire behind the main seat of the bicycle. Behind me I keep my ears a lot for motos. I can normally tell when a professor is behind me, because he won’t honk his horn at me, but wait for a good time to pass me. In front of me I also watch for motos and cars, although I normally only a see a few this early.
I teach two hour blocks. I never have more than three classes, and I have a three hour break in the middle of the day, repo. At school I try to always make time to saluer the administration after I finish locking up my bike to my tree, and before heading off to my class of 65 to 70 plus students.
During repo I spent my time at my neighbors, grading papers, reading a book, or playing with the puppies. We eat lunch, and typically a least one or two people wander in to saluer, sell, or ask for help from my Mama. She is like the mother of Matéri. She turns no one away and helps all those she can.
In the afternoons, if I am not teaching, I plan my lessons, write, read, or do house work, all the while listening to the mischievous children next door play with my neighbors children, who inevitably have work they should be doing, and when it isn’t don’t will prompt my Mama to yell at them when she gets home.
When my Mama arrives I collect my things and go sit over with her and the other family members. When night sets in and the electricity cuts on, a few students come into the concession to study under the light. Normally my Mama sets up her cot and falls in and out of sleep before she showers and eats dinner. Around 8 p.m. my sister Petra always watches the Italian soap opera on TV. Depending on work and fatigue I normally head to get ready for sleep around 8 or 9 p.m. I say I am going to bed, but normally I stay up reading, or talk to people in the States later on in the week.
I check my water again, to see if I need to filter some more, and I dump the boiled water from the morning into the bucket. I shower and nestle undet my mosquito net, with the lights out, except for my lamp that I switch off after I start dosing off uncontrollably.
Like most days I wanted to get up at 6 a.m. but I know I don’t have to get up, and so I lie in my bed, underneath my mosquito net, ignoring my watch, which beeps every five minutes. When I finally get up it is because the light is starting to really peak its way into my room. Most of the time it is because my stomach has started to turn a little and I must use the bathroom. Tearing the mosquito net from out under my mattress I slip on my flip-flops, search for my panya to wrap around me, and make my way to the bathroom.
I am lucky because I don’t have a latrine for my bathroom. I have a toilet, which I dump water down to force “things” down. I have running water that comes out of two sides of the wall. I keep a bucket under the side closest to the toilet, and the other end has a basin, which I use for showering. The mornings are often cold, and so I skip a shower. On occasion I will wash my feet and legs, and my face.
I check the bucket in my kitchen to see how much filtered and boiled water I have, and then I check the time. Normally I need about twenty minutes to boil a sizeable amount of water from the filter. Time permitting I boil water in the morning or throughout Friday and Saturday, when I don’t have class.
Water boiling on my gas stove, I unlock my front door, and put a rock up against it to prevent it from shutting all the way. Then I take to sweeping my house. The floors are made of cement, and I have resolved to know I will never ever get all the dust that blows into my house out.
When the water has made its way to a rolling boil, I set my stop watch and wait for three minutes. After it is finished I make sure my screen door is closed and I cut along the side of my house to my neighbors and saluer everyone—that is if my Mama has not come and done it first.
Around 7:30 I collect my belongings for teaching, and roll my bike out of my living room where it sleeps at night to avoid being stolen and wear and tear from the weather. I make my way over to say good bye to my neighbors, and then I set out on my ten minute bike ride to school.
I teach Monday through Thursday. I have class at 8 a.m. every morning, except for Mondays. The ride to school is not as scenic as other areas of Matéri, such as the pirage. I pass by the maket, which on Thursdays is booming with vendors from all the local villages, and Tangieuta. Past the market I pass by a group of zemijan drivers sitting around, I suppose waiting, not impatiently, for customers. Along a dirt road with bumps and patches of sandy drifts I ride my bike, dodging students on the right, who are walking close to the bush, on their way to the primary school, and the C.E.G., where I teach. I also make my way past students on their bicycles that by and large are to big for them. In some cases an extra student has mounted themselves on top of the metal piece above the back tire behind the main seat of the bicycle. Behind me I keep my ears a lot for motos. I can normally tell when a professor is behind me, because he won’t honk his horn at me, but wait for a good time to pass me. In front of me I also watch for motos and cars, although I normally only a see a few this early.
I teach two hour blocks. I never have more than three classes, and I have a three hour break in the middle of the day, repo. At school I try to always make time to saluer the administration after I finish locking up my bike to my tree, and before heading off to my class of 65 to 70 plus students.
During repo I spent my time at my neighbors, grading papers, reading a book, or playing with the puppies. We eat lunch, and typically a least one or two people wander in to saluer, sell, or ask for help from my Mama. She is like the mother of Matéri. She turns no one away and helps all those she can.
In the afternoons, if I am not teaching, I plan my lessons, write, read, or do house work, all the while listening to the mischievous children next door play with my neighbors children, who inevitably have work they should be doing, and when it isn’t don’t will prompt my Mama to yell at them when she gets home.
When my Mama arrives I collect my things and go sit over with her and the other family members. When night sets in and the electricity cuts on, a few students come into the concession to study under the light. Normally my Mama sets up her cot and falls in and out of sleep before she showers and eats dinner. Around 8 p.m. my sister Petra always watches the Italian soap opera on TV. Depending on work and fatigue I normally head to get ready for sleep around 8 or 9 p.m. I say I am going to bed, but normally I stay up reading, or talk to people in the States later on in the week.
