You Want Me to What

I can describe Post-Visit in no other way but a whirl wind. I can neither say it sent me over the moon, nor make me want to flee the country. I arrived in Materi on Thursday morning, after a 45 minute ride on a moto.

Beacoup Me Reposer

I was promptly shuffled into a room to repo (rest). I felt strange. Here I was in a strangers house, and clearly I was taking a bedroom that she normally used. I was not sure who the person was, and although I tried to salut, I did not learn her name until the next day. I spent about an hour or so in my room. I tried to sleep, but honestly I was excited to be there, and just wanted to get out and see things. I did finally go outside and sat amongst the people in the concession. No one said anything.

Visitors in the Concession

It is not uncommon for people here to just sit in silence. People will wander into concessions, salut, and then just sit. Sometimes they even take naps. It is a strange phenomenon for me; I feel like I am being rude , or not engaging enough.

While many people visited the concession, there were two men I remember best. The first one I met on Thursday. His story is quite simple. I saw him at the concession and then again when I visited the marché. I, of course, said hello to him again at the marché, at which pointhe asked me for money. So while saluer-ing is important, one runs the risk of being asked for money, American or Beninese.

The second story will remain dear to my heart. Saturday morning, an hour before I am to leave, I decide to sit outside and write in my journal. As I am sitting, an old man wanders in, and sits down. I say hello, but then we just sit in silence. The baby in the concession--I never quite figured out how he fit into the family dynamic--is crying. Now, at one point I look over, and thankfully from experience from my goddaughter Hailey, I know what the baby is about to do. It poops. Of course the baby is not wearing a diaper, and so the poop falls on the cement. I look at it and then continue to write. I don't even give an alarmed look at the fact that the poop is green. It reminds of the times our family dogs would eat too much grass and then hack it back up. Then, the man says to me Madame, and then something, which I can only interpret as clean up the babies kaka. I say I don't understand. I do understand though, I just can't believe he is asking me to clean it up. He does not even live in the concessions, and he has no idea who I am, and clearly the baby is not mine. When he repeats himself, I look at him, look at the baby, look at the mom, and call her over. I continue to write.

More to come on .... mon école, saluer, le barrage, questions about the United States

How Traveling has been in Benin

Nothing is easy. Since arriving to Benin I have slowly become acquainted with the country’s transportation system, and after last weekends Post-Visit I feel fairly certain I can give, to say the least, an entertaining account of how things work.

Week 1: How many people can you really fit in a van?

During our first week in Cotonou, Benin, we were shuttled to the Bureau in white vans. The vans in retrospect are very comfortable in comparison to the vans I have experienced since arriving in Porto-Novo, Benin. Although neither types are air-conditioned; a luxury I thought I would miss more. On the occasions where we pile into the van there was always a few minutes where we thought we might not have to squeeze five to a seat. We were always mistaken. Needless to say you can fit at least 30 people in a van.

Week 1: Exposure to Zemis

Benin is the only country where Peace Corps volunteers are allowed to ride on motorcycles—we are forbidden to drive them ourselves of course. We are also required to wear helmets while doing so, and the only people who do so. It is an unavoidable mode of transportation, and can be enjoyable on some levels. Zemi is the term used for the motos you pay for, so think like a taxi in the United States, except there is nothing keeping track of the fare. You call over a zemi by waving and closing your hand, and saying, “K-K-No.” Then, like with everything in Benin, you saluer; say hello, ask how they are, and maybe make a joke if your French is good enough, which mine is not. Then you tell them where you are going, and ask how much it will cost. Never take the price they over. It is a lie. Part of the life here is discouter-ing. You typically say the price is too high and give a counter offer. Never pay the zemi driver until you get to your destination. On several occasions I have witnessed arguments with the zemi drivers. Typically it is because they refuse to give you change and will take more money than was previously arranged.

