It Starts on Monday

Monday, September 27^th: I walk along the dusty road as the sun is hitting its stride; 12 o’clock is near. I hear a motorcycle behind me and turn to see the familiar face of an English professor, Barnabé. He is a short, of medium stock, has a wide, large nose. His smile is grand, but his teeth can’t be seen until his smile reaches its full potential, revealing a gap in the front, or maybe it’s a chipped tooth. I have not talked to Barnabé since school ended in June. Finishing the usual greetings, he asks, “Are you ready for school next Monday?”

Monday, October 4^th, I know it is the date given by the Education Ministry for the first day of school. Last year they said early September, only to move it to the first week of October. School started on the 14^th of October. I make a comment to Barnabé, pointing to the obvious: We both know school won’t start until the Monday following the next.

Monday, October 4^th: On principal, I wake up earlier for my morning run; I wash my bicycle and pump air into its tires (it has sat neglected since June); I take a shower; and I dress myself for school.

8:10 a.m.: I leave for school anxiously, wrapping my panya around my waist, as to cover my knees and shins while pedaling my bike. I am running late. When I was 11 years-old I left for softball practice an hour before it started. My dad’s opinion: “If you aren’t at least 15 minutes early, then you are already late” – we lived thirty minutes away, which meant we were always more than 15 minutes early. My dad was not raised in Benin, West Africa. Last Thursday a teachers’ meeting was scheduled for 8 a.m. I arrived at 8 a.m. We started at 9:30 a.m. On Friday I was invited to a ceremony, which started between 12 p.m. and 1 p.m. I arrived at 2 p.m. I was promptly provided with a chair.

8:15 a.m.: I ride my bike along the semi-damp road. I see a motorcycle being driven. It’s Barnabé and he’s coming from the opposite direction of the school. Again the usual greetings are exchanged, and then he informs me he is going to a week-long information session required of all Beninese teachers. Classes will start next Monday.

8:20 a.m.: I make it to the entrance of the school and greet the surveillant (administrator in charge of disciplining students). He is taking down names of students who are cleaning the school yard. Now, when American students think of the first week of school they imagine paperwork – sign this, fill out these, read, sign, and return those, keep those, but don’t bring them back. When Beninese students think of the first week of school it’s images of brooms (brooms here are twigs collected and tied together) – sweep that, pull up those, sweep more, pick up these and those, move that to here and over there. It will continue this way until the following Monday.

8:25 a.m.:  Already here, I park my bike and lock it to a tree; I greet the accountant and school director; I receive my schedule for the school year; I handle business regarding the new school building; and I return home.

Monday, October 11^th: I will go to school – the first week having already passed by – and one more morning of sweeping will take place. By 5 p.m., (the time of my first class) school – the learning part of it – will have finally begun and continue on Tuesday.

Less than 15 Days

I wouldn’t say Benin isn’t safe, but that doesn’t mean I don’t try to consistently hide how much money I am carrying on me, or that I don’t get nervous transporting my monthly salary from the bank. I have been known to be overly cautious, or as it is nicely put; responsible.

Saturday I set out for Natitingou, looking to collect part of the money for the school building project; an amount over 3,000,000 CFA (around $6,000).

A little under two hours later, having ridden a motorcycle the entire way, my arms were tingling, as I waited in line at the bank. I handed the cashier the check, well prepared for him to, well think I made an error in what I had written. I assured him that was the amount I wanted.

Typically I can get away with just my Peace Corps identification card to get money out, but I had hindsight and brought my passport with me this time as well, which the cashier nodded most assuredly he would need to take a look at.

Less than 10 minutes later I walked out of the bank with more money than I think I have ever had at any given moment. My trip wasn’t over of course; I don’t go to Natitingou everyday, so there was going to the market, visiting people, and eating French fries with a nice cold beer before making the trip back. The whole time while I did these things I guarded my purse, which no one but me knew what was really inside; the makings of a school building.

The money remained in my house for the weekend, as I waited for Monday to come and go to the director. I am not sure why in my mind I believe this money deserves body guards or anything fancy like that, but I am pretty sure anything would have been more regal than in my leather teaching bag, slung over my shoulder as I pedaled my way to school via my bicycle—I at least washed my bike before getting on it this morning.

After counting the money for my director, he called the contractor to come by the school, and asked the accountant to come into his office. For transparency on the schools behalf the money would be handed over to the contractor in front of my eyes.

The secondary school in Matéri has 22 classrooms already, which are typically broken up by buildings that have two to three classrooms. When you enter the school yard, a sign over head of the entrance, and eucalyptus trees everywhere, on the right is the administration building. It is a nice building with four offices, and a room for the professors to grade papers and to hold meetings.

The director’s office is at the far end of the building, the end further into the school’s campus. Inside he has a huge desk abound with papers that sits parallel to a window that looks out into the mountains around Matéri, and of course our friendly goats. There is a line of chairs along the wall across from the desk. This is where I sat, along with the contractor, and school’s accountant.

Affairs are handled here with the utmost professionalism, and what I mean is everyone is spoken to as if they were the most important person, even if that person is your best friend. You put up a façade of seriousness for the occasion. It is in this manner that our mini-meeting proceeded. Praise was given to all involved and then the contractor counted the money.

The thing that struck me is that today more than before I really felt like everyone involved this project really believed it was going to happen. I think it isn’t off to say many times money is promised and never turns up, and projects are started to never be completed.

The contractor looked at me after counting the money and told me he’d have the walls up in less than fifteen days. His voice registered something in me that made me understand he, like my director, would not be letting me down. They say they don’t want to let me down, but the way I look at it, it isn’t me. At the expense of sounding cheesy, it is also the supporters and donors, the teachers, the students, and the community.

Case of Anxiousness

The sun was setting as I settled in to watch “Harry Potter” on my computer, winding down from a day of training, followed by my daily run. Lying underneath my mosquito net I heard my phone ringing over the sound of wizardry entering my ear drums via headphones.

When I receive calls from the United States the number never registers, it always says Unknown. But for the most part it is a safe bet to say the Unknown is my mother.

“Guess what?” she says.

I hope she isn’t about to toy with me; I hope her excitement is about my project and not something else, I think to myself, selfishly.

“I just searched your project online to text you update on how much is left to be raised and a notice came up saying the project is fully funded.”

Now I was sitting up, looking out the window at the fading sunlight and I just couldn’t believe it. Just last Friday there was $7,000 left to be raised. Surely this was not true, and when it turned out to be so, I just couldn’t believe I had actually done it. Well, I correct myself, that we had actually done it, because I certainly wasn’t working alone. I couldn’t believe that a little over $14,000 had been raised in a five month period.

The next few days after confirming the project was funded and telling people in my village the news, something other than total joy and happiness started creeping into my psyche. Anxiety …

I had been so focused on raising the money that it never occurred to me how I would feel when I actually started implementing the project. Oh god, I thought, people have entrusted me with $14,000!

I am as responsible as they come, and perhaps that is why I started worrying. I just knew I didn’t want to let anyone down. This project has to be completed as clear-cut and quickly as possible.

In a way it was like the fundraising process all over again—the stories and tales of volunteers biting off more than they could chew, and leaving without funding their project. Only this time, other voices came to mind—“I knew a volunteer whose school tried pocketing the money” and “You know you wouldn’t get it completed before six months.”

My brother made an astute observation during a Super Bowl a couple years back. One of the teams playing had gone the whole season undefeated, and for that reason many fans were not rooting for them. He said, “Why do people not want others to have success?”

It is a pattern I have noticed recently, this indirect, or in some cases direct way of putting out into the world that things just won’t work out. I fall into the trap from time to time, like the first two months of fundraising when I let the thought of failure remain a constant figure in the back of my mind.

Back then it was my own faith and that of my family that guided me through the negativity. Fortunately now it is my director, the accountant, and the contractor who give me confidence. They are all very competent and serious individuals, who only want what is best for the school. Like me they take full responsibility for the project, and while I and all of those who donated essentially did not want to let the school and village of Matéri down, these people here don’t want to let all of those who donated, and myself down.

J’ai pil

One of my favorite foods and one that is native to the northern part
of Benin is igname (yam) pilé. Imagine a potato on steroids and then
double the size, make the skin a little tougher and thicker and you
are close to imagining an igname. Now igname pilé takes this food that
looks like it was produced for the Jolly Green Giant, and smashes it
up like mashed potatoes—of course you remove the skin first, and
ignames are so dense you have to boil them for much longer than
potatoes to make them soft.

