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.
Friday, October 30, 2009
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.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Emily, Benin Style
I woke up early the first morning at Post. I felt restless. There was so much for me to do in my house, and I wanted it to be done as quickly as possible. So at 6 a.m. I went into my bathroom area and set to cleaning the toilet and floor. I also washed all my dishes from the night before. It started getting light outside around 6:30 a.m. I heard a meowing. I looked out my window, and saw a black and white cat. Big deal? Yes. One of my most beloved possessions happens to be my black and white cat in the States, Emily. While admittedly black and white cats are common, the markings of these two cats were markedly similar. The major difference being Emily is plump to say the least, and this cat, like most Beninese animals—except those that are pregnant—was not.
Since being here I have found there have been several odd moments that make me think perhaps the world is really small. Furthermore these coincidences urge me onward. Reminders that I am in the right place at the right time. The first weeks in Benin I felt strongly, not quite like I have ever before, that I was doing exactly what I was suppose to be doing at this time in my life. As time passes and new challenges arise, and at the same time life becomes habitual that feeling does not resonant as it once did—that is until the next black and white cat appears.
Since being here I have found there have been several odd moments that make me think perhaps the world is really small. Furthermore these coincidences urge me onward. Reminders that I am in the right place at the right time. The first weeks in Benin I felt strongly, not quite like I have ever before, that I was doing exactly what I was suppose to be doing at this time in my life. As time passes and new challenges arise, and at the same time life becomes habitual that feeling does not resonant as it once did—that is until the next black and white cat appears.
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