AMERICAN AMBASSADOR IN HOUEDOGLI

December 20, 2007

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season! I tried to send out text messages so hopefully at least of a few of you got them! All I have to say is that I hope 2008 is as interesting, if not more than 2007 was (and that it passes quickly? Can I say that?).

This e-mail is from a few days before Christmas, hence the dating, and tells just à little funny story about something I wish I could say didn’t happen to often, but then I would be lying. I hope you enjoy reading this as much I enjoy knowing my “meetings” are at least 50times more exciting than your real-life job ones are!

AMERICAN AMBASSADOR IN HOUEDOGLI

Last Friday a few of my peace corps buddies and I all met up in a town called Houedogli (pronounced whuh-doh-glee) to celebrate the opening of a few new buildings that house the tools and equipment the town’s women’s group uses in their composting business. A former volunteer in a nearby village had written the grant to the US Embassy for the funding. Astonishingly, however, Peace Corps wasn’t officially invited by the Ambassador’s office, hmm… we found out and showed up anyway (we always find the free sodas and snacks), and I must say I am glad we did.

Undecided on when the actual ceremony was Liz and I finally were able to agree on 10:30 when Aaron came by the house on his bike. He continued on his bike while Liz and I went to argue with zems for prices to get a ride. We arrived at around 10:45 and the women were already singing and banging their metal plates together. At least one hundred kids were surrounding the awkward seating arrangement that had been placed, not very strategically for viewing purposes, underneath a huge, hollow tree in the center of town. We joined Aaron and Sheena (an Environment volunteer posted in Klouekanmey) and took our places off to the side, but still under the shade, on a nice bench in full frontal view of everyone.

We sat and waited. We waited and sat. Sat we did while Kantos, the organizer and former political prisoner, arranged and rearranged the hundred or so school children and elderly along the road to our sitting station. First all in a circle, then two rows alongside the road, then move back into a semicircle with all the goods on display and finally, with the American flag hung haphazardly and almost forbiddingly upside down in the big tree, back into two flanking lines. We sat and enjoyed, then slowly fumed inside. She was the AMERICAN Ambassador – there is no excuse for being more than two hours late, even if she is “bien integre”. Finally came our turn to be rearranged because we just weren’t quite enough in view. Benches are terribly uncomfortable, but they are a lot more comfortable when you can slouch out of sight in stead of the rigid-backed chairs to which we were then forcefully relocated. Finally, with the women singing, the children staring at us in two lines, the men confused and unanimated, the cameras in full view-blocking position, the paper table cloth taped down and the flags all hung – full pomp set – and the motorcade began. Three Landcruisers glided through the display of pride and attention to detail as through a rural backroad in Africa, which it was, but they could have tried to be enthusiastic in their entrance.

After all the minions and go-fers were seated the boring speeches commenced. For every Beninese event there is a required MC (sometimes more than one, which just infuriates the average electronically-aware all the more) who cracks terrible jokes in all sorts of different languages for the crowd’s multiplicity. I’ll spare you the actual dialogue I memorized but just imagine each and every speaker (and everyone sitting at the table is considered a speaker whether they’re the chauffeur or the Captain of the Gendarme) beginning with an introduction of his person and then a thank you of every single other person at the table and a generalized thank you to all of us in the audience. This means you hear “Madame Representant des Etats-Unis de l’Amerique” at least five times and tack on the long-winded titles of all the others at the table and you have a very long commencement to sit through. By the time it was the Ambassador’s turn to speak I was doubled over in my torture chair ready to fall face-first into the red dirt below. I had forgotten, luckily, the ceremonial drive-by shooting the Beninese love so much. I hear it every weekend for the funeral processions, but I had never imagined they would do one here, right next to all of us under that great big tree. And such randomness! Instead of waiting for the ending with a flourish, they would shoot of these loud bombs right in the middle of someone’s speech and no matter how many times you tell yourself ‘it’s coming, don’t jump’ the uncertainty of when and the sheer power of the blast caused me to jump every single time. I don’t know how the speakers last through it all.