Week 2 and 3: People still walk and bike

It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I truly started missing my car. Even writing that sentence seems odd. Owning and driving a car seems like a distant memory and at times almost inconceivable. It was after a long day, I just thought of how nice it would be to get in my old Honda CR-V and just drive home. I dare say, even the thought of traffic seems enticing, just for the pure normalcy that I can’t hear someone yelling for my attention if I am in a car. I did find last Friday refreshing—walking home in a downpour, not as many people were out on the streets, so the cries of Yovo were diminished.

I bike almost everyday to school. In total I bike at least 20 minutes a day. Several volunteers refuse to ride their bikes. Last weekend, our friend Erin coaxed us in into a twenty minute walk, instead of a five to ten minute bike ride. After riding my bike for the first time, I almost became one of those volunteers. Since then I have come accustomed to riding my bike. I notice the honking less, and in some cases even pass other motos. I take command of my right to the road, just like everyone else.

Now on occasion people here do also own bikes. However, they do not have a mountain bike like the one supplied by the Peace Corps. Instead they have bikes without any gears that appear to be at least twenty, if not thirty years old. The thirty years old, admittedly is an exaggeration. When I was in Natitingou, I began to notice that the people looked odd while they rode bikes. I can only compare it to an awkward circus act. I noted this observation to another volunteer. He explained, as I suspected, no one was really riding the correct bike size. Another point; they pedal slowly and awkwardly, because they are afraid to pedal too hard, for fear that the chain will break.


Week 4: Traveling to Materi and Back

I have one of the more northern posts in Benin. On my post visit I was required to stay overnight. I logged a total of 22 hours of travel within a four day span—keep in mind I only travelled in Benin, which is the equivalent in square mileage to Pennsylvania.

4 a.m.- Wake-up and get ready: I need to be at Davie by 5 a.m. to be taken in a Peace Corps shuttle to L’Hotel Capitale. From the hotel we (three other stagiers) will take a taxi with our directors to Cotonou, which is forty minutes or more minutes away.

6 a.m. – We depart from Cotonou to Porto-Novo. As usual the shuttle left Davie left. It was expected.

6:50 a.m. – We arrive in Cotonou at a random gas station, where there is a bus. We are of course unsure if this is the bus we need to take. We get out of the taxi and stand. The bus leaves. I put my bags down for a second to give my back a break. A lady comes up and starts lurking. The school director tells her to go away. She stays.

7 a.m. – We are told to get into another taxi. After waiting for 15 or so minutes the directors have realized we are not at the correct stop for our bus.

7:30 a.m. – At a second bus stop. We get out of the taxi. We stand for five minutes. I feel like the goats in Benin trying to cross the road, as a bus comes into the parking load, but I don’t know where to stand to not be in the way. The bus we were supposed to take has left.

8 a.m. – We don’t know the correct place to catch the bus, but we have the bus drivers number. The bus stops, and waits for us to arrive. Getting on to the bus, another volunteer hits almost every person with the screening attached to her backpack that will be used at her post to keep bugs out of her house. She and I have to sit in the very back of the bus. I sit next down to a family with a year old baby. The baby cries, the mom breast feeds. As the trip continues this conditional response continues. Each time the woman cares less and less about hiding the fact that she is breastfeeding.

Many many hours on a bus – We stop at some point. I want to eat, but as soon as I see the swarms of vendors outside the bus waiting for business, I decide I can survive on a granola bar I brought. I try to sleep on the bus. The breastfeeding baby spills water on me. The bus has TVs. They first go through a series of music videos that remind me of the Indian music video Tu-Knock (I don’t know if that is spelled correctly). The animation is the same. After the videos we get short clips of a show in a barber shop. The women yell a lot, and at times I feel like maybe it is a re-run of Flavor of Love. Sometime after lunch are bus comes to a halt. We are told to get off the bus. There is a problem in the village; turns out the village is on strike, which equates to closing down the road. We are later told that the village was promised electricity a year ago, and today was the day they took a stand on the issue. We sit down and a local police official strikes up a conversation with us. He is really cool, and knows about the Peace Corps. Then as he leaves he asks if I would be his wife. He is no longer really cool. A few hours later we are back on the road.