I check my water again, to see if I need to filter some more, and I dump the boiled water from the morning into the bucket. I shower and nestle undet my mosquito net, with the lights out, except for my lamp that I switch off after I start dosing off uncontrollably.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Had a Bad Day
Last Friday night my PC friend Erin called me. She was having a bad day. A professor had scolded her because she didn’t hang out and talk with the other professors. On top of this agitation she should not cry in public, which is where she was—I suggested sunglasses. We talked for about 20 minutes, interrupting conversations to go purchase more credit for our phones. I was worried about Erin. She is a great person and I think she is frequently misunderstood, even by other Americans here. Like me, Erin is also the only female teacher at her school.
Yesterday I called Erin. I was having a bad day. I had given my 5eme classes, or the evil ones, a quiz, or interrogation. They are older than my 6eme kids, and my 6eme kids understand English better than them and this is their first year. My 5eme kids insist I explain things in French. I try to refuse as much as I can. They laugh when they shouldn’t, and even with cultural barriers I can tell they are not even trying at times. I can deal with students who don’t understand, but I am frustrated with those that won’t even try. I had to throw out a bunch of students, but that is not what set me over the edge.
A professor had tried to help, but by helping I was worried he had shown the students I alone could not deal with them. He also called the students stupid. I don’t agree. He also said the students didn’t know any better. I agree to a point, but I also believe my students do know better, or at least capable of knowing better. The professor proceeded to tell me that I was not any different than the other professors in how the students acted. I disagreed. He did not know the countless times I have had to tell students to stop watching my class, only to get stares from the students, who look at me like I am a piece of meat—upholding their male roles in Benin society. He also said I didn’t know students. I disagreed. I had classroom experience prior to coming to Benin, and I knew students a little better than he might think—besides he doesn’t really know me at all. Like Erin, I felt misunderstood.
I wanted to explain things to him, but instead I said thank you and went to give my students a lecture, but I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was not prepared for that to happen, and so I stopped, said nothing, and just went back into my lesson. I left class twenty minutes early, while the students copied, afraid I could not hold it in, and I put on my sunglasses, fearing someone might see me about to cry.
When I reached home, I allowed myself to fully go through all the thoughts I had suppressed in the classroom. These students, these professors don’t understand the sacrifices I have made to be here and to help them, and some of them don’t care. For them life goes on as normal, with or without me, and for others I am just amusing because I am white and American. I thought, well shit, I could teach kids who waste my time in the United States, and at least I could yell at them more appropriately then I can here. I sat on my bed and I looked at my pictures from home, and I let out, through tears, a little of the home sickness I had been battling with. I wished for a second I could just be my old self, and my old life. In the United States I could tell the men to **ck off, or cut some other insult. Here, I can’t, it isn’t appropriate, nor do I know how to say that in French. And what saddened me more, was that in thinking that, I realized I could never have that old life back. Even when I go home, I will always know there is something that exists outside of my world.
Yesterday I called Erin. I was having a bad day. I had given my 5eme classes, or the evil ones, a quiz, or interrogation. They are older than my 6eme kids, and my 6eme kids understand English better than them and this is their first year. My 5eme kids insist I explain things in French. I try to refuse as much as I can. They laugh when they shouldn’t, and even with cultural barriers I can tell they are not even trying at times. I can deal with students who don’t understand, but I am frustrated with those that won’t even try. I had to throw out a bunch of students, but that is not what set me over the edge.
A professor had tried to help, but by helping I was worried he had shown the students I alone could not deal with them. He also called the students stupid. I don’t agree. He also said the students didn’t know any better. I agree to a point, but I also believe my students do know better, or at least capable of knowing better. The professor proceeded to tell me that I was not any different than the other professors in how the students acted. I disagreed. He did not know the countless times I have had to tell students to stop watching my class, only to get stares from the students, who look at me like I am a piece of meat—upholding their male roles in Benin society. He also said I didn’t know students. I disagreed. I had classroom experience prior to coming to Benin, and I knew students a little better than he might think—besides he doesn’t really know me at all. Like Erin, I felt misunderstood.
I wanted to explain things to him, but instead I said thank you and went to give my students a lecture, but I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was not prepared for that to happen, and so I stopped, said nothing, and just went back into my lesson. I left class twenty minutes early, while the students copied, afraid I could not hold it in, and I put on my sunglasses, fearing someone might see me about to cry.
When I reached home, I allowed myself to fully go through all the thoughts I had suppressed in the classroom. These students, these professors don’t understand the sacrifices I have made to be here and to help them, and some of them don’t care. For them life goes on as normal, with or without me, and for others I am just amusing because I am white and American. I thought, well shit, I could teach kids who waste my time in the United States, and at least I could yell at them more appropriately then I can here. I sat on my bed and I looked at my pictures from home, and I let out, through tears, a little of the home sickness I had been battling with. I wished for a second I could just be my old self, and my old life. In the United States I could tell the men to **ck off, or cut some other insult. Here, I can’t, it isn’t appropriate, nor do I know how to say that in French. And what saddened me more, was that in thinking that, I realized I could never have that old life back. Even when I go home, I will always know there is something that exists outside of my world.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday Night Dinners
My neighbors next door have become a family for me. I know if I ever have a problem my Mama will take care of it, no questions asked. On top of feeding me they entertain my presence everyday in their concession, and make sure I am up every morning.