Finally, FINALLY! The Ambassador was done speaking (her speech required a separate translator after every single line so I’m pretty sure no one got the message) and the microphone was passed on to some dude on her left. At approximately three lines into his introduction a gift from God fell from the skies. Well, rather, it was a rotten apple that came crashing down from that glorious tree and right onto the table directly in front of the Ambassador. Now, it was just an ordinary rotten apple right? Given up on life in the tree and ready to rest down below, but from the reaction of the crowd and Kantos you would have imagined it was both the most humiliating and terrifying event to ever take place in this town – as if someone had attempted to assassinate the Ambassador with an apple! Inspired! No one saw it coming! But alas, the mark was missed. Kantos seized the microphone and poured his apologizes and explanations through it and out to the Ambassador and her cronies. We Peace Corps, the uninvited, were laughing riotously. How silly – it was an apple, Kantos! It’s cool!! But he was mortified. Such is the lot of life I imagine when a very important person comes to your town and almost gets slimed by rotting produce under your prized town tree.

The excitement finally died down, sadly, and the “entertainment” commenced. Entertainment here is iffy – sometimes highly exciting, sometimes you would have rather stayed home and finished watching that spider eat that fly. In this case it was the latter. The groups of women starting banging on their metal plates and while we at least found one song entertaining they just had to start the dancing ritual instead. It goes something like this: a few women start dancing, their arms pumping back and forth as if trying to touch elbows behind their back, while they crouch lower and lower and stick their head and butt out as far as possible. After a few of them are going on like this, they seek out the whiteys to humiliate as well. They love to watch us try to dance and hold no scruples when it comes to pointing and laughing at our attempts. So Aaron and Sheena, good sports, “volunteer” (that is, it only took a few minutes of one woman goading to get them going) and start the ridicule. Liz took a bit more persuasion but the she-man singing group ringleader (I think she must have played for the Monarchs in another life) got the better of her and Liz, too, abandoned ship into the sea of self-deprecating laughter. I proved a much harder nut to crack. I was tired, sweaty, and angry at the waste of my life this morning had become and was in no mood for my ridiculous dancing to be televised and replayed for all of Adjaland’s participation in the laughter. No sir, it would take nothing short of a purple miracle bunny, giant Cyclops or a midget dressed in tribal wear with troll-hair to get me out there dancing with the rest. Oh but wait, they had one! Who told them?! No sooner had I resigned myself to maintaining my dignity just this once when a little person presented herself to my left, begging and pleading that I join, promising that if I joined so too would she. Whereas normally (as most of you know) that would have sent me running back to America immediately, here I was intrigued and feeling somewhat more consensual to her demands. What?! So there I went, dancing with a midget under a rotten-apple killer tree with the Ambassador of the United States giving me a limp-wristed congratulations handshake on my wicked elbow touching dance moves. Yes, I could safely say there is never a dull moment here, except when you count the ones where I’m awake.


The List:

Beef Jerky
Dried Fruits (Cranberries, Apricots?, and Blueberries are my favorites here)
Jell-o Pudding mixes
Brownie Mixes
Cliff Bars
Earl Grey/Lady Grey Teas
Apple Cider
Good Hot Chocolate!!!