As we reached Natitingou, the roads became smoother, and we were surrounded by expansive mountains and just greenery for miles and miles. I feel silly trying to write about how beautfil it looked. I can only liken the experience to the time I visited the Grand Canyon. I remember feeling like for the first time I realized justhow small I was in comparison to the rest of the world. What makes up my material existence is insignificant. It was in this moment that I felt I am trully in Africa, or at least the Africa I had imagined.

After staying overnight, the next day I take a taxi for an hour, and then a moto for another hour and finally I reach Materi. In another two days I have to turn around and repeat.

Saturday 6:30 a.m. – Once again a group of us is travelling together. We catch a bus at 7 a.m. They find it strange that we want to keep our bags with us on the bus. The bus we take this time is air conditioned. We don’t sit by any babies. No villages are on strike today. That morning, however, I woke with a fever, so I drank tons of water to hydrate myself. Six hours later we stop for a bathroom break, unfortunately it is only a stop convenient for men, i.e. the side of the road. After repeated looks from a man in a green boomba, I decide that I really enjoy being judged all the time. At 8 a.m. I notice the man across from me eating spaghetti out of a black plastic bag. He is using his hands. I can judge too.

When we finally stop for food, I go to the bathroom. I go to the back of a person’s yard and behind two sheets of metal I pee on slabs of broken cement that was shaped in hearts. Lucky for me, it was the longest pee of my life. Tom Hanks in League of Their Own has nothing on me.

Once we arrive in Cotonou, I realize I have lost my wallet. Fortunately I only lost 900 CFA, but I am not happy about it either way. We take a zemi to catch a taxi to Porto-Novo. The zemis refuse to discouter. We find a taxi. The short ride to Porto-Novo takes much longer, because there is an accident. The other volunteers ponder how life insurance works here. I guess they don’t really have it here. Just like they don’t have taxes, and running water—everyone does own a cell phone though. Once in Porto-Novo are taxi is crowded by people asking for money. I say No, Merci to one man. He slams the door in my face. I refuse to zemi home, and take the extra thirty minute walk. I trip on my own feet.

Stage Mix I

So anyone who knows me knows that I am a big fan of the mixes, and I have compiled my first mix since arriving. Now obviously it is not that I can easily acquire new music, so we will see how this section of my blog grows.

Waiting by Shiny Toy Guns

The Underdog by Spoon

Secret by Maroon 5

Sea of Love by Cat Power

Pieces of What by MGMT

Pardon Me by The Blow

Love, Love, Love (Love, Love) by As Tall As Lions

It’s You by Annie Stella

I Still Remember by Bloc Party

I go to the Born Because I Like the by Band of Horses

Family Tree by TV On The Radio

Fix You (Cover of Coldyplay Song)

Amie by Damien Rice

Something New by The New Airbourne Toxic Event

Not Malaria, but it involves an insect

Every Tuesday all the trainees get together at the Songhai Centre in Porto-Novo. The rest of the time the four sectors are separated. TEFL (my sector) and SED (business sector) train at Davie, and RCH (Health) and EA (Environment) at another local—I am not sure of its name.
Songhai is a tourist attraction of sorts for Porto-Novo. Other NGOs and organizations, mostly comprised of other Yovos of the world, convene here. Conferences are held at Songhai. The drive to Songhai is along a extremely busy road. We have to cross the road to get lunch, sometimes. And sometimes I feel like I am playing Russian roulette. I could get lunch at Songhai, but it is expensive at the Buvette. Walking down the drive is a cyber café, and gardens. Our sessions are held in a pavilon with stadium-like seating.