So three weeks ago I started cooking dinner for my family on Friday nights. As I become more comfortable with life here in Benin, I find myself delving into the world of cooking more and more. I am met with mostly success, but also a few mishaps along the way. I haven’t gotten sick from my food yet, so I take that as a good sign.
Today I feel was a mishap. I know it, and I think my family knows it, but they were polite about trying to say it was good; I don’t think I have ever seen them eat that slow. Also I know what their reaction is when they really like something and this did not occur. They really poked around their food and ate it slowly. I know the symptoms of not enjoying your food, I exhibit them often here.
A part of me appreciates them trying to not hurt my feelings, but a part of me knows that both of us know this was not my best meal. It was edible, but it was bland. Very bland. The only thing I could do to rationalize all these things was to think this: Once a week my family risks me cooking a meal that they might not like because it isn’t Beninese, but everyday I am faced with the challenge of eating pate blanc for the hundredth time. I also take the challenge of navigating through dried fish pieces, which are mostly bones. I liked most of what they give me very much, but it is foreign nonetheless, which is what Friday night dinners are for them.
So three weeks ago I started cooking dinner for my family on Friday nights. As I become more comfortable with life here in Benin, I find myself delving into the world of cooking more and more. I am met with mostly success, but also a few mishaps along the way. I haven’t gotten sick from my food yet, so I take that as a good sign.
Today I feel was a mishap. I know it, and I think my family knows it, but they were polite about trying to say it was good; I don’t think I have ever seen them eat that slow. Also I know what their reaction is when they really like something and this did not occur. They really poked around their food and ate it slowly. I know the symptoms of not enjoying your food, I exhibit them often here.
A part of me appreciates them trying to not hurt my feelings, but a part of me knows that both of us know this was not my best meal. It was edible, but it was bland. Very bland. The only thing I could do to rationalize all these things was to think this: Once a week my family risks me cooking a meal that they might not like because it isn’t Beninese, but everyday I am faced with the challenge of eating pate blanc for the hundredth time. I also take the challenge of navigating through dried fish pieces, which are mostly bones. I liked most of what they give me very much, but it is foreign nonetheless, which is what Friday night dinners are for them.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Baking in Benin
My mother works in not so mysterious ways sometimes, and when she sent me “Baking in Kigali” to read, with a cake mix, she knew what she was doing.
It is 3 p.m. or 15h, and I am sitting on my new bed (well the bed isn’t new, but the frame is). I can feel the beats of sweat forming in increased numbers—no one sits inside in Africa during the chaleur, ever. Normally I don’t either, and instead I move with the sun to shaded areas of the concession typically. Today, however, I volunteered to make dinner for my concession family—starting with the cake.
I made the icing first, using a recipe from my “Cooking in Benin” handbook, provided by the Peace Corps. I am not sure if I did it correctly—it doesn’t look like the icing I have made with my mom before, but then again I didn’t use powder milk with my mom, and I was able to refrigerate the items. It tastes fine, but I am skeptical of my altered taste buds. Right now it is sitting in a bowl with a lit on it, in the most shaded room of my house—the same one where I am sweating profusely at the moment.
I mixed up the cake. Again I am apprehensive. I received eggs from my neighbor, they were difficult to crack open, and I know I probably should have tested them to see if they were bad, but I guess I am going to try my luck—this will probably later haunt me in my “I wish I had a little more common sense” stories. I decided since I don’t have the proper size cake pan, because I have to make a Dutch oven out of pans, I will make the cake three layers.
Layers worry me. I worry too much. When I was in high school I took it on myself to bake my mother a birthday cake. I will never forget that cake. Even if I wanted to, my mom documented it with a photo—as I plan on doing with this cake today. The cake itself tasted quite good, but it was very lopsided, and full of icing. It was two layers, and seeing as I wanted to surprise my mom, I did not call on her for her expertise, as I recall. This is why I did not know the correct way to cut across the top of the cake to make it flat, and therefore not capable of leaning, like the tower at Pisa.
The first cake is done. It is cooling. Once I remove it from the pan. Clean the pan, I will make the second layer. Repeat for the third layer. If all fails when said in done, at least it is like the first cake, and you can’t say I didn’t try. Unfortunately, there is no beautiful colorful sprinkles to cover up this cake, like that first; just a family of Beninese, who for all I know, don’t know what this kind of cake is even suppose to look like.
It is 3 p.m. or 15h, and I am sitting on my new bed (well the bed isn’t new, but the frame is). I can feel the beats of sweat forming in increased numbers—no one sits inside in Africa during the chaleur, ever. Normally I don’t either, and instead I move with the sun to shaded areas of the concession typically. Today, however, I volunteered to make dinner for my concession family—starting with the cake.
I made the icing first, using a recipe from my “Cooking in Benin” handbook, provided by the Peace Corps. I am not sure if I did it correctly—it doesn’t look like the icing I have made with my mom before, but then again I didn’t use powder milk with my mom, and I was able to refrigerate the items. It tastes fine, but I am skeptical of my altered taste buds. Right now it is sitting in a bowl with a lit on it, in the most shaded room of my house—the same one where I am sweating profusely at the moment.