THANKSGIVING

I apologize in advance for this e-mail. I don't know when I am going to get to the internet next so I wanted to get this out before it became irrelevant. P.S. It's extremely sappy and was written while still intoxicated by too much weird food and and intense missing of family and friends. If you want to skip the corn (as in, corny) I suggest not reading the last paragraph which is mainly addressed for those aforementioned friends and family. Other bits are kind of funny, full of poignant self-discovery and just fact-filled story telling for those with enough curiosity to want to read it. Let me tell you about my Thanksgiving. In the morning I prepared a sweet potato casserole; two actually, because I didn't know how much one and half kilos of sweet potatoes really was. I pressed some coffee (the addiction that no ocean nor disparity of national incomes could kill) and spent two hours going through the motions of figuring how just how to mash a kilo and a half of sweet potatoes with just one dinky African-made fork and how to do all the measurements with no actual measuring cups or spoons. Then came the elusive oven temperature game. I have a big pot with some old tuna cans and a bunch of sand at the bottom that has been used for so long the lid is warped and it about as effective as an oven that constantly has its door ajar, no rack and no temperature gauge would be – which is to say, not very. Despite all that messing around I had time to spare (I woke up around 7am to get started and boiled the potatoes the night before to save time) and so I took a zem to Aplahoué to pick up some packages that awaited me. I figured that since the post office opened at 8:00am I would have a chance it was open by the time I got there at 9:30am. I was wrong. The doors were shut and locked and there was no note on the door. As I was fuming, baffled at how a servant of the public could so consistently cease to be present during the known hours of the bureau's operation, a man walked around the corner, saw the door shut, gave a barely perceivable shrug of the shoulders and turned to walk away. I could not stand the apathy; the acceptance(?) that this was just the way things worked and that businesses and consumers could not rely upon their government offices to be open during consistently scheduled hours. I was furious. I know what the Peace Corps preaches: if it ain't broke, don't fix it, but this was too much. In retrospect, I shouldn't have accosted him and yelled at the ladies across the street with questions about why the Beninese were so accepting of these unreliabilities? In retrospect, I should have taken note of how calm and composed and unaffected he was. The building was closed. There was nothing he could change about that, so why pitch a fit – my method of dealing with it. In retrospect, perhaps my way of dealing with the world is not the best; why did I think it was better to encourage the passerby to become angry at the situation instead of turning it around and taking a lesson from him that I can't change what was taking place and allowing myself to become upset because of it, as powerful as I imagine I can be, wasn't going to magically open the bureau. So it was a visionary moment for me; which are fortunately becoming increasingly more frequent. I was still angry, however, that I had paid 300 francs to basically go on a little morning joyride; but, it was a nice ride although perhaps not worth the 300f. Maybe worth 150f, but certainly not 300f. I will never be complacent about wasting money. I returned to my house and then packed for my trip to Lobogo. Aaron and Tom showed up and we sat around for a period of time after which we finally set off for our Thanksgiving in Bennyland. The taxi ride was insignificant though I did get in a great shouting match with the chauffeur concerning the suffocation of his passengers in back. (a little aside: contrary to what this e-mail might imply, I don't spend my days screaming and becoming angry with people, but I do quite frequently have heated discussions with certain classes of people such as marché mamas, chauffeurs and zemidjans: a practice which is not only an acceptable form of discussion in Adja-land, but is encouraged by many and even applauded when performed by a white female – very entertaining to boot). Upon arrival in Zoungbonou (remember this from the last time?) we sought out some decent motorbikes for the long journey through red dirt. It took some persuading but finally my zem driver agreed that 700f was an acceptable price to pay; which then took another 20 minutes of convincing for the other two zem driver and the four others who weren't driving but came over to argue anyway. At one point a zem driver told me that because I was white I should be paying the higher price to which I wagged a very serious "no, no, no" finger and chased him back to his perch where the rest of the zemi drivers were laughing hysterically. That was the end of that discussion and we all took off in a cloud of red dust. Not quite the "Mod Squad" but enough so that I felt cool when I put my Ray Bans back on. We arrived at Ryan's house just in time for the final moments of our dinners' lives. In a strange flourish of protest my zem