You Want Me to What

I can describe Post-Visit in no other way but a whirl wind. I can neither say it sent me over the moon, nor make me want to flee the country. I arrived in Materi on Thursday morning, after a 45 minute ride on a moto.

Beacoup Me Reposer

I was promptly shuffled into a room to repo (rest). I felt strange. Here I was in a strangers house, and clearly I was taking a bedroom that she normally used. I was not sure who the person was, and although I tried to salut, I did not learn her name until the next day. I spent about an hour or so in my room. I tried to sleep, but honestly I was excited to be there, and just wanted to get out and see things. I did finally go outside and sat amongst the people in the concession. No one said anything.

Visitors in the Concession

It is not uncommon for people here to just sit in silence. People will wander into concessions, salut, and then just sit. Sometimes they even take naps. It is a strange phenomenon for me; I feel like I am being rude , or not engaging enough.

While many people visited the concession, there were two men I remember best. The first one I met on Thursday. His story is quite simple. I saw him at the concession and then again when I visited the marché. I, of course, said hello to him again at the marché, at which pointhe asked me for money. So while saluer-ing is important, one runs the risk of being asked for money, American or Beninese.

The second story will remain dear to my heart. Saturday morning, an hour before I am to leave, I decide to sit outside and write in my journal. As I am sitting, an old man wanders in, and sits down. I say hello, but then we just sit in silence. The baby in the concession--I never quite figured out how he fit into the family dynamic--is crying. Now, at one point I look over, and thankfully from experience from my goddaughter Hailey, I know what the baby is about to do. It poops. Of course the baby is not wearing a diaper, and so the poop falls on the cement. I look at it and then continue to write. I don't even give an alarmed look at the fact that the poop is green. It reminds of the times our family dogs would eat too much grass and then hack it back up. Then, the man says to me Madame, and then something, which I can only interpret as clean up the babies kaka. I say I don't understand. I do understand though, I just can't believe he is asking me to clean it up. He does not even live in the concessions, and he has no idea who I am, and clearly the baby is not mine. When he repeats himself, I look at him, look at the baby, look at the mom, and call her over. I continue to write.

More to come on .... mon école, saluer, le barrage, questions about the United States