I mixed up the cake. Again I am apprehensive. I received eggs from my neighbor, they were difficult to crack open, and I know I probably should have tested them to see if they were bad, but I guess I am going to try my luck—this will probably later haunt me in my “I wish I had a little more common sense” stories. I decided since I don’t have the proper size cake pan, because I have to make a Dutch oven out of pans, I will make the cake three layers.
Layers worry me. I worry too much. When I was in high school I took it on myself to bake my mother a birthday cake. I will never forget that cake. Even if I wanted to, my mom documented it with a photo—as I plan on doing with this cake today. The cake itself tasted quite good, but it was very lopsided, and full of icing. It was two layers, and seeing as I wanted to surprise my mom, I did not call on her for her expertise, as I recall. This is why I did not know the correct way to cut across the top of the cake to make it flat, and therefore not capable of leaning, like the tower at Pisa.
The first cake is done. It is cooling. Once I remove it from the pan. Clean the pan, I will make the second layer. Repeat for the third layer. If all fails when said in done, at least it is like the first cake, and you can’t say I didn’t try. Unfortunately, there is no beautiful colorful sprinkles to cover up this cake, like that first; just a family of Beninese, who for all I know, don’t know what this kind of cake is even suppose to look like.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Universal Signal for Crazy
Everyday I see many things, which I often have to remind myself I would not consider completely normal in the States. Sure men can pee where they want in the States, but normally, if they can help it they don’t. Not here. Women never touch a pot on a hot stove without an oven pad in the States. Not here. But even in the face of the unusual, I know there are just as many unusual things in the States. The source of the most absurd things though, I have is always people. Crazy people are shocking, and amusing, no matter where you are.
When telling stories I always torn between my instinct to save the best for last, and what I was taught as a journalist; give the important information first, because you may lose your readers. In most of my blogs, I go with the first, but for this one I am going with the latter, although this is not to discredit the second part of my story.
This morning I sat sipping my tea. It tasted so good, white pomegranate tea from Trader Joe’s—it arrived in a package last week. I took small sips, mostly because it was hot, but also because I wanted to savor the cup. As I waited for it to cool I took pieces of baguette, which Sophie (my brothers future wife) brought with her from Natitingou. I was content. Especially, since this time yesterday I was exhausted and in pain from “stomach pains.”
I hear a noise from the gate to my family’s concession, where I can be found most of the time, except when I am sleeping, or on my computer. The noise is repeated. I assume it is a greeting in Biali, the local language spoken here, that I am not familiar with, and continue to eat. The noise continues, and my Maman, gives no reaction, which is unusual; to not saluer is not proper. I look, and see the legs of a woman, but nothing else, a tree blocks my view. I look at my Maman, and she exchanges a few words with Sophie, who is grooming herself, and applying a semi-green shade of iridescent lipstick. I hear her say the word for crazy. I ask what is happening, and she confirms, it is a crazy person—points to her head, twirls her finger a bit. The woman enters the concession.
She walks in a path that allows for a tree not more than five feet in height to block her from my view. Then, like the Sasquash, she emerges from behind the tree. She is better than the Sasquash though.
I was not much interested in the words exchanged between the woman and my Maman. Normally, it would be because I don’t speak Biali, but at the moment, it was because I was fascinated and taking very mental details about what this woman was wearing and how she was wearing it, along with what she was holding. Also I was holding back a bout of laughter, behind the silver steel container holding my tea.
Adorn her head, was no crown, no wreath made of leaves and flowers. It was a flattened blue cardboard box. It had rained the day before, so the box was wet, and a little mangled. In her arm, she held two cans, one I could see clearly. It was an old can for powdered milk. In the cans were what appeared to be the ends of paint brushes, I can not verify this as a fact—I didn’t get close enough. She wore a blue-green color skirt, it hung to little past her knees. She was neither skinny, nor fat, but solid, in a squishy sort of way. I think what topped it off, for me, was the shirt. From the front it looked normal, but then she turned to leave. It looked like she had put on a shrug backwards, at least around the armpits, but at the same time it looked like a cardigan, that a child, who still didn’t know how to line up buttons had put on her—although on second thought I imagine it would be hard to button a cardigan when it is on backwards.
The only other crazy person I have seen here was a man. In my heart of hearts I can only hope these two people are married—it would bring me, and them great joy I am sure. During my first week, I befriended a woman, who knew the volunteer before me. She invited me to see her home, and we sat together. From the field of corn, emerged a man.
He made no noise, he simply jumped, or hopped rather. He would hop on one foot about three times, and then he switched to the other foot. Both feet never touched the ground at the same time. He made his way down the path, like Peter Cotton Tail, hopping down the bunny trail. He made his away around a tree, through the concession, out on the other side of the trail. To what destination I do not know. He was an old man, he held a stick, and had long wire-like hair, with white in it—very few men have any hair here, it is hot, and they keep it short. Around his waste was what looked like a tutu—I am reminded of the opening sequence of “Sex and the City”. But it has been fashioned from scraps of material, and trash, and hangs, covering up from his waste, to the middle of his thighs. I ask, Who is that? and the woman responds that he is crazy. She points her finger to her head, and twirls it.
When telling stories I always torn between my instinct to save the best for last, and what I was taught as a journalist; give the important information first, because you may lose your readers. In most of my blogs, I go with the first, but for this one I am going with the latter, although this is not to discredit the second part of my story.
