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.