Mashed potatoes you’re thinking, imagining perhaps beaters plugged
into a socket, and stirring up the ignames in a giant bowl. Nope.
Unplug the beaters and put them away. Turn off all your lights and go
outside, and imagine a giant mortar—half my height—and with that
mortar, pestles the size of oars. They put the skinned and boiled
ignames into the mortar with some water and take the pestles to it.
Normally two people pilé taking turns raising and smashing the pestles
into the mortar to make the ignames soft and ready to eat.

For the past year I have seen woman and girls of all sizes piléing,
and until tonight I never dared to try my hand at it. I have to be
honest, my interest in piléing is because in passing, and jokingly, I
said I was going to try my hand at it, and to this I was challenged
that I couldn’t do it. My friend told me, with my missing knuckle on
my left hand and well let’s be honest my lack of doing any manual
labor I could not do it. “You’re going to break your hands and get
blisters,” I was told.

Tonight, as I saw them shaving the ignames and boiling the water, I
told my sister, Huguette, that I wanted to pilé, and of course they
were all for this—a few months ago I learned how to make pate to the
delight of everyone. I was nervous to pilé, because it always looks
like it would take great strength, and I worried I would tire after
one or two swings, but how I forgot I once played softball.

Now softball of course is nothing like piléing, however all those
years spent outside with my dad doing buckets and buckets full of
balls for batting practice certainly made my hands immune to
blisters—not to mention the added motivation of recalling being called
noodle arm until I was maybe 14 years old.

At first when I started it was amidst laughter, but as I refused to
stop with fatigue and improved in my aim, I proved myself worthy to
pilé another day.

Traditions found

I would be lying if I said I didn’t have preconceived notions and with
that expectations of the traditions I would find in Africa. I imagined
all night ceremonies, ceremonies for beliefs that others might have
thought should have been long tossed aside. I can not detail exactly
what I though I would see and hear, but I was excited at the prospects
of such occurrences.

One of my complaints about changes in Africa, not that I am an expert
by any means, but I sense a loss of traditions that as a Peace Corps
volunteer, whether we outwardly admit it or it is deep down inside of
us, want to see.

For the past few months I have taken to running in the morning, and on
my way back home I always stop by and talk to a Togolese woman and her
little boy Assiz, and sometimes her husband if he is there. Yesterday,
just as I was about to take leave, we could hear screams and yelling
from far behind her house. It isn’t the first time I have heard
peculiar noises coming from a group of people.

One of the first months I was here I heard chanting coming down the
road after darkness had already descended, and my sister, Petra, told
me it was a group of people singing to stop the rain, which in June is
welcomed, but by October becomes a disturbance, causing roofs to cave
in and crops to go bad. In addition to chants is of course drums,
which are almost always beating in the distance, in most instances
celebrating a persons death—the louder and more constant the drums the
older and more important the person.

So my Togolese friend turns to me and tells me to wait to watch the
people go by, and as they past by chanting not in sorrow they carried
over their heads a body, strapped to a gurney made of sticks, and
covered with white cloth, with just its feet left to touch the open
air.

Death in Benin seems to always be glaring you right in the face,
whether it is the killing of a chicken with your own hands so you can
eat, a baby guinea hen falling ill and dying, someone stealing your
goat and killing it, only to find it was pregnant, a dog becoming the
casualty of someone’s motorcycle, an infant dying of malaria, a
husband dying of AIDS, or if you are lucky making it to old age and
dying in a peaceful sleep. These situations are real and there is
something to be said for a culture that takes death as such a natural
process, like breathing, which it is, and celebrating it, and it is my
believe it has always been this way.

So I suppose while traditions now are accompanied with cold Coca-colas
and beers, and people with cameras, and their cell phones, or t-shirts
that say, “I Kissed Your Boyfriend,” I feel grateful that the
principles that have always guided old traditions still live on.

Back to School Shopping

Balancing the overall shock that comes when you take a person, who has been living in an underdeveloped country, like Benin, for a year, and then putting them not only in the developed world, like the United States, but a Target no less, is a task that most Peace Corps volunteers face. But on my second trip to Target I think I handled myself well; making it out of the store in less than an hour, compared to the first four hour trip. Of course this was not without a slight pause in front of the back to school supplies section, which is a marvel paired with the dollar section at the front of the store.

Students in the United States are currently gearing up for back to school, obvious by the parents being followed by their whining children trying to distract them with things not necessarily on their list of supplies for the new school year. It isn't hard to spot when I used to be one of those kids, stocking up on spiral notebooks, three-ring binders, dividers, packs of blue, black, and red pens, a calculator, which if used to its full capacity I am certain could help you do quantum physics or nuclear fission, 6 packs of 100 sheets of lined notebook paper, highlighters, protractor, compass, colored pencils, markers, and of course a backpack to put all this stuff in for transport back and forth on the bus and from classroom to classroom.  This doesn't even take into account back to school clothes shopping, which I would squirrel away money for from my summer job, and squander three times as fast when I was a teenager.

It is a stark contrast to what many of my students will be facing in Benin in another two months, when school starts in October, after students have helped finished working in the fields, providing them with the time to go back to school. At this point the students will go to the market and buy their cahiers (notebooks, which are half the size of American-type notebooks, and without the hard, plastic and cardboard fronts and backs). Then there is the standard metal box, which all students buy that has a compass and ruler, a pencil, and I believe one red and one blue pen, although those may have to be purchased separately. Most students don't have backpacks, and it is not rare to see paper bags that we, in the United States, give gifts in used to carry notebooks back and forth to school, and not on a bus, but by foot, and if you are lucky by bike. As for clothes, well all the students have to wear khaki uniforms, which may be bought new, but mostly are taken out, washed and mended for the new school year.

Now I have only considered the lists, not the costs of these lists. Huntington National Bank's Annual Backpack Index in Columbus, Ohio, provides and compares the amount spent to fill up a child's backpack here in the United States. For 2010 the statistics read as follows:

Elementary School: $472
Middle School: $535
High School: $998

As for clothes, one article from Louisiana reports that according to LSU AgCenter, the average family will spent a little over $600 for clothes, shoes, and electronics.

Those cahiers and the box of supplies in Benin equates to less than $10, which many students struggle to buy, and know they have to make last all school year. They can't lose a notebook, or fill one up too quickly. The one pencil they get is sharpened down to a nub, and since it doesn't have an eraser they use both sides of the pencil. Then there is the case of the missing chalk. If I leave little bits of chalk my students quickly take them, to use as white out at home, or in the case of younger students to eat for the calcium.

Finally there is one cost at least the students here in the United States don't have, which is paying to go to school. Education is free, provided by the government, but in Benin, the government doesn't even have the money to pay its teachers for months at a time. The students pay for their education. At Materi this price is equal to $25 (half the price of a pair of tennis shoes, maybe less), which is paid throughout the school year. This means not everyone is even going to school, especially girls, who may come from families whose parents don't believe in educating a girl, or choose to only use their money to pay for their brothers to go to school. For more statistics on the state of Benin's education visit here.

Project Make Space Update - August 10, 2010

Big things happening today for Project Make Space! Including the publication of a blog through national organization, Share Our Strength.

Link: http://strength.org/blog/jenna_hall/building_change_fighting_hunger_in_africa/

Also the launch of our t-shirt fundraiser. Buy an American Apparel t-shirt with the Project Make Space logo for $20. All proceeds go toward funding the secondary school building project (Project Make Space).  To place an advance order on your t-shirt visit Etsy.

Link: http://www.etsy.com/shop/projectmakespace

Project Make Space Update

I have been back in the States for over a week now, and between visiting family and friends, and getting sun-burned at the beach, I have been spending a large part of my time working to raise money for Project Make Space, also known as my Secondary School Building project. According to Peace Corps online Web site there is still $12,350 left to raise! Over the last week I have collected money from a few individuals and companies, which brings the total left to raise at $10,800! If you haven't donated already, please do so. If your mother, father, brother, sister, aunts, uncles, second cousins, dogs, or cats haven't donated, please do so. It is quick and it is easy, and just as little as $5 can go a long way. If you are thinking, "Yeah, hey I will do it later", then think about this:

In the time it could take you to donate $5 to building a secondary school in Benin you could do the following things ...

1. Brush your teeth (which can be done while donating)
2. Update your facebook status and stalk one person on facebook
3. Do 20 push-ups
4. Any number of staring off habits you have to avoid office work
5. Miss the commercial break for your favorite TV show

None of these take long or effort (except maybe push-ups) so go ahead click and donate. It takes 5 minutes.
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-192

Bug in Skin, Enough Said

Before reading this, I warn you, if you don't want to be totally freaked out, grossed out, convinced that you never want to go to Africa, or another reason that no one should go to Africa, discontinue reading right now.

