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.