This morning I sat sipping my tea. It tasted so good, white pomegranate tea from Trader Joe’s—it arrived in a package last week. I took small sips, mostly because it was hot, but also because I wanted to savor the cup. As I waited for it to cool I took pieces of baguette, which Sophie (my brothers future wife) brought with her from Natitingou. I was content. Especially, since this time yesterday I was exhausted and in pain from “stomach pains.”
I hear a noise from the gate to my family’s concession, where I can be found most of the time, except when I am sleeping, or on my computer. The noise is repeated. I assume it is a greeting in Biali, the local language spoken here, that I am not familiar with, and continue to eat. The noise continues, and my Maman, gives no reaction, which is unusual; to not saluer is not proper. I look, and see the legs of a woman, but nothing else, a tree blocks my view. I look at my Maman, and she exchanges a few words with Sophie, who is grooming herself, and applying a semi-green shade of iridescent lipstick. I hear her say the word for crazy. I ask what is happening, and she confirms, it is a crazy person—points to her head, twirls her finger a bit. The woman enters the concession.
She walks in a path that allows for a tree not more than five feet in height to block her from my view. Then, like the Sasquash, she emerges from behind the tree. She is better than the Sasquash though.
I was not much interested in the words exchanged between the woman and my Maman. Normally, it would be because I don’t speak Biali, but at the moment, it was because I was fascinated and taking very mental details about what this woman was wearing and how she was wearing it, along with what she was holding. Also I was holding back a bout of laughter, behind the silver steel container holding my tea.
Adorn her head, was no crown, no wreath made of leaves and flowers. It was a flattened blue cardboard box. It had rained the day before, so the box was wet, and a little mangled. In her arm, she held two cans, one I could see clearly. It was an old can for powdered milk. In the cans were what appeared to be the ends of paint brushes, I can not verify this as a fact—I didn’t get close enough. She wore a blue-green color skirt, it hung to little past her knees. She was neither skinny, nor fat, but solid, in a squishy sort of way. I think what topped it off, for me, was the shirt. From the front it looked normal, but then she turned to leave. It looked like she had put on a shrug backwards, at least around the armpits, but at the same time it looked like a cardigan, that a child, who still didn’t know how to line up buttons had put on her—although on second thought I imagine it would be hard to button a cardigan when it is on backwards.
The only other crazy person I have seen here was a man. In my heart of hearts I can only hope these two people are married—it would bring me, and them great joy I am sure. During my first week, I befriended a woman, who knew the volunteer before me. She invited me to see her home, and we sat together. From the field of corn, emerged a man.
He made no noise, he simply jumped, or hopped rather. He would hop on one foot about three times, and then he switched to the other foot. Both feet never touched the ground at the same time. He made his way down the path, like Peter Cotton Tail, hopping down the bunny trail. He made his away around a tree, through the concession, out on the other side of the trail. To what destination I do not know. He was an old man, he held a stick, and had long wire-like hair, with white in it—very few men have any hair here, it is hot, and they keep it short. Around his waste was what looked like a tutu—I am reminded of the opening sequence of “Sex and the City”. But it has been fashioned from scraps of material, and trash, and hangs, covering up from his waste, to the middle of his thighs. I ask, Who is that? and the woman responds that he is crazy. She points her finger to her head, and twirls it.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Rice Krispies
If only the Beninese knew that the fried rice treats they mix with peanuts are what I can only are guess part of a million dollar enterprise in the United States. This was my thought to myself as I sat in the middle of the chaleur (the heat) on a Wednesday afternoon, next to a skillet with hot oil (oil being one of the major food groups here in Benin). I watched for the tenth time the girl scoop out a few cups full of rice that had been tried out in the run all day on a sleeping mat, and drop it into the oil. Quickly the rice rose to the top, and was promptly removed before thirty seconds were up. The rice no longer was shrivelled and brown, but puffy, pale, and crisp. No matter how many times I watched this simple procedure, which yielded so much food, I could not believe—this snack was like rice krispies. A small plastic sandwich bag of this is sold for 25 CFA here, about five cents in the United States. I went home with a whole pot of the treat.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Learning to Eat Again
I think I may have left my fork in Porto-Novo. It was a cool camping fork that collapsed and was portable. My friends gave it to me as a going away present. Fortunately, kind of, I still have the spoon.
I decided on my second or third day in Matéri that my mission would to find people to feed me. It did not take long. My generous neighbor has food made for me breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In typical Beninese fashion, if they find something I like, I get it as often as possible. Also I am served first.
Here is how my crusade began. (Let me preface this by saying that since probably Elementary school I have made it an art to get food from other people. It is only after long periods of time that most people recognize what is going on.)
I bought green beans in Porto-Novo. I also bought onions, and potatoes. Without a refrigerator, after a few days, these things were starting to go bad.
It started with green beans. I sat on the floor of my house, like a squatter, snapping the ends off, as I had been taught by my mother when I was little. I still remember the small cement stoop we had when I was a child, with metal rails that had been tugged on to many times. I would sit with my mother snapping beans, which she would can that day and the next. While sweating profusely inside my house during le chaleue, I decided snapping all these beans was too much work for me right now. I was already trying to make some garlic mashed potatoes from a Trader Joes Mix that I brought from the states. I considered also having to wash the dishes. I pushed the green beans aside.
I didn’t want the green beans to go to waste. I had already thrown out some green peppers, and avocadoes. I always feel terribly guilty when I throw food out here. They waste nothing. I picked up my green beans, and I took them over to my neighbors. There was a kilo of green beans; way too many for one person. I could easily share these beans.