This story very easily has over shadowed the time when a bug flew in my eye during training, or when I broke my hand by merely walking--which has resulted in a bridge being built in my honor--or the weeks of heat rash, and poison-ivy like allergic reactions to mango skin that caused swelling of my lips.

A few weeks ago, upon returning home from watching Harry Potter the Prisoner of Azkaban in French with my French tutor and a professor from my school, with their daughter, I finally took a look at what had been annoying my left thigh for the majority of the evening--a bug bite. It looked like the typical bug bites I get here, red, raised, annoying and irritating, like a pimple.

A few days later as I am getting ready to take a shower and go to bed, when I walk by my hand mirror that I left sitting on my bed, and notice that the same bug bite has raised skin around it. It has been itching a little too, but I have learned to resist scratching per having heat rash for weeks on end, which is only made worse when scratched. After showering I show my Maman to get her opinion on this development, she has come accustomed to my overreactions to things they are so used to, and tells me it is just an abscess. I have had abscesses before and I am not convinced. I put some anti-itch stuff I find in my medical kit and hope it will be less inflamed in the morning.

The next day it looks about the same, but is more red. At the same time I have acquired a cold, which is not related to the abscess, but makes my life equally miserable. During the day I start having a fever, which I attribute to my cold at first, and then begin to wonder if it has to do with this mini-Mt. Vesuvius growing on my thigh. I keep applying some stuff to it, which alleviates the heat that has begun radiating from it, but nothing for its size.

By Sunday I grow concerned that I may have a staph infection on my hands, and opt to call the doctor, at the risk she will request I come down to Cotonou to see her and have it looked at. She knows I am far away and I can tell she wants me to start making the trip, but I try and successfully convince her to let me stay put, as I will be down in Cotonou in another two days anyways. She asks if I have a place to get antibiotics in my village, and I go to the health center in the village, and have the doctor there talk to her on the phone about what is happening on my leg. They give me antibiotics.

I start the antibiotics and try warm compresses to relieve the pressure on the infection, and while I start to feel better wake up at two hour intervals during the night with a fever.

The next day I head down to Natitingou, the infection is spreading still. I make the eight hour trip to Cotonou the following day, sitting next to my friend Clay, who very easily was suffering far more than I was from what we guessed to be malaria. I safeguard my leg, which hurts when I walk (as it has done for three days) and when a person just barely bumps up against it.

I arrive and immediately go see the doctor and she suggests waiting to drain it until morning. I don't like the sound of this and ask that it be drained the same evening, because of how painful it has become. We take a look at it and she makes an opening she hopes will allow it to drain on its own during the night. She takes me off the antibiotics I was on, and puts me on a stronger dosage, and marks where the infection is on my leg, to tell if it spreads during the night.

The next day she starts to drain the infection, which has luckily started to decrease in size, if only a little. I have a high pain tolerance and I had a hard time enduring the doctor draining the infection. It made me think if the pain was comparable to giving birth that I would lose my will to want to have children. The doctor stopped and said I would have to return in the evening to have her drain it more.

Around 5:30 p.m. I head to the doctor's office and she begins the process again, of cleaning up the infection, examining its size, and then draining what she can. It is as she is draining that I notice something white, and ask if it is dried puss. She says no, and then gives me a scientific name, which I take to be the scientific word for puss, but then she continues explaining, and it becomes clear. A bug. In my skin. Eggs. What bug? A bug? Really? Died and caused infection. Suffocated. Tiny hole in leg.

As the doctor disposes of the larva, she explains again. A bug called, the tumbu fly, accidentally laid an egg in my skin, which died after I inadvertently suffocated with the cream I had put on it because I thought it was an abscess. When the larvae died it caused the volcano like infection on my leg.

After the dead larva was removed things started to improve immediately, and now all that remains is a small reddish, purple dot.

Top 10 Teaching Moments

After a year in the Beninese school system, the following is a list of my most memorable teaching moments.

1. The joy and relieve on their faces when I returned from being sick and when I told them I'd be their teacher again next year.
2. Everytime I had to pause for a mini-lecture on behavior, only to have my students look at me with such a charming innocence that all I could do was smile back at them.
3. My most challenging class having  62 of the 64 students pass English class.
4. Learning that the words "swimming pool" said quickly is the word for "f***ing" in local language.
5. Making my students sing and do the Hokey-Pokie for being late to class.
6. A first year English student unprompted pointing to a photo of Alicia Silverstone photo and saying, "She is my wife."
7. Students writing in English their future goals in English.
8. Teaching students "polite phrases" and having a student say: "Exx-squeeeze me."
9. Student accidently saying "It is a sh**" instead of "It is a shirt."
10. My students presenting and performing bands they created in class.

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Top 10 Weirdest Things I Have Seen Transported on Motorcycles

1. Cow head and body parts
2. Queen size mattress
3. Two huge metal doors
4. Three or more goats
5. Two or more pigs
6. An entire family of five
7. Two to three crates filled with glass bottles of soda and beers
8. Dozens of chickens and guinea hens tied to each other, tied to the handles
9. Wooden chairs
10.   Something the size of hay bails holding fabric

Lazy Days

It has been about two weeks since I finished with school. I have been involved in a smattering of end of the year things, meetings and practicing for a spelling bee two of my students are doing this weekend, but overall I have been mastering the art of vacationing.

In the States I was infamous for my inability to truly relax and vacation. I would take vacations only to try and plan every moment and or sneak in work at the same time. For my mom’s 50th birthday we all went to the beach for a weak. It was during the third day I finally checked email for work, which of course meant I put in an hour or so of work answering emails and writing up some things for people in the office. Last year during my best friends wedding we had a whole beach house for our bridal party and I managed to sneak in a lesson planning while driving to another part of the beach for the day. If I wasn’t working, I would planning what I wanted to do next or worrying about the hundreds of things I would have to do when I got finished with vacation, as if I actually were ever really on vacation.

Now, in Africa I feel I am learning the art of relaxing and of vacationing. Of course vacationing is used loosely here as living without air conditioning and other basic amenities might not be the normal persons idea of vacationing; in fact I dream of never taking a vacation again in which there are not lush giant white pillows and soft bedspreads so glorious one might think angels had made them. Yet relaxing is something that can be done because well really what else can you do without internet, television, a car, a million places and errands to run. Even if I have an errand, say buying phone credit, I can send one of the little kids in my concession to go do it for me.

I give myself, at the most one task a day to do, and normally if I don’t feel like doing it I don’t unless it is mandatory, say like tomorrows professors meeting. Otherwise I wake-up around 7 a.m. take a run down to the lake down the road, stop and talk to my Togolese friend and her son, who she wants me to take to the States with me. He is one year old. I come back shower, have breakfast waiting for me next door, or make some oatmeal myself. I have developed a fascination for taking the colored sprinkles used for decorating and putting them in the oatmeal turning it a red-ish pink. I might pick up a book to read. I have started tackling the Bible. Then I take a nap on a mat under a tree, or if it isn’t yet 11 a.m. in my house. Yesterday I poked around with Canterbury Tales, which by the way is far better and understandable than I remember it being in college. Admittedly though I feel like I skimmed it far more and college and I think that piece of literature fell into my hands during the period when I had mono and was half-asleep through most assignments.

Last week I started learning how to make Beninese food, which earned me great praise for simply stirring a giant wooden spoon. Go me! I also had a very close biological connection with a just killed chicken which I held while my sister cut it up for cooking; everything but the intestines. I can’t say I am as ashamed as I should be for picking up its head and making jokes with my sister about the chicken sleeping. For such a laborious day it is only natural that I go to bed around 9:30 or 10 p.m. I swear the more I do nothing the more tired I feel. Makes me wonder if we can ever really relax and vacation; I suppose all I can do is to keep trying.

The thing about peeing

A year ago, before even leaving Philadelphia, a Peace Corps representatives’ words of wisdom included things like being flexible, adaptable, and understanding. And then there was the phrase, which made us giggle like five year olds—you will become very comfortable quickly with discussing bowel movements. 

Then there was the moment two weeks into training, where we are trained in MIF kits--how to poop into a cup, so Peace Corps doctors can determine what fun amoebas or parasites we have contracted. This uncomfortable explanation was made infinitely more uncomfortable by a six-foot Beninese man explaining the process while having a shit-eating grin on his face the entire time, as if he himself were going to burst into laughter at any moment. 