driver refused to give me back the correct change and instead only gave me 200f for my 1000f bill – evidently he was not okay with our price. I extracted the remaining 100f without violence, I'm not saying I didn't threaten, and went to the side of the house where the first chicken had already met its demise. Ryan had purchased two chickens and two pintards for the princely sum of 16mille francs. I have to admit, I always sort of knew what it meant to run around like a chicken with its head cut off, but I had never really before witnessed this expression in action. Thanks to Africa, I am no longer a stranger to chicken death but normally it is done with a firm grip on the chicken and a slow, methodic cutting and draining. Ryan, however, preferred the more dramatic exit and used a machete and not so much gripping as grasping (I'll leave you to decipher what I mean by differentiating the two). Tom held the chicken down, but that was pointless. No sooner had the machete blade made contact with the earth on the other side of the chicken's neck than Tom's hand came up to protect his face from the flailing, flying, cartwheeling headless chicken. I mean, this thing took off into the sky – without a head!! It was awesome. Truly something to experience. I sincerely suggest every one of you either kill a chicken in this manner yourself, but if not at least watch another brave soul perform the act (you all have the Discovery Channel right?). If I ever ran around like that I would be extremely fit and will forever more consider it the highest compliment should someone tell me that I resemble this fantastic display of agility, athletic talent and determination to persist after death. So we killed all the chickens and the pintards (well, I watched with Liz and Aaron and Jesse) and all stood around in a huddle while Ryan and Tom disemboweled the meal. It was fascinating and there were lots of oohs and aahs and ugghs coming from the white people in the huddle while the other 85% of the huddle were strangely calm and unresponsive; they'd seen this all before, in fact, just the night before. We all came inside and watched the football games I had been sent (THANK YOU!) and it was almost like real Thanksgiving. After we watched the Bears come back in a slightly shocking victory over the Packers (yea, I'm pretty far behind) we all went out to the local bar: The Bel Air. On the way we stopped to visit Ryan's garden which was completley destroyed during his visit up north for four weeks. They tore down his palm branch wall; tore up his lettuce plants; ripped through his bean teepee and even dug up from the ground the basine he was using for a water hold. It was like visiting a vegetable cemetery that was victim to a very serious grave robbing. Very depressing and disheartening. I hope the same fate does not befall my garden; but his is hidden back into a forest-type area and mine is right on the road so should any little pagailleurs pagaille my garden they wil be witnessed and either stopped or turned in for punishment when I return. At the bar we finally got down to some Thanksgiving business with some beers and football. Half the town showed up to play catch with us as we sat around and soaked up the fading sunlight. It was picturesque and magical; I got to speak to some family and it was a bittersweet moment. Here I was, sitting in rickety plastic chairs at a rusted off-centered table basking in the oncoming twilight with some of friends, drinking some mediocre $1 beer and watching as thirty Africans ranging in age from 2 to 45 cried out "Ici! Ici!" (Here! Here!) for the ball and laughed as they missed and threw back awkwardly. Some of them were really good and I wondered if they had practiced before with some former volunteers' ball or if there really existed a genetic predisposition to incredible football skills. The world may never know; or at least I'll leave it to some curious health volunteer with an obsession with gene traits. After all the excitement finally came the eating. I'm used to the early Thanksgiving dinner where the food starts around 12 and you proceed to simultaneously digest while ingesting more and more throughout the day and probably finish up around 9:30pm; about the time we here sat down to a dinner of banana bread, popcorn, potato wedges, market bread, casserole and fried chicken/pintard with spicy barbejus (pronounced "Barbie Jew"). SHOCKINGLY the casseroles came out fairly well; especially considering I was missing one ingredient and added another. I can't say it was the best Thanksgiving I've ever had, but I can say with certainty it wasn't as bad as I had expected and could have been a lot worse considering the circumstances. I am thankful to have the courage and support of friends and family to come to Africa and have it all the same. Thank you all for reading these. It gives me a bit of purpose in writing them to know I have a bit of an audience. I hope the holiday season finds you all well and in good spirits. It really can be much worse so please look around at your wealth of family, friends and comforts and know that you are truly blessed just to be born an American.I'm done preaching. I just wanted to write that I am thankful for knowing every one of you.