I sat down and started snapping the beans, and quickly everyone else started helping as well. A quick discussion about how to prepare them occurred. An hour or so later I ran back to my house to get something, and my phone rang. I was on the phone, when one of the girls appeared with a plate full of green beans, mixed with onions, tomatoes, and scrambled egg. I took the plate, ended my conversation, and made my way back over to eat what would be the best meal I had since arriving.
The next couple days I brought over slowly different items, including the potatoes, and now my arrival is expected. I am fed, and when I cook or eat anything I share it. I think tonight I may bring over my spaghetti and tomato paste.
My adventure into finding food has led to many cultural exchanges over food. My neighbors (or my family as I may refer to them from here on out) have decided the candy from the states is much better than the candy here—I agreed with them. I have shared my tea packets, and blueberry muffins.
They have shared with me something, which I can not spell, but it is like cream of wheat, but smoother, and a different kind of sweet. I love it, and eat it most mornings. I also enjoy yam pilee with sauce—everything here is served with sauce, which like most food I eat with my fingers. Yam pilee has a mash potato-like substance, but thicker. Now look at your right hand and think about tipping your pointer finger and middle finger in sauce (hot) then into the mash potato-like substance, take a ball size amount—I always am reminded of the balls I used to make out of cookie dough, when I helped my mom cook as a child—and dip it again into the sauce. Thinking about it now makes me hungry. The other night, my sister even said that when I go back to the United States, my mother is going to be shocked at me eating with my hands or rather hand, the right one. I guess the fork may have a better home in Porto-Novo.
I decided on my second or third day in Matéri that my mission would to find people to feed me. It did not take long. My generous neighbor has food made for me breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In typical Beninese fashion, if they find something I like, I get it as often as possible. Also I am served first.
Here is how my crusade began. (Let me preface this by saying that since probably Elementary school I have made it an art to get food from other people. It is only after long periods of time that most people recognize what is going on.)
I bought green beans in Porto-Novo. I also bought onions, and potatoes. Without a refrigerator, after a few days, these things were starting to go bad.
It started with green beans. I sat on the floor of my house, like a squatter, snapping the ends off, as I had been taught by my mother when I was little. I still remember the small cement stoop we had when I was a child, with metal rails that had been tugged on to many times. I would sit with my mother snapping beans, which she would can that day and the next. While sweating profusely inside my house during le chaleue, I decided snapping all these beans was too much work for me right now. I was already trying to make some garlic mashed potatoes from a Trader Joes Mix that I brought from the states. I considered also having to wash the dishes. I pushed the green beans aside.
I didn’t want the green beans to go to waste. I had already thrown out some green peppers, and avocadoes. I always feel terribly guilty when I throw food out here. They waste nothing. I picked up my green beans, and I took them over to my neighbors. There was a kilo of green beans; way too many for one person. I could easily share these beans.
I sat down and started snapping the beans, and quickly everyone else started helping as well. A quick discussion about how to prepare them occurred. An hour or so later I ran back to my house to get something, and my phone rang. I was on the phone, when one of the girls appeared with a plate full of green beans, mixed with onions, tomatoes, and scrambled egg. I took the plate, ended my conversation, and made my way back over to eat what would be the best meal I had since arriving.
The next couple days I brought over slowly different items, including the potatoes, and now my arrival is expected. I am fed, and when I cook or eat anything I share it. I think tonight I may bring over my spaghetti and tomato paste.
My adventure into finding food has led to many cultural exchanges over food. My neighbors (or my family as I may refer to them from here on out) have decided the candy from the states is much better than the candy here—I agreed with them. I have shared my tea packets, and blueberry muffins.
They have shared with me something, which I can not spell, but it is like cream of wheat, but smoother, and a different kind of sweet. I love it, and eat it most mornings. I also enjoy yam pilee with sauce—everything here is served with sauce, which like most food I eat with my fingers. Yam pilee has a mash potato-like substance, but thicker. Now look at your right hand and think about tipping your pointer finger and middle finger in sauce (hot) then into the mash potato-like substance, take a ball size amount—I always am reminded of the balls I used to make out of cookie dough, when I helped my mom cook as a child—and dip it again into the sauce. Thinking about it now makes me hungry. The other night, my sister even said that when I go back to the United States, my mother is going to be shocked at me eating with my hands or rather hand, the right one. I guess the fork may have a better home in Porto-Novo.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Post Mix I
Delicate by Damien Rice
The Heartache Can Wait by Brandi Carlile
Swimmers by Broken Social Scene
The Winning Side by The Airborne Toxic Effect
You’re An Angel, And I’m Gonna Cry by Chris Thile
Yeah by Usher, Feat. Little John
Wounded by Third Eye Blind
Baobabs by Regina Spektor
Walking on Broken Glass by Annie Lenox
Porcelain by Moby
This Year by Mountain Goats
Things that Scare Me by Neko Case
Better by Regina Spektor
The Heartache Can Wait by Brandi Carlile
Swimmers by Broken Social Scene
The Winning Side by The Airborne Toxic Effect
You’re An Angel, And I’m Gonna Cry by Chris Thile
Yeah by Usher, Feat. Little John
Wounded by Third Eye Blind
Baobabs by Regina Spektor
Walking on Broken Glass by Annie Lenox
Porcelain by Moby
This Year by Mountain Goats
Things that Scare Me by Neko Case
Better by Regina Spektor
Domestic Safari
My parents in the States own an exuberant number of animals. In recent years the joke is they run their own domestic safari in Southern Maryland. In Benin, I don’t find my circumstances much changed, and because of that I find comfort.