But of course there is nothing like the first time in every Peace Corps volunteers service when they have to do the inevitable--actually make a MIF kit. Needless to say all of us are quite comfortable in discussing our bowel movements as predicted. But this is not what I want to talk about, what I want to talk about is how comfortable everyone in Benin is with not necessarily defecating in public, but urinating.

One of my most common complaints is how the Beninese pride themselves on appearance, even if they are poor, they always want to put their best forward, but they have no qualms with peeing and in some cases pooping freely out in the open, and in some cases in the field outside my Maman's house or right next to my house. I can't say that many days have gone by where I have not seen at the very least one man in the standard stand-up peeing stance. I repeat, the standard stand-up peeing stance. 


It has come to my recent attention some new peeing stances for men, which perhaps I was purely just ignorant of before, because I am a woman and never felt compelled to ask. 


I am sitting on my porch outside my house on market day, which I loath for the pure fact that it is urination and defecation central, as people refuse to pay the 25 FCFA to use the latrines conveniently located within the market. I am working on grading some papers, when I turn to my right and see a man approaching the neighboring concessions bathing area. 

The bathing area is basically four cement walls not even high enough to hide from the waist up--needless to say this bathing area is used primarily by men--and a door opening. There is a hole in one of the corners inside the bathing areas, where the water drains from, and did I mention this bathing area is near one of the entrances to the market that is crowded with vendors and people coming and going. 

So the man approaches the wall furthest from the market, which is backed by a corn field, which hasn't been planted yet. I know what is about to go down, but then I see the man go into a catcher's squat position, and proceed to pee in this manner. I think to myself, perhaps he is trying not to draw attention to himself, but think it has failed, because how weird is it that he is squatting to pee?


Again, I assumed perhaps this pee stance was something I was unfamiliar with because I am a woman, but then, not even a week later, I am taking a bus down to Cotonou, and we have made one of our typical bathroom stops in front of an open field. I look out the window and see a man making to do the same peeing squat position, but no, he takes a knee. You know, like you take for t-ball photos, or like when a person gets injured on the baseball field? But it doesn't end there, he takes a knee, and then kicks out is left leg as if he is stretching his groin after running a marathon. He then proceeds to pee. 


I am baffled, and yes I know, this all probably sounds weird that I am witnessing and watching these things, but the thing is it was better than what was going on to the left of him--a big Maman, who gave up on being discrete and just let her huge butt come out of hiding from behind her skirt as she'd peed, and then gracefully returned to the bus.

How I Finally Learned English Grammar

In Elementary school I am sure I was taught the basics. What is the subject? What is the verb? Define a noun. I know in my first English course in college we learned about passive voice, articles, dangling modifiers. I was an English major. I have sat with editors telling me to use the present tense, avoid the past tense and present perfect. Don’t use passive voice. Take out all the extra articles. As a substitute it was mandatory I review parts of speech, enough said. Even with all this, it is only now that I am truly learning English Grammar.

Today I swore I heard brains exploding in my 4eme class, which is a class I picked up during the second semester here, because we were desperately short of English professors. I am not saying these students aren’t smart, but it is clear there have been many gaps in their learning of the English language. I once heard during a graduation ceremony speech that knowledge is what you remember after you have learned everything. I know these students have learned all the words written in the books here, but they haven’t remembered it; whether it is because they are lazy, illiterate, or their teachers didn’t explain it well, well there’s no way to know. Not that I can blame these poor kids, I mean I am just now learning the true meaning of English grammar and that is this: it would be very good friends with Jacques Derrida, more or less father of deconstruction, the theory which boils down to everything means nothing, more or less. So here I am faced with Derrida’s BFF, a native English speaker (myself), and 70 some Beninese students who speak French and Biali, with a smattering of other languages, teaching passive voice.

I didn’t even want to teach this lesson, because as far as I am concerned every English professor I had in college if they were in graves would be rolling over. “Don’t use passive voice,” they said. “Be direct, use active voice,” editors mumbled. Of course as you might imagine from my first paragraph I nodded politely at these comments, made a mental note, and I would read my work searching for passive voice, not knowing exactly what I was even looking for. Anyone who knows me knows I can’t hide confusion, so basically for those who know me, imagine me with that face staring at sentences trying to discern active voice from passive voice. This is probably why when I looked around from the board at my students faces, we both just looked at each other like this was the most ridiculous thing they have ever seen.

Learning passive voice requires one to know how to find a subject, a verb, and objects, but also knowing the difference between subject pronouns and object pronouns. Also you need to be able to identify tenses—present, present continuous, past, present perfect, future—and know the past participle for verbs, which for most is its verb base with ‘ed’, but of course there are all those irregular verbs, whose past tense is different than their past participle. After all this don’t forget all the conjugations for the verb “to be.” Did your brain just explode? Welcome to 4eme and to how I finally am learning English Grammar.

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My Best Friend is a 3-year old

I am not ashamed that my best friend is a 3 year-old. But then again Didi is no ordinary 3 year-old. She could convince a monotheist of reincarnation and her size defies natural growth charts.

I first met Didi, the granddaughter of my Maman, in January. She was dressed in a yellow silk dress with two ties that started at the waist and pulled back to form a oversized bow in the back. A dress made for wearing to church on Sundays. When Maman arrived with Didi we were all inside watching the television, guarded from the cool night air, a blessing of the harmattan season in Benin.

Maman had just arrived back from Cotonou. She set down giant cement sacks filled with bonnes choses from the south; pineapples, oranges, carrots and cabbage, and as she adjusted her pagne, behind her peered Didi.

I did not like Didi that first week. She cried. A lot. She might as well have been a dog in Pavlov's conditioning experiments, except instead of associating saliva with the reward of food, an object of desire, Didi inserted crying as prerequsite to get what she wanted, usually cookies.

One day I came home from school to her throwing an epic fit. I don't know what had caused her crying and I don't think she knew either. It was one of those episodes of sobbing that goes on so long you forget the real reason you started crying and everything becomes a reason to cry.

Unable to bare the crying I carried her to her room, and like my pre-kindergarten teacher once did to me, told Didi she could not leave until she stopped crying. I didn't like when my pre-k teacher said that to me when I was five and Didi didn't like it when I said that to her either. I only sent her into a larger rage, made worse as the other children peered into the window bursting into fits of laughter at her misery. After thirty minutes, in which she reached the minimum of heaving sobs, Sophie arrived.

A note about childrearing. A good strike goes a long way.

Sophie picked up a small stick like one might collect for kindling a fireplace, and she hit Didi, who stopped crying out of fear of being struck again.

After this episode I was under the illusion Didi would not like me, especially after my strange punishment. But it was like this; When I was in high school I worked as a teacher's assistant one summer and there was this girl, who was just bad. I always was on her and refused to accept or dismiss her behavior. When the last day came she gave me a nice thank you note. I figured she would have hated me, but something beyond her years made her appreciate someone who cared enough to not give up.

I would like to say Didi had this sort of appreciation, but it was really about candy. She loved candy and once she realized I was a source she'd come to my door, "Jamie? Donne-moi bon bon."

One morning, I am not sure how she knew I was up or heard me, but I was in my bathroom area, when I heard her strong, yet child-like voice, "Jamie!" she said. "Oui Didi?" "Tu-fais quoi?" What are you doing? I said nothing--I was in the bathroom. She pressed are you pooping? She said, I laughed and said no. She paused are you peeing? I laughed some more and said no. Probably less than satisfied she bounced away, inevitably dodging her morning bath, which normally sends her to, well of course, tears.

Didi doesn't like bathing and I am not sure why. The only time it is fun, if she gets to come over to my house to shower. I have a regular shower and the first time Didi saw this, her eyes immediately filled with fear, and I knew tears were quickly following. I quickly told her, we'd fill up the bucket and she'd have her normal shower. I try to distract her during bathing, because I know she doesn't like it. I will ask her about different things, and this is how our lessons in English started.

It is amazing the information small children can absorb into their brains. Didi speaks French extremely well for a three year old, and since living in Matéri she has picked up Biali, the local language. I am working on English.

Didi can say: How are you? I'm fine, What is your name?, My name is Didi (she normally skips the 'is' part), along with various body parts. One afternoon, a Wednesday when the primary schools don't have class, Didi and a band of little kids were outside. They sprawled over the benches under the giant tree outside my concession, where normally my aunt sells tchuke. A little ways off from the children I tried to drift in and out of a nap on my mat. I could hear Didi teaching them all the English phrases she knew. Over and over again, "How are you?" and "I'm fine." She laughed with glee.