DEJA VU IN NATITINGOU; CHUTES IN TANGUIETA; CORRESPONDANCE CLUB

I apologize in advance for this e-mail. I have been wanting to write it for a while, but life has actually been picking up in terms of work. I am also still digesting from our makeshift Thanksgiving last week (one down, one to go). I had to write about that one in a separate e-mail, though. This one was hard enough and I know bombarding your inboxes with these huge files gets tedious. So open each at your leisure and just enjoy. There won't be a test, I promise. Luckily for you all, I fear I'm sinking into the hole where nothing is new anymore and I forget to tell you guys about the interesting things that happen in everyday life. Perhaps this will result in my being less of a prolific correspondent. For some of you, I apologize. If there are specific things you would like to know about, don't hesitate to ask; perhaps there are different things here to which I have already grown accustomed and don't bother to mention to you.


For Early Service training we went right back up to Natitingou. It was another 7 hour ride of joyous fun and delightment. Going to the "bus depot" in Bohicon is always a trip as it requires you to jump up at the first sight of a bus (usually anywhere from 20-200 minutes late) and run to snag the empty seats that may or may not exist on said bus. To accomplish this task, however, you must run across the red terrain lot, barge through the vendors with heavy lids of crap on their heads, shove and shoulder out the other potential riders then finally grab the attention and plead convincingly with the maitress charged with managing the passenger load and fares to land yourself a spot.
In this particular instance (and the reason I prefer to not travel in groups – any more than two travelers and the difficulty of your voyage increases exponentially with each addition) there were only three empty seats and we were four (with a fifth on the road up ahead). We (I) pleaded with the woman to let us board as four and we could share one seat and she acquiesed, begrudgingly. Much to the chagrin of another gentleman who legitimately held a reservation but from whom we stole an empty seat nonetheless. The result of which being that I was sitting cheek to cheek with Sebastian and a little African boy who looked as though he had been in situations more comfortable than he was in now pressed up against the side of a bus, but had also been punished worse enough to know better than to say so. Three older French people also managed to persuade their way onto the bus and so the styrofoam luggage had to go under (where it belonged anyway); although it took some manouevering around the foot of a gendarme agent who refused to budge (although I can't say I understood his protests unless he didn't want white people sitting at the back of his bus) and carried the big gun to validate his protest.
The trip itself was relatively uneventful. I scared the crap out of this little girl by my whiteness and we stopped in a few random towns for food and snacks. When we arrived in Nati, it was raining and that sucked, but we got to the hotel without problems and had air conditioning in our rooms (though it was raining, you still want the air conditioner – that humidity)! There isn't really much else to say except we ate really well (the $8 pizza photo), stayed up really late, and drank expensive Nescafe freeze dried coffee (it took us two hours to get the price down from $2 to a little over $1 – it's insane to think of paying Starbucks' prices for worse than 7-11 flavor!). I left Nati as the person in charge of updating the formation binder for the next stage of volunteers coming July 4th (yea, sucks for them!) and being the official contact on radio programs. I'm loving having some new responsibility once again with which to occupy my excessive free time.
CHUTES IN TANGUIETA
After our stint in Nati was over, a group of us took off on in a taxi up through the beautiful hillsides of northwestern Benin. It looked like California, but I think that about everyplace I visit. The only difference was the little roadside stops were red, straw-roofed huts and little naked black children and goats ran along side the highway. This was a new Benin for me and I was thrilled to be viewing some different terrain than what I normally see in the south.
We went up to Tanguieta where another volutneer, Mike, lives in a neat little concession complete with with a grave, memorial and the first full latrine I have seen in-country. (All they do is tear down the surrounding walls and move them to where they have dug up another pit latrine. Sometimes they'll cover the old latrine hole with cement, but was not in this instance what they chose to do). We spent the first night just hanging out and seeing the town – which is right in the hills and is quite charming! They did controlled burning on the hillsides that was eerily beautiful to watch as we ate our street meat and beans and rice while the sky behind the hill was lit up orange and blue.
The next morning we set out for the waterfalls; each of us on the back of a moto to traverse the 40km trip of red dirt and burning sunny hillside. My moto broke down at one point and we had to walk a distance (his spark plug gave out). We finally got it going again, just in time to head up to the town of Tanagou which is just as picturesque as all get-out. Here we waited and waited and waited for the volunteer posted there and her friend to get out of their hut and come up the last little way with us. Emily is the health volunteer used to living out in the bush; the place where no zemidjans go. Sweet girl. While we were waiting, Emma's driver dropped his moto on his foot and we had a bit of an emergency. Luckily, we always have a little bit of a med kit on us and we patched him right up – but then he left his bloody rag on the ground and I had to scold him for being an idiot (and how is AIDS spread?).