The last two mornings at Songhai have been dedicated to health-related issues. The first week in Porto-Novo we learned about diarrhea, AIDS/HIV, and avian bird flu all morning. Diarrhea talk at 9 a.m. in the morning is interesting to say the least. The second week the topic moved to malaria. After the morning sessions, we have a lunch break. This past week, we finished early so I used the cyber café first. Then I ran into another PCVT, Jonny. While I was eating my strange lunch of salad, pasta, hardboiled eggs, and a small piece of poisson, a bug flies into my eye.
Not to really paint a picture, I want to add that I had sunglasses on. The fly was determined. I felt it fly in, but didn’t think too much of it, because normally things come right out. Your eye tears up and it falls out, or occasionally you rube it out. At least that had been my experience. I finish eating.

Jonny tells me he has a huge cockroach problem at his house. He tells me about trying to write a story, and looking up to see one facing him off. My eye feels irritated. I tell Jonny I think there is something in it. We stop, and he offers to look. Jonny is from the New England area, but he has this very go with the flow attitude. He looks at my eye, and says he doesn’t see anything. We keep walking, and I suggest he write a story about his cockroaches, where the one coackroad, who eats the others, is a King Kumba figure, like from Mario Brothers. I stop again.

“I really think there is something in my eye,” I say.

“Do you want me to look again,” he says, but not with any hint of impatience.
He looks more closely.

“Oh yeah, you could some kind of bug in there.” Pause. “Do you want me to get it out?” He adds, “I hope it isn’t one of those bugs that can dig under you skin and lay eggs that hatch out.” I feel reassured.

He tries to remove the bug, but can’t, and so I go up to the mirror of a random moto and take a look. I am unsuccessful in trying to remove it as well. I have forgotten, for the first time, to bring water. I want to try and flush the bug out. I have to buy Pure Water for 25CFA. Pure Water does not come in a bottle, but a bag that resembles a Ziploc, without the Ziploc. I have to bite the corner of the bag open with my teeth. Jonny and I have stopped now, and I try to splash some water in my eye. It does not work. Jonny tries to put some in hand and put it in my eye. It does not work. A Beninese lady tries to show us that we are not holding our hands right for the water. It does not help. Finally I tilt my head back, and Jonny dumps some water on my face. The first time, most of it does not even get in my eye, but on my shirt. The second time is more successful. We look, and the black spec is still under my bottom eyelid. Jonny asks if I have anything in my purse that we could use. I don’t know what this vague “thing” would be, but I do see my Kleenix. Jonny uses one, and manages to finally get the bug out. It is no ordinary bug. Only part of it was black, hanging from what I can only describe as a head are three small transculent tentacles. I don’t think I have or will ever see again anything like this bug. It has been a production. I am sure the locals thought us two very curious Yovos, more than usual anyways. We continue to look for Jonny’s bug killing spray. It is not over.

As we are walking back, my eye still hurts. At first I ask Jonny if it is red, and he says yes. Again, he does not seem alarmed. Another few minutes go by, and I lift my glasses up again to show him. My eye feels like it is swelling up, he just says, it doesn’t look good. I wonder out loud if I should see if the doctors are still at Songhai. Jonny says that would probably be a good idea. By the time I get back, I am certain I can not look good. I walk up to the PSL trainer, and inquire about the doctors.

“They have left already,” she says.

I lift up my sunglasses, she gasps, and says let me call them. I don’t have a mirror I am not sure what I look like. I imagine though I look like Brad Pitt in “Twelve Monkeys.” And the reactions I get from the other facilitators are like those people seeing Penelope for the first time. I talk to the doctor and tell her what happens. She asks that I come to Cotonou. Another PCVT, Jennifer comes up. I show her my eye, when she asks what’s wrong. She needs to see the doctor for something minor, and comes along with me. I have to wait 10 minutes to leave. I keep my glasses on, I don’t want anyone to see me. I am not to worried, but see irony in the fact that of all the health concerns while in Benin, an insect in my eye was never one of them.