Didi can run. She runs everywhere if she can. One day she spent an hour marching and running, singing a song about exercise being good for your health. All while wearing an athletic band around her head that she had taken from Petra, my Maman's youngest. In an endless circle she marched, never growing tired of the song. Finally she lay down and past out within seconds, as is common for her to do.

Recently Didi went away for a week to see her mother, while my Maman was at an information session away from village. Didi loves my Maman, and when she isn't there, well Didi cries more than usual and is just in general more difficult to deal with. After a week, my Maman came back, and Didi again was wearing a dress made for church Sundays. As I went to greet Didi her eyes filled with tears and she just started crying and fleeing from me. I couldn't understand it. What was going on? My Maman explains, oh it's her emotions, she is too excited to see you and so she is crying. This went on for 15 minutes, at which point Didi made her way over to my house to see girls drawing on t-shirts, which she immediately wanted to also do. I handed her my shirt and we were best friends again.

Frequently Didi breaks friendship ties with me, but within the hour she is back to loving me again. She makes up wild tales and is so animated about everything that happens to her. The other day she told me her father was going to buy her a car, and then after five minutes decided a bike was better. She loves dancing and even though she runs when I try to tickle her, it is definitely a fake run. She consistently insists on eating what I eat, which includes what is now called sauce de Jamie. Sometimes when I steal away to my house it is only a matter of time before her figure appears at the screen door with her nose pressed to it, demanding, "Jamie! Tu-fais quoi."

Three letters and a rant

If you are smart you know not to say the three letter word h-o-t to me.

My family and friends call me, and you know a conversation isn't complete without a weather report. "It's hot" they say. I just say, "Oh yeah?" as I sit on my porch baking in the sun, restraining to itch my heat rash that has consumed me for the better part of three weeks, and I am covered in baby powder, which seems to be the only relieve I can find. I look like Powder from that 90s movie, but I don't care.

Yeah, I know, what did I expect when I moved to Africa. But think of it this way, it's like having a kid; everyone tells you its painful and you see it on movies, but you do it anyways and then when it is painful you want to rip the guy who did this to you's head off. So I fully am aware I came here voluntarily, knowing it would be hot, but there is no way to prepare for how hot it is, and yes I wouldn't mind ripping something. I have to cope though, which is why trees, frequent and habitual cat naps, and showers are good friends of mine.

Around 12 or 1 I eat lunch everyday, and just this act alone can send me into the transpiration equivalent of running a marathon in August. I don't even notice the sweat sometimes, until I feel a drop descending my calf like someone has flicked water on me suddenly. Typically after lunch, I lay under the giant tree just outside my concession. I want to hug this tree, because if there is even the slightest wind it catches it, showering me with coolness that only air-conditioning could beat.

I sleep a lot. I do the bare minimum to prepare my lesson plans and even then it is usually under my tree in between one of my naps. I don't ever get into a constant sleep as there is always something to wake me up--drums, children, music, students, crazy old man fascinated by the white girl who speaks local language even if it is just a handful of words. Sometimes getting to sleep is more of a challenge than staying a sleep. I have developed a strategy, in which I simply fan myself to sleep.

I shower a lot. Before the real heat set in I usually showered twice a day, sometimes three. Now anytime I move for five minutes I run to the shower. I am also happy to say I have a real shower now, which was installed right before I broke my hand, which was also when the heat started. I love showers. The only thing better would be my own personal baby pool, which I would most surely fill up every evening and sit in all the next day.

When it rained for the first time, I don't think I have ever loved rain more. The mere presences of a few droplets makes me smile with glee. Everyday now since the rain started I ask my Maman's son, Philippe if today it's going to rain. Like I can tell the weather at my parents house in Maryland, he knows the weather here. He knows I hate the heat, I am constantly saying it's going to kill me, and I think he wants to be able to tell me it is going to rain. So even if he looks up and its obvious it isn't going to rain, he humors me and thinks for a few seconds before letting me down. The heat shall prevail.

Tie-Dying in West-Africa

Sports have always played a major role in my life. I even have documented evidence; my first photo, at age 6, for my t-ball team. Down on one knee I proudly wore my purple Vikings uniform. Back then we didn't have the standard white pants--which makes sense, we were bunch of kids--so my mother made me a matching tie-dye shirt and pants combo. I remember wearing that ensemble down quickly--there was no dirt on the field that went untouched. Now, many years later I have returned to tie-dye.

It is common among volleyball teams to make tie-dye t-shirts together as a team building activity. When I was coaching my first volleyball team, a club one of my best friends and I had started, we had a tie-dying party. So the idea to do the same thing in Africa came naturally, and like in t-ball my mother came to the rescue. She set about buying t-shirts for the girls and while she could have just bought some regular tie-dying kit at Wal-Mart, she went through the process of ordering a kit from a company called Dharma Trading Company. She even called them to ask if they shipped to Benin. They did, but at the fear it might get lost she had it shipped to her first.

Following the volleyball tournament I had all the girls over to my house to tie-dye. I couldn't explain what it was to them, but they went along with the activity with vigor. Of course we had to work around the directions a little. For example, I can't control water temperature from the pump, and instead boiled water to mix in with the cool water.

We let the shirts sit in their dye for almost 24 hours, at the girls’ insistence. The next day on a Monday, four of the girls came over to help rinse off the dye so we could hang the shirts to dry. They were all wowed by the colors and how the shirts turned out. The four girls immediately started calling dibs on the shirts they wanted. Even the shirt we were sure was going to turn out "villain" was pretty. Another sign that the shirts were a success is the girls wanting to sell them. Apparently south of our village a group of woman do tie-dying, and the girls eagerly pointed out these shirts were way better.

On Saturday the whole team returned and I set about demonstrating how they could use the fabric markers--also courtesy of my mother--to sign one another shirts and decorate the t-shirts. The girls acted cautiously at first, but after an hour they were all into it, so much that I couldn't get them to stop. They wrote messages to each other and spread "I love volleyball" across the shirts with hearts. Next year these shirts will serve as their practice t-shirts, and while I thought they might wear them outside of that, they have taken this notion seriously. These shirts are for volleyball only. It gives them something to look forward to next year and like my photo from t-ball, it gives them documented evidence for the future.

(See slideshow for pictures)

Benin Volleyballin: Part III "I didn't do the lift, but it was good."

I love volleyball and when I played in high school and college I loved it, but I don't think I was ever as motivated as the girls on my team here in Benin. Every time I looked they were practicing this past week at a tournament that hosted teams from the Atakora-Donga Regions in Benin. They would wake-up and practice. They'd eat breakfast and practice. In the middle of the day, in the hot African sun, they would practice. It would be raining and they would practice. It is a shame they don't have the opportunity to do it more often back in village, where they are going to school, and when they aren't at school they are doing housework.

While practice is supposed to make perfect, my girls prior to coming to the tournament had significantly less practice than the other teams. We started in February and practiced twice a week, but due to trainings I had, were unable to practice during breaks and at other times. The other teams had been together for a year or so. I have to say though considering all this, my girls were able to hold their own.

The first match it was clear the girls were nervous. They didn't have their usual swagger they seem to carry naturally. Also the voice of our team at the start of the match was missing. She was out looking for the key to the classroom, where all the girls' things were, and no one could find her. Around the court were tons of people, heckling and cheering with each point. Like when I played volleyball, I couldn't stop talking to the girls, cheering them on and trying to remain calm. During the second game the voice of the team showed up. I didn't put her in right away. By the third game the girls settled down and won the game. Unfortunately we couldn't sustain for the fourth game and lost the match.

I was pleased with the girls' performance, but of course there were things that had gone wrong and after the usual post-game chat I made the girls get on the court and do lines. It has been my goal to discipline these girls and to take pride in themselves, if it is the last thing I do.

The next day we had our second match. If we won we stayed on for the semi-finals (there were only four teams total), but if we lost it was back up to Materi. The girls practiced as much as they could within the next 24 hours and we all were confident we could win this match. I was so certain, but as the game started slowly things fell out of place, and after three games we were done. I was happy to see the girls were upset with themselves--to me it meant the competitive streak had seeped into them and good--but I finally said to them that they should be proud of what they had done. I also pointed out to them that I am not sure I could have taken a group of girls from the States and done what I had done with them. They in two months, with maybe a little over a dozen practices, had made themselves into volleyball players. They played without shoes, some of them, in the heat, on courts with rocks and dirt, with one volleyball, a basketball, and a soccer ball. So to steal some words from my favorite movie, while we didn't win the game, it was still good.