We finally made it up to the waterfalls and had a little hike in through some beautiful rivers and streams and some really stinky mud pits that were hard to avoid slipping into. The biggest fall (there are a couple on the way up) is beautiful and the brackish water below has been approved by decades of volunteers for swimming so we all dove in without hesitation while our moto drivers watched (they're afraid of water and aren't really known for their swimming abilities). Nearby was a cave full of bats where we spent some time just hanging out... very cool to say you hang out in a cave, toxic guano or otherwise.
To get to top of the fall itself you have to scale the wall, hoist yourself up using vines well-rooted into the rock for leverage and them climb and shimmy your way through cracks in the wall up to the top. Basically, once you've already reached the summit, you have to jump off because there is no safer way of getting down. Now if you really know me you know that I'm absolutely the worst at guessing heights and distances, weights and childrens' ages, but I would say this fall is about 45 feet high (take with a pound of salt). We got up there and it was far enough to really make you shake in your booties; a very impressive height. Far enough of a distance to hurt my feet when I hit water – the second one to jump – even though they were pointed, far enough to hurt the inside of my legs for two days. It was much higher than I remember being the Spanish Flats at Lake Berryessa or the rocks of our youth at D.L. Bliss. Those didn't hurt when I hit the water. And I got off easy; you should see the other guy! We spent the day swimming and lolligaggin around afterwards and I wish I had the photos to prove it, but alas, I have no camera and my friends are in other towns. One fine, random day you'll see a blur in some water and that's me at the falls; don't doubt it. I was hideously ill on the bus the next day so I'm going to chalk that up to being in water that was neither boiled nor filtered. But it was fun!! Took some of the heat off, too.
CORRESPONDANCE CLUB
This week marked the first of our (Jordan's and my) Club de Correspondance. Kids from both the "quatrieme" and "cinqieme" levels (equivalent to seventh and eighth grade) of CEG (General Learning School) come to the club on Tuesdays or Wednesdays and we help them write letters in English to American students. There is a lady in Georgia (the state, not the former Soviet country) that helped Amanda and Erin (the two volunteers we replaced in Azovè) do the same club and she agreed to help us this year so we gather up all the letters and send them off all together for her to distribute once they reach those shining shores of U.S.A.
You show up to the school and immediately children (I use the term loosely as some of these kids are 17 or 18 years old) swarm to ask you questions in poor English (American standards); trying to pry your bike away and walk it for you while messing with your gears (most often there are at least two doing this, one at each handle); trying to tell you where the class is but no one really knows because the classroom is decided upon the moment you are so fortunate as to find one that is not currently being used by someone else. An order of use is in existence, although its efficiency and efficacy are questionable, so Jordan and I are forced to hunt for classrooms each meeting.
Finally finding the classroom and all the students (yes, that comes next, they all arrive from other parts of the school grounds; some of them never make it), we commence with correcting and reading the letters they, hopefully, have all prepared and written beforehand. This itself is quite a challenge as they are all so eager to sit next to a white person (a girl especially) that they yell, scream and crowd around as you attempt, in vain, to listen to the soft-spoken girl sitting next to you who is trying so hard to pronounce "How" instead of "oh" that beads of sweat are forming on her brow. That sweat also might just be because for that brief moment she has lapsed in her Africanness from as a result of being in such a proximity to me that my whiteness rubbed off – I sweat profusely and incessantly here, and not just beads of sweat but entire necklaces and back rivers. Let's just say it requires no less than three showers a day to feel adequately free of dirt and debris from just existing here; but that's another story for another time and another audience.
So we are writing letters; rather, I'm trying really hard to focus on what the kid next to me is trying to say (they all pretty much write the same letter), while everyone else is circled up in a hideously close range to my face breathing answers (correct and otherwise) down our necks while we try to work. Some of the students are really pretty good and have a strong command of whatever type of English it is they are learning (it's not really "American" english, not quite British, either – it is the special breed of African English that is so unique to this area of the world, the .. um.. African area). One such pupil is named Josh (a.k.a Marus) and wrote a quite impressive missive about the merits of tackle football (he could take out his aggression on people when he is angry) and how his favorite music is hip-hop. Everything about him said he would fit in quite well in America. I just couldn't get past the purple John Lennon shades he was sporting. Undoubtedly, he was the teacher's pet and the coolest kid in school. Which is funny because thinking back on it, no one is really "cool" here. You just are who you are. No one can really afford nice clothes or a car or go out to fancy restaurants to eat. In fact, many people can't afford to go to public school – yes, that's right, the kids at the public school where we are doing our letter club have to pay for their tuition and then they have to pay for their books. If you think about it, we do, too, but in the form of taxes and because there is no feasible way to tax people (their roads don't have names let alone everyone possessing mailboxes or house numbers) continuing education in a "public" school requires cash money and so only those who are wealthy enough may attend. More on the schooling system another time, I really just wanted to tell you about Josh. The kid was hilarious. He literally wrote "My favorite sport is tackle football because I can take out my aggressions when I am angry." I'm pretty sure if a kid in the States wrote that