In the concession next to mine is the lady who owns my house. She generously feeds me, and she, from what I can tell, is highly respected in the community. In addition to care for her children, other people’s children, and myself, she has taken on her own domestic safari.
Puppies
I was delighted on my first night to discover to puppies. One is golden with white, and the other is black and white—the standard set of colors found among the dogs here in Materi. The puppies are brother and sister. The gold one, the sister, is fat, curious, and alpha-like. The black one, the brother, is slimmer, gentle, and slightly whiney at the same time. When they get in trouble they yelp very loudly, as if a serious offense were being committed against them. Of course, they bounce back quickly and are off doing the next thing to get them in trouble—chasing the chickens, pooping near the chairs, chewing on a flip-flop. They are not very unlike most puppies.
After a week here, I was told they did not have names, and was then given the honor to name them. Although my parents have had and have many animals, I have named very few—my brothers always insisted I was horrible at naming pets. Naming the two puppies here gave me much joy. While I thought I might have to belabor the task, their names came quite quickly. Izzy, and Bennie (like Bennie and the Jets).
The beauty in having these two puppies is that they are not mine, but I can play with them as much as I want. I gave them a bath last Sunday, and have set about removing the ticks that gravitate towards them. At night when they are sleepy I put them in my lap—Bennie particularly enjoys this.
Soon there will be more puppies. There is a third dog that is expecting in November or December. She does not particularly like Bennie and Izzy, because most of the time they try to nurse from her. This dog is beautiful. It’s fur is a little longer than most Beninese dogs (all of which are short hairs), and it has yellow-like eyes. It constantly has a grin on its face. Like Bennie it has a tranquil disposition, but like Izzy, can be assertive. She reminds me a little of many of the dogs I have had since a child. Her grin reminds me of my parents black lab, Jasper—who always looks like she is about to burst out of excitement. She also reminds me of Ace, because if my food is out she tries to use it as an excuse for me to pet her. As a mother, she reminds me of the only mother dog I have ever really known, Willow—Ace’s mother.
I think the family knows I love the dogs—anytime I ask where they are, the mom tells the daughters to bring the puppies to me. When no one wants the dog around, she knows she can come to me, and I will pet her.
Cats and Kitten
On the second day, out of no where, appeared a rather small kitten. Cats are considered great pets here, because they catch bugs and rodents—I have not seen any rodents thus far, which is probably a tribute to the cats. This purpose is not uncommon for cats, although at my parents house, the cats were more likely to stare in wonderment at creatures, rather than kill them. The kitten meows a lot. A few days into Post, I noticed it was no longer around. I asked about its whereabouts, and a small search was put into play, with no results. No one seemed to concerned. The next evening, a boy appeared with the kitten. It had wondered off a long ways off. It now is tied up all the time, and meows as a result. I have to occasionally rescue it from the puppies. Yesterday I was given the honor of naming it. I named it Baby. It cries a lot, plus "No one puts Baby in the corner," no one.
There are two adult cats, the one like my cat back home, and another one whose meowing distinctly reminds me of my parents cat, Queenie. Queenie on most accounts has been considered a strange cat. My dad has this rather entertaining impression of her meow. She always blinks really slow and then meows long and high pitch. You have no idea why she is really meowing, and it is hard to get her to stop.
Toads
The electricity in my village comes on around 6 p.m. and stays on until a little after midnight. The insects flock to the lights in these limited hours. I noticed a few days ago another sensation also brought on by the electricity. Toads. The toads gather in troves around the light, looking to eat the insects. Bennie and Izzy find them curious, and follow them timidly from time to time, until they quickly lose interest.
Chickens and other feathered creatures
Chickens wandering is nothing new for me. They roamed rather freely in Porto-Novo. Sometimes I don’t know why I set an alarm, as the rooster delivers the news of dawn without fail. There are also guineas running around, and two days ago I noticed they made their way onto the roof. Occasionally one can hear what sounds like rain or rocks being thrown on the roof, but I now know it is just the birds.
In the concession next to mine is the lady who owns my house. She generously feeds me, and she, from what I can tell, is highly respected in the community. In addition to care for her children, other people’s children, and myself, she has taken on her own domestic safari.
Puppies
I was delighted on my first night to discover to puppies. One is golden with white, and the other is black and white—the standard set of colors found among the dogs here in Materi. The puppies are brother and sister. The gold one, the sister, is fat, curious, and alpha-like. The black one, the brother, is slimmer, gentle, and slightly whiney at the same time. When they get in trouble they yelp very loudly, as if a serious offense were being committed against them. Of course, they bounce back quickly and are off doing the next thing to get them in trouble—chasing the chickens, pooping near the chairs, chewing on a flip-flop. They are not very unlike most puppies.
After a week here, I was told they did not have names, and was then given the honor to name them. Although my parents have had and have many animals, I have named very few—my brothers always insisted I was horrible at naming pets. Naming the two puppies here gave me much joy. While I thought I might have to belabor the task, their names came quite quickly. Izzy, and Bennie (like Bennie and the Jets).