Benin Volleyballin’ Part II: Getting There

At 10:30 a.m. I am dropped off at the school for our 11 a.m. departure. After five minutes the other coach calls me into his office and tells me to go ahead back home; he will call me when they are ready. Two hours pass, I am not worried, I expected we wouldn’t leave on time, and finally a little after 1 p.m. I am told to come back. Of course, another hour passes before we actually leave the school—me, the other coach, and 20 students, including the 11 girls that form our volleyball team.

You can sense the excitement of the girls. This isn’t something that happens everyday for them; there are many students, who have never left the village, let alone get in a car. They squeal loudly as the driver turns roughly around to head out of the school gates, which prompts our director to warn the driver to be careful. We bump along the long dirt road, when not even ten minutes in we decide we will stop in the first town, Tanguieta. The driver needs to change his clothes and the students are hungry; they don’t have any problem vocalizing discontent.

We eat quickly, paying for extra food we did not get, just because the Maman at the cafeteria, refused to go and count the plates. It is what it is. Leaving the cafeteria, the driver is no where to be found. Ten minutes pass, fifteen minutes pass, a half hour passes and we finally see him riding around town on a moto. He returns, and the other coach makes a joke about the driver having to go see his wife; it’s his way of telling the guy he shouldn’t have been gone so long.

Next on our trip is Natitingou, where I want to stop at the post office to see if I have packages, including possibly one with much needed volleyballs. Then we also need to get photos developed of each of the players to make identification cards for the tournament. Also there are three girls, who refused to eat in Tanguieta, but of course are still hungry. It is what it is. We arrive in Natitingou, a hour and half later. The photo place can’t make photos with my American camera, so we find out we must make another stop in Djougou. At the post office I am met with success, the volleyballs have arrived, thankfully as we forgot our lone volleyball at school. We are delayed once more though, as the three girls move slowly to find what they deem suitable food.

Djougou is another hour and half plus, which doesn’t include various stops at police checkpoints, where we must give money to keep going on our way. We arrive in Djougou, our destination Ouake, is less than an hour away.

Our stop in Djougou lasts at least three hours--or at least it felt like it. We must make copies of photos as I mentioned for the tournament. We find a place, but once again they can't take the card from my camera, but this other guy says he can. So we hop on some motos and go to his house. As I am doing this, I am thinking, never in America, never in America. After about five to ten minutes we get to his house. His wife is outside preparing dinner, and doesn't even make any face at the fact that her husband has brought two strangers over. We go inside the guys house and it is like a regular old CVS set-up to make copies of photos. Yet, the copies take a while to make, and then we find out how expensive they are and we need like 30 some photos. After much debate we decide to make one copy and then go to another place to make copies. The night is coming and so I go back to the bus with the girls. We wait for another hour and half, and when I call the other teacher, he just tells me he is coming. The girls are growing impatient and so is our driver. I just tell them, it is what it is, and he is coming. He finally arrives after 9 p.m. and we all pile back in the bus for the last leg of our trip. And so after a seven hour plus trip, which should have been no more than four hours, we arrived in Ouake, a town near the border of Togo, Benin’s western neighbor.

Benin Volleyballin’ Part I

In February, with the enthusiasm of my school’s director and consistent assistance from another member of the administration, I started C.E.G. Matéri’s first volleyball team. It was opened up to only girls, much to the chagrin of the male students, who insisted they too were jeunes filles (young girls).

Initially, I set out to practice once a week. Free time is not a commodity for most girls in Benin, as they are responsible for cooking and cleaning at home, along with keeping up with their studies. We decided on Saturday mornings at 7 a.m. going for an hour and half. The second week in, after receiving a lecture on making sure they arrived on time, as we only practiced once a week, the girls approached me, “Madame Jamie, ‘What about practicing on Sunday?’.” I asked if this was instead of Saturday morning, but no, they wanted to practice twice a week. So it was set, we’d start practicing twice a week, two hours each day. Of course I can’t think of a single time our practices didn’t run shorter than two and half hours, with the girls continuing to get some last passes in while we were taking things back to be locked up at the school.

I don’t think these girls give any second thoughts to the conditions they play in, meanwhile I have had to slowly accept them, which has sub sequentially left me with total admiration of these girls. We play outside, on a terrain that is basically hard ground, with tiny rocks everywhere. The girls fall on the ground without question or complaint, at the same time they are forced to move quickly to avoid falling all together.

In addition to the one volleyball the school had, I bought a volleyball, which quickly was deflated as the girls sky rocketed the ball everywhere and anywhere but the volleyball court. Then we resorted to using a basketball and two soccer balls, just so the girls could get repetition.

I couldn’t figure out how to run a practice at first, because I was used to having many volleyballs at my disposal. I also struggled to explain things in French. I knew this would be a challenge, but never realized how ingrained in my head volleyball lingo had become. As a result though, the girls have learned a little more English, evident by them saying “Mine,” sometimes, as opposed to “J’ai” to call for the ball. Thankfully with the help of another school administrator I survived and developed some new strategies on my own.

I had to leave behind the complex volleyball I had learned and go back to basics. This means just simply passing and setting, and despite protests underhand serving—next year they are all learning to overhand serve. I had to deal with the time eaten up by chasing balls. I finally resorted one day to taking the girls to the side of the school building and passing with the wall, making them get in ready position, throw the ball up, and passing, in a methodical, controlled process, that kept them focused. I also had to deal with how the other coach wanted to discipline the girls, by yelling and hitting. It was only a matter of time, until the other coach saw giving them running, having them hold the passing position, or doing push-ups worked more effectively. Then there has been the slower process of reprogramming these girls to pick one another up, instead of blasting each other for mistakes.

This all leads me up to today, which was the first day at a regional competition in Benin, where the first girls’ sports team ever from Matéri is participating.

Marriage Proposals

It is an understatement to say I receive one to two advances from Beninese men each week. On some weeks this is incredibly infuriating, but for the most part it’s been interesting to develop different strategies to put these men off.

Strategy #1:
Me: I am married.
Beninese Man: Where is your husband?”
Me: He is in the United States.
Beninese Man: Do you want a Beninese husband?
FAILED

Strategy #2:
Me: I am married.
Beninese Man: Where is your husband?
Me: Oh, back in village.
Beninese Man: Do you have children?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Do you want a Beninese husband?
FAILED

Strategy #3:
Beninese Man: So you are my wife, right?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Yes, you are my wife.
Me: Well, I don’t sweep.
Beninese Man: That’s fine.
Me: I don’t want children.
Beninese Man: (thinking)
Me: I don’t cook either.
Beninese Man: (thinking)
Me: I also already have two husbands.
Beninese Man: That’s no good.
SUCCESS

Strategy #4:
Beninese Man: So you are going to take me to America with you?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: I will cook and clean.
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Why not? I want a white wife.
Me: Well, I am no good, but I will look for another white woman for you.
Beninese Man: OK
SUCCESS

Strategy #5:
Beninese Man: So, you are here?
Me: Yes.
Beninese Man: With whom?
Me: My friend.
Beninese Man: Do you have a husband?
Me: Yes.
Beninese Man: (leaves, only to return when he realizes “my friend” is not my husband) Does she have a husband?
Friend: Yes.
Beninese Man: Where is he?
Me: He is at home.
Beninese Man: Can I come visit you there?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Why not?
Me: Because my husband is very jealous and he will hit you.
Beninese Man: Really? No, that’s not true.
Me: Yes. (I point to my broken hand) See my hand, he hit me and that’s why it’s broken.
Beninese Man: (laughing) No that’s not true.
Me: It is.
Beninese Man: Did you refuse to do something?
Me: Yes, I refused to cook.
Beninese Man: OK, well then he had reason.
SUCCESS

Strategy #6:
Me: (I pretend not to understand French)
Beninese Man: (After a minute or two gives up)
SUCCESS

Strategy #7:
Beninese Man: (approaches)
Me: Turn my head and just continue to look the other way incredibly pissed off until he leaves.
SUCCESS

I am Chinese, if you please.

My first week of classes I asked my students where I was from, and they said Spain, which I could not understand. Later I learned that there were Spanish nuns working with my villages Catholic church. Of course this doesn’t account for the countless people all over Benin who assume I am anything but American, or even if they get that right, then they think the United States is a part of Europe. Yet, my favorite misstep thus far happened a month ago.

It was a Saturday morning and I had finished coaching volleyball. Our electricity had been out for a couple weeks, so I had left my phone at someone’s house to get it charged. As I waited for them to bring me my phone, a man wondered into the concession in search of sodobe (imagine something like Everclear). It is not surprising for men to be drunk at 9 a.m. in the morning; in fact, I have seen men as early as 6 a.m. starting to drink. As the man is waiting for the Maman in the concession to pour him a shot, he asks if I am for him. The Maman explains I am hers, she got me in Porto-Novo. He accepts this answer, as if white people really are bought in Porto-Novo, or anywhere in Benin for that matter.