The drive to Cotonou seems long; it takes between 40 minutes to an hour. We listen to the radio, and enjoy air conditioning. Jennifer and I talk the whole time about our different programs. It keeps my mind occupied, but the swelling of my eye reaches a point that I can not ignore. I feel a bit uncomfortable. It feels like someone has tried to fit a giant bouncy ball in the space of my eyeball.

The doctor looks slightly alarmed at my eye. She washes it out in no other way than being described as A LOT. She makes some calls, and I have to go see an optomologist. She wants to make sure I have not cut the cornea of my eye. I have to wait a few hours to see the optomologist. In the meantime the doctor creates a make shift patch. I look like a twisted pirate.
When I arrive at the optomologist’s office, she is not in yet. She will return in another hour. I have to wait, and the receptionist tries to get me to pay 200CFA. I refuse. Two other nurses come in, they talk, and I am told to sit down. I am glad I stood my ground. The optomologist confirms there is no cuts on my cornea, prescribes three medicines, and creates a nice eye patch for me. I am hoping I can now return to Porto-Novo.

The doctor has me stay over night. I have to go out and find dinner. Now, not only am I a white female in West Africa, I am a white female that looks like a pirate. The day has been a random, bizarre string of events. While discoute-ing, a lady comes up and gently touches my boobs. I was warned about this my first week in Benin. The lady was just curious, because I am white my boobs might be different. I try to tell her in broken French they are the same. We laugh at each other. I was worried about going out with an eye patch, but I am not looked at any differently.

Drums Evoke a Small Sense of Fear

One of the first days in Porto-Novo, now two weeks ago, we were slated to go visit the local authorities. We packed into a white van. No seat belts, four to five people in a row, it is a typical trip in the Peace Corps. We are waiting to leave—again a typical trip in the Peace Corps—when we are told to quickly get out of the van, there is something we have to see. Entering the Davie entrance is what can only be described as a giant straw hut-like object. Underneath is a man, and it is walking toward us, making a chant-like noise. It is the equivalent of a god, in voodoo. We are told this one in particular guards the night. During the day he comes out, with his guide to bless the city and different areas, and keep them safe from crime. Apparently he also comes out very late at night I am told. At night though, no women are allowed to see them. We are given a serious precaution to not be outside when we hear the drumming of the phantom coming.

A week and a half later it is getting dark outside, and coming down the road right by my house is the phantom. I am outside the walls of my house talking with my Maman and Papa. I say, “J’ai peur.” My host parents laugh at me, and tell me not to be scared. My Papa tells me to hop into the voiture, and we follow the phantom. As we are driving past, he explains to me that I should only be scared of seeing him when it is very very late, like 1 a.m. or 2 a.m. in the morning.

The last two weekends I have woken up around 1 a.m. or 2 a.m. Both times I have heard the drumming of the voodoo parade—that of course is not a technical name. It is identified through very loud drumming, with undertones of shouting. Even from far away distances they can be heard. Although I have been inside both times this has happened, I have a great sense of fear. I think because I don’t know exactly what could happen if I was outside. I know violence might erupt, but no one really knows. The unknown is a curious concept for my brain to understand. At times the unknown stresses me out, perhaps because I am such a planner. I am planning on not being outside past midnight ever.

Oodles of Foodles

Last night I had my first food dream. I was outside my house with a group of PCVTs (Peace Corps Volunteer Trainees), when Brandon came running up with a special treat from Lucie, the director of PSL (Pre-Service Learning). The treat: a box of cinnamon rolls, sort of like the dollar ones you would buy at a conivience store in the United States. I don’t even really typically like that kind of cinnamon roll, but in my dream they tasted so delicious. I am not sure if I have ever experienced taste in a dream before, but sure enough I did. There was a problem though. I enjoyed them so much that I stuffed more than I could fit in my mouth and felt like I was going to choke. I gave some to my Mama and she also enjoyed it very much, although she made a face at how sweet it tasted.

