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.
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