The beauty in having these two puppies is that they are not mine, but I can play with them as much as I want. I gave them a bath last Sunday, and have set about removing the ticks that gravitate towards them. At night when they are sleepy I put them in my lap—Bennie particularly enjoys this.
Soon there will be more puppies. There is a third dog that is expecting in November or December. She does not particularly like Bennie and Izzy, because most of the time they try to nurse from her. This dog is beautiful. It’s fur is a little longer than most Beninese dogs (all of which are short hairs), and it has yellow-like eyes. It constantly has a grin on its face. Like Bennie it has a tranquil disposition, but like Izzy, can be assertive. She reminds me a little of many of the dogs I have had since a child. Her grin reminds me of my parents black lab, Jasper—who always looks like she is about to burst out of excitement. She also reminds me of Ace, because if my food is out she tries to use it as an excuse for me to pet her. As a mother, she reminds me of the only mother dog I have ever really known, Willow—Ace’s mother.
I think the family knows I love the dogs—anytime I ask where they are, the mom tells the daughters to bring the puppies to me. When no one wants the dog around, she knows she can come to me, and I will pet her.
Cats and Kitten
On the second day, out of no where, appeared a rather small kitten. Cats are considered great pets here, because they catch bugs and rodents—I have not seen any rodents thus far, which is probably a tribute to the cats. This purpose is not uncommon for cats, although at my parents house, the cats were more likely to stare in wonderment at creatures, rather than kill them. The kitten meows a lot. A few days into Post, I noticed it was no longer around. I asked about its whereabouts, and a small search was put into play, with no results. No one seemed to concerned. The next evening, a boy appeared with the kitten. It had wondered off a long ways off. It now is tied up all the time, and meows as a result. I have to occasionally rescue it from the puppies. Yesterday I was given the honor of naming it. I named it Baby. It cries a lot, plus "No one puts Baby in the corner," no one.
There are two adult cats, the one like my cat back home, and another one whose meowing distinctly reminds me of my parents cat, Queenie. Queenie on most accounts has been considered a strange cat. My dad has this rather entertaining impression of her meow. She always blinks really slow and then meows long and high pitch. You have no idea why she is really meowing, and it is hard to get her to stop.
Toads
The electricity in my village comes on around 6 p.m. and stays on until a little after midnight. The insects flock to the lights in these limited hours. I noticed a few days ago another sensation also brought on by the electricity. Toads. The toads gather in troves around the light, looking to eat the insects. Bennie and Izzy find them curious, and follow them timidly from time to time, until they quickly lose interest.
Chickens and other feathered creatures
Chickens wandering is nothing new for me. They roamed rather freely in Porto-Novo. Sometimes I don’t know why I set an alarm, as the rooster delivers the news of dawn without fail. There are also guineas running around, and two days ago I noticed they made their way onto the roof. Occasionally one can hear what sounds like rain or rocks being thrown on the roof, but I now know it is just the birds.
Friday, October 2, 2009
I May Have Sold My Brother into a Forced Marriage
I must preface this story, which is brief, with another story.
The first morning in Materi, having finished cleaning my bathroom, and loofing around my house, I decided to go find my neighbor and ask her about some things for my house. I walk out of my concession, over to the next concession. Before going over, I briefly looked out my bedroom to see if my neighbor was indeed up and stirring. I saw a group of people on the stoop, and took that as a signal to move. Timidly I entered the gate, tin, framed with wood, and walked up half-timid, and half-confident. It was all women, speaking rapidly in Biali, the local language here in Materi. The commotion centered around one woman.
Sitting in a chair, spread eagle, a panya wrapped around her waist, no shirt, no bra, and her weave thick and Diana Ross like, was Sophie. Sophie is the oldest daughter, and she lives in Natitingou.
After I saluer-ed they all kept on with what they were doing. For Sophie this meant lotioning her thick legs, and then her big, full African breasts. Later Sophie would ask for my jewelry and dress. I asked for hers. She said sure, my plan back fired. After that Sophie would say she was coming back to the states with me. During the course of conversation I explained I had two older brothers. I tell her one isn’t married. I offer him to her. She says yes without flinching. Later she asks her mom, I begin to worry I really have arranged for my brother to marry Sophie.
The first morning in Materi, having finished cleaning my bathroom, and loofing around my house, I decided to go find my neighbor and ask her about some things for my house. I walk out of my concession, over to the next concession. Before going over, I briefly looked out my bedroom to see if my neighbor was indeed up and stirring. I saw a group of people on the stoop, and took that as a signal to move. Timidly I entered the gate, tin, framed with wood, and walked up half-timid, and half-confident. It was all women, speaking rapidly in Biali, the local language here in Materi. The commotion centered around one woman.
Sitting in a chair, spread eagle, a panya wrapped around her waist, no shirt, no bra, and her weave thick and Diana Ross like, was Sophie. Sophie is the oldest daughter, and she lives in Natitingou.
After I saluer-ed they all kept on with what they were doing. For Sophie this meant lotioning her thick legs, and then her big, full African breasts. Later Sophie would ask for my jewelry and dress. I asked for hers. She said sure, my plan back fired. After that Sophie would say she was coming back to the states with me. During the course of conversation I explained I had two older brothers. I tell her one isn’t married. I offer him to her. She says yes without flinching. Later she asks her mom, I begin to worry I really have arranged for my brother to marry Sophie.
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