I don’t think this dream is a symptom of not eating enough. I have been eating quite well and way more healthy than I was in the States. Other PCVTs complain about not getting enough protein, but for me the decrease in meat intake is not different. Actually there are a number of foods I have really enjoyed. For example, there is a company called FanMilk and they sell different frozen treats. I have only tried the Vanille Lait, and it tasted like the perfect combination of cool whip and gelati custard. On Friday my Mama made fritas, or French fries. They were the best French fries I have ever had. They eat a tremendous amount of breaded items here. I never thought it would be possible, but I have actually had to turn down eating bread. Shocking, considering I became a bread monster at places like Olive Garden, Bertucchis, and Carabas; all of which offer free bread.

I have also started to help cook meals. My family seemed shocked that I wanted to help, but I explained I liked cooking. Yesterday my Mama took this opportunity to also teach me some French words, such as oignon (onion), ail (garlic), poivre (pepper), and sel (salt). Plus cooking with them has proved to be some of the best moments with my family.

My Benin Family

On Wednesday I met my host family. I was a bit frazzled before I met them. I had been on a crowded bus with the other PCVTs (Peace Corps Volunteer Trainees) for an hour, and I had the hump seat—you know the seat on the big school busses with that hump for the wheel. Additionally I needed to use the bathroom, but the line was too long. My Mama found me first. She gave me a hug and then took my hand and guided me to our seats. Although having my hand held reminded me of being a child again, it was a great comfort. I knew my Mama would not let anything happen to me.

Once at our seats I met my brothers, Romeo and Coffrey. Romeo, 19, attends a university in Burkina Faso, and spoke some English, which was quite helpful the first night. Coffrey, 10, pretended to be shy, but I could tell he was quite excited to finally meet me. Through some slight difficulty I found out that my family had a stagaire last year (we are called stagaires).

When we arrived home I met my sister, Rosaline, who is 21, and attends a university in Benin. She is studying to be a medical assistant. I than sat with my Mama and showed her pictures of my family. When I showed her my Mama and Papa, she kissed my Mama’s face. Such a simple act, but it filled me with love; I know my Mama is glad I am here and I know she understands motherhood. She is very close with all her children. She also showed me photos of other family members. Even though my French is very broken at times, my Mama understands for the most part what I am trying to communicate. I am not sure how many silly mistakes I have made. One I made for sure is accidently telling my sister that I had a child. I quickly amended that error.

As I wandered into my room I think things started to set in. I have enjoyed most of the moments though. I hope to never forget that first night; trying to understand how to eat my food, trying to figure out how to put together my water filter (which turned into a family project that I greatly enjoyed). I feel like I am never alone, even on that first night when my family was but strangers.

Snapshots From My Journal

“There is a culmination of emotions stirring inside my soul, which at the moment I imagine to be this inner lining, like that of a swimming pool; lying underneath my skin, my veins, my muscles, and my bones.” – 7/23/09

“Driving through Cotonou the poverty is obvious, but the people seem content—I am not sure how sad I should be, because perhaps they don’t know what things could be like.” – 7/25/09

“We rode on motos for the first time. I was really nervous, but as soon as I got on though it was such a blast. I felt like such a goofball, because if one was to remove my helmet they would see that I was grinning from ear to ear. I was doing something out of my comfort zone.” – 7/28/09

“At times it is obvious I am no longer in the United States, but other times there are small reminders of home; the Colgate advertisement, a tolls road to get to Cotonou, and large houses.” – 7/29/09

“I am feeling a bit overwhelmed and very out of my comfort zone. I suppose this is what they meant by culture shock. I have to just remember to take it one day at a time and not get anxious that I am not doing everything at once.” –7/29/09

“I saw a Voodoo phantom today, which was very interesting. It apparently guards the night, and during the day it is OK for me to see it, but at night it is very dangerous. The phantom becomes violent if it sees a woman at night.” – 7/30/09

“I taught my siblings how to play volleyball today. It is so cool that even with a language barrier I can teach them something.” – 7/30/09