Five minutes go by and the man starts saying Madame, Madame, Madame Blanche. Literally, Mrs. White, as I am white. I turn to him and he says to me, “Are you American or are you Chinese?” He was not joking. I of course say I am Chinese, not avoiding a moment to amuse myself. He then asks if that means I know English, because you know Chinese people speak English. I say no, I don’t know any English. He questions me more, and I insist I don’t understand any English. He seems satisfied with my answer and then proceeds to drink the shot that has finally been poured for him.

Every Day is Fair Day

Each fall in Charles County, where I grew up we have an annual fair. The fair is like most fairs I imagine, full of rides that have been assembled and reassembled many times over, food meant to put you in some sort of diabetic shock or perhaps effectively clog your arteries, and of course there are arts and crafts, and produce. But what I remember most about the fair is the livestock section. You know full of chickens, goats, sheep, pigs, and rabbits. There were areas where you could pet these animals and some were just for show. For some of us in Charles County, mainly those of us who did not live on a farm, this was the once a year chance to see these animals. But here in Benin, every day is fair day, and I am always buying a ticket for the show.

Donkeys
We have weekly meetings at my school within our departments. To be frank I'd rather count the grains of sand in the Sahara desert than go to these meetings. Needless to say I don't feel guilty when I let my eyes wander. I think my favorite time was when three donkeys wandered into the school yard. They walked in what I felt was a perfect line. I literally sat for maybe ten minutes watching these donkeys march by and go to the water pump in the center of the school yard.

Pigs
Wednesday evening, I hear children yelling outside the concessions, not unusual. The voices get more animated, not necessarily angry, and even though I don't understand what they are saying (they are speaking local language) I can tell insults are being said. This prompts my Maman to go outside and see what is going on. She comes back a minute later and starts explaining what is happening in local language to the zemi driver who has come over. All I understand is that there is stealing and pigs involved. Turns out the pig is missing and the kids were trying to find it and the neighbors said they were trying to steal their pig. Then the next 15 minutes is spent finding the correct pig and coaxing back home.

Chickens
Every night the young girl in my concession is in charge of trapping the chickens and putting them in their coop. I never thought two things about this, until one night I was on the phone with my mom and they shut the lights out and commotion was going on to catch one of the chickens. My mom asked what was going on, and I replied, "Oh they are just getting the chickens in for the night."

Goats
I love goats. There are goats everywhere in Materi and in Benin in general. They are what squirrels are to Maryland. My Maman had a goat this past winter and after I returned from Safari, my family told me the goat had been stolen. It has been returned, but whomever stole it had already killed it. My Maman was not home, but my older brother proceeded to launch a full out investigation to catch the culprit. He was successful and subsequently the three of us spent the whole next day at the police figuring out what to do. Eventually the man gave my Maman the money for the goat.

Animals and Transportation
I was waiting for a taxi in the town near my village, when I see a taxi go by. It looks empty, but as it passes I see it is filled with nothing but pigs. And to this end I have seen the following animals stacked on not just tops of cars, but motorcycles and bicycles: chickens, goats, pigs, cows, and guinea hens. I guess there needs to be some way to move the fair along.

Not Saving a Child from a Well

I wish someone could have got me breaking my hand on film and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself after I did it. It was 6:30 a.m. I had three or four hours of sleep and was off heading to catch an eight-hour bus ride down to the country’s commercial capital, Cotonou. Still dark outside, I know I won’t be able to find a zemi (moto) to get me to the bus, and so I am walking hurriedly to get there on time. I have managed to fit all my stuff for a week in one bag, but the bag is rather large, as is my purse. I carry my helmet in my left hand, with the visor open I wrap my hand through there to hold it.

For being so early and having so little sleep, my mind was racing over whether I had everything and all the things I needed to do this week and just in general the trip ahead of me. As I am going over this I consider how I should maybe get my cell phone out to use the flashlight, since I can’t see. I start digging around in my purse and it is at this moment I trip and fall, landing on my left hand, holding the helmet and then lay out flat, scrapping my right knee and my big toe.

I just start swearing at myself, mostly because I am in a hurry and I am slowing myself down, and then because I realize how much the fall hurt. I stand up and I think, "Hey, I think I just jammed some fingers." As I am walking I realize my right hand is bleeding. I should go back to the work station and clean myself up, but I veto the idea, not wanting to miss the bus and because I have a travel first aid kit with me.

So I sit on the bus for eight hours. My hand is killing me. I look at it and think it is just jammed and well it will be fine. I don’t move it and four hours into the trip I finally dig out something from my purse to take for the pain. When I make it to the work station I ice it, and figure if it still hurts in the morning I will go see the doctors.

In 24 years I have done many a things that could have caused me to break a bone, but of course it is tripping and falling that does it. The next day an x-ray shows it is broken and I have to wear a cast for six weeks, which happens to coincide with the same time of the hot season.

Today I am getting my cast off and it has an awful, worse than pungent smell to it. I have resolved to sleeping with my arm as far away from my face as possible. I am embarassed to be too close to anyone else for fear they may think it is me that smells. The doctors think the smell might be because I exposed it to water, my response: "If by water you mean sweat than yes it has been exposed to a lot of moisture."

What I Have Become

It’s Saturday night. It is the first time in over a month I am able to sleep comfortably indoors and that there is electricity so I can have the simple joy of a fan. I have spent the last couple hours grading papers.

I was walking home today after my French lesson and as I reached down to adjust my bag, I was reminded of the beads under my skirt that are tied around my waist. The wind was blowing my skirt against my skin, as I strode, thinking how I was walking less like I used to and how one day I will win the ongoing battle of keeping my feet clean. Then it occurred to me; what have I become?

Sometimes the most exhausting part of my life as a volunteer is dealing with the life I used to have and comparing that to where I am now. The first day we were in Benin one of the staff members told us to be wary about keeping one foot in the States and one foot in Benin. If we were going to be volunteers we needed to be committed one hundred percent to Benin.

First, I can’t say there have been many things I have not committed to one hundred percent and second, I would vehemently argue with anyone who dares to challenge my commitment as a volunteer, and yet I constantly feel I am playing this game of hopscotch. I have not figured out the best way to explain this.

It would be selfish for me to believe nothing was going to change with me gone, and I knew that, but I never anticipated how the changes would make me feel. And it isn’t the changes alone, it is going on facebook and seeing everyone living a life I can’t relate to, but used to relate to, and will go back to. It isn’t that I look down on anyone and to some degree I am envious I don’t have that, but I also can’t imagine doing anything else and being anywhere else but here. In some ways I feel like I am getting left behind, while also being the one going ahead.

A death

I tell my Maman that I have broken my hand on the phone and she is concerned. I tell it is fine and ask how my dog is doing. I am told he is making progress. When I arrive home on Sunday night, Beaugarde isn’t where I left him and he is not next door. My sister tells me he is out with my Maman. She arrives home a moto fifteen minutes later, without Beaugarde of course.

“Where is Beaugarde?” I say. “Oh Jamie, he is dead. I didn’t want to tell you with your hand and everything.” End of story, sort of.

Later my sister tells me he isn’t dead and that he wasn’t tied up and he wandered off and they couldn’t find him. The whole village was out looking for him, she tells me. Then later I tell this story to someone in my concession, when my aunt, she is nuts and grates on me, says that story isn’t true, but that Beaugarde hung himself on his leash. I talk to my post mate a couple days later and she tells me how bad of shape Beaugarde was when she saw him after I had left. I don’t know what happened to my dog. I would like to believe that maybe he knew he was going to die and wandered off somewhere to do so, but the realistic part of me thinks perhaps my Maman gave him away, which ultimately means here for eating. I haven’t even bothered to ask where his collar went and I have made it clear, I don’t want another dog.

My Dog is Sick: Part II

When I was in kindergarten I was put in time out for singing too loud. I still attest to this day that I had in fact diminished my volume when the teacher asked and was wrongly punished. I felt this injustice as a five year old. My reaction: to cry. I cried the rest of the day at school, on the bus ride home, on the walk back home, under the dining room table.

In third grade I decided to call a teacher a bitch. Unfortunately I have always had a habit of speaking too loudly and at the same time not paying attention to my surroundings. The teacher heard me say this and punished me swiftly. I admit now looking back that it was a very cruel thing for me to say. I deserved the punishment. Of course I hate being in trouble though. My reaction: to cry.

