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."
Saturday, May 29, 2010
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.
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)
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)
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