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."