On more than one occasion through out elementary school and middle school I would receive a poor grade. Now to me this met anything less than an A. Once I earned the highest grade in the whole class on an assignment most people failed. It was a B-. My reaction: to cry.

As a sophomore in high school I was fu**ing up royally during a volleyball match and my coach rightfully took me out of the game. I was so mad with myself and knowing she was equally disappointed made me even more upset. I went to the end of the bench and cried. At the sight of this, needless to say, I sat the rest of the game. My reaction: to cry more.

In college I received a C- on a paper. I think that was the first C I had every received on any paper in college. I was a junior. I went to see the teacher and figure out what I did wrong. She ripped each sentence to shreds. My reaction: to cry. Don’t worry she didn’t change my grade and she ended up being one of my favorite professors.

When I worked at National Geographic I was under a great deal of stress, as I was finishing up school at the same time. I wrote something and of course it wasn’t perfect. I blame shear exhaustion and maybe an unhealthy habit to be perfect, but as my boss sat and edited it, as she would anything I wrote I could feel it coming. I cried.

Two days ago the vet came over. Beaugarde was not any better. He was worse. I hadn’t slept very much and I knew I was leaving on Friday for a week. Not that my neighbors aren’t capable of taking care of my dog. I know Beaugarde gets slightly sad when I am gone. He shows his discontent by being disobedient when I get back. At the same time I questioned whether my neighbors would really want to hold Beaugarde up to go to the bathroom or heat up water and create a make shift warm compress for his legs.

The vet is just as puzzled as I am. He says he will think about it and then come back tomorrow. Then he says if he doesn’t get better after that I can just give him away and get a new dog. He might as well have just picked the dog off and hand him over to the meat venders, because that is what would happen. Here they kill dogs and eat them, and surely Beaugarde is no exception. My reaction to all this: to cry.

Unfortunately, in all these years, while I know it is not in my best interest to cry over such silly things I have gotten away with it. But I guess it is someone’s idea of a good joke that I am now living in a country, where it is totally UNACCEPTABLE to cry, especially over a dog—again dogs are food to many people here.

I try to hide in my house so no one knows I am crying, but at the vets insistence on just getting a new dog, one that is better, I can’t help myself.

My Maman comes to lecture me about crying. Saying I need to have courage and that everyone gets sick and that Beaugarde will get better. Il faut avoir patience. Then she says she is mad at me for crying is she is going to leave if I don’t stop. This of course makes me worse; I hate for people I care about to be mad at me. My reaction: to cry.

I take a bucket-shower and come into my room where Beaugarde is sitting. I lie next to him and cry some more. I want to get it all out before I show my face to Benin again. As I cry, Beaugarde crawls over to me the best he can and starts licking my face. He has been getting better ever since.

My Dog is Sick: Part I

My house is on pause. I imagine this is what the home of someone whose husband is dying slowly of lung cancer and is laid up in a hospital looks like. I have floors that need to be cleaned, dust looms over everything—even sheets of paper need to be wiped down—and the floors are stained. It’s like I am waiting, like the woman with her husband, for the decision to finally come down so I can finally clean up and deal with the reality of it all. Of course there is always a glimmer of hope, represented in the ability to bring myself to wash the dishes.

It is as I have finished washing off a plastic plate in the green plastic basin and proceeding to clean it off once more in the clean water I have set aside in a clear bucket that I hear cries. I know he must be moving again, but leave the plate half submerged in water to make sure it is just that he has moved again, and not that he has gotten up, bumped into something and hurt himself.

I know I am like my mother—I say that with not the least bit of shame—and I did not need the separation of the Atlantic Ocean to discover this. However, this separation has led to a series of events that has shed new light, perhaps a small one to people with actual children, on what it’s like to be a mother.

It turns out Beaugarde did just shift again, but I feel it is my fault. He had fallen asleep under the illusion I was lying next to him, which originally had been the case. I had tried to fall asleep, having finished two books today in my dutiful stand-guard, and started a third. Restless though, I decided maybe I’d feel better if I bucket-showered and clean up the dishes.

Beaugarde start acting “strange” a week ago. I have been calling my mother on any inkling he might be sick. It is funny I worry more about the things that can happen to Beaugarde by living in Africa than I have ever considered for myself. I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong exactly.

“His eyes are bugging out,” I said.

“What you mean?”

“Like a cartoon character.”

Since Beaugarde was little he has laid out on the ground in refusal when going on walks. He was doing this same thing, but he was doing it just when we’d walk from my house to my neighbors. Then on Friday it became clear. Beaugarde could not see well, it progressed quickly. He is now blind.

“Il ne voi pas,” I say to my neighbors.

“Il ne voi pas?” They don’t believe me, so I have to show them how he stumbles around into things as evidence of his malady.

I call the vet when I get home from school. He administers an antibiotic. He tells me to put some stuff in his eyes and suggests maybe he ate something outside—I have not let Beaugarde roam the village in three weeks; I have seen everything he has eaten. He did not charge me for the shot; I thought maybe he knows my dog might not make it or maybe he just doesn’t have the slightest idea what to do and is taking a stab in the dark. Beaugarde does not get better. His stomach started convulsing and he did not sleep at all Friday night; neither did I. During the day it is drawn to my attention that he can’t walk very well and not just because he can’t see. He reminds me of a cat my parents had briefly, called Chance. He couldn’t use his back legs, they just dragged behind him. Beaugarde isn’t dragging his feet, but he is tumbling a lot and when he falls it is always with a slight whine and he looks around knowing how vulnerable he has become.

Today is Sunday. He received another shot today and they think he is getting better. I am not so sure. I am hopeful because he still is wagging his tail, but I feel so sorry for him. He is so helpless. I have to pick him up and take him to go to the bathroom. I set him down in his usual spot and he tries to pee and falls down. He stays lying down until I pick him up so he stops pissing on himself. I can’t help but laugh a little. It is less funny though that he is afraid to go poop. I can tell he needs to because he is crying a little. He knows he can’t hold himself up to do the deed, so I hold him up myself.

Mix V – Premier Mix of 2010

Baby (Eat a Critter, Feel Its Wrath) by The Blow
Mango Pickle Down River by M.I.A.
Closer by Kings of Leon
C’mere by Interpol
1,2,3 Goodbye by Elvis Perkins
John Henry by U.S. Royalty
Blossom by Ryan Adams
Track 09 by Flying Machines
Heart in a Cage by Chris Thile
Cold Water by Damien Rice
Not Over Yet by Kevin Devine
How’s Forever Been Baby by Elvis Perkins

My Moment of Serenity

It is Tuesday at 7 p.m. I am hiding out in my bedroom, sitting on the floor—its funny I used to panic about having furniture and now that I have it I prefer the floor. The fan is blowing on my face, and next to me is reminiscence of my moment of serenity—a Coca-Cola and an empty wrapper that once held vanilla cookies with chocolate cream filling.

I used to never drink sodas. The only time you saw me with a Coke for that matter was if it was accompanied by Captain, Jack, or Malibu. I used to not even care if my drinks were cold or warm. I actually didn’t really like super cold drinks. Now I think I very well may turn into my college roommate who would pile her glass full of ice—maybe in another life she lived in Africa. I have constant cravings for cold drinks and drink more sodas than ever before and now I know how Fanta stays in business.

I never had a sweet tooth. I was always more a bread and potato chips kind of snacker. Everything here is like a carbohydrate, and salt and piment are the soul ingredients for flavor along with Maggi cubes, which are like bouyon cubes you use in soup. Last week though, at 10 p.m. one night, I sat on the floor licking the wrapper of a giant hershey’s bar. The bar had melted in transit, so I cut a small hole and sucked the chocolate out like it was one of those yogurt on the go things you can buy in the States. I had planned on saving the chocolate to make cookies, but couldn’t control myself.

So here I am six months into service and my moment of serenity is a soda and a small package of heavenly sweetness. I can not discern where these “Cream 4 Fun” cookies are manufactured. The box has English on it, but the cookies are labeled biscuits, which is the French word for cookie. Then the name of the company is Dukes, which sounds like some company in the Deep South, but the Web site name has India in it. I’d say these cookies are just as confused about things as I am.

And why am I hiding while I do this? Well because the cookies were expensive—by expensive I mean they are the equivalent of a dollar—and last time I bought them I didn’t get many because I shared them all. As for the Coke, normally when I buy a cold drink I get something for my Maman, but I wanted to sit and indulge myself. The fan, well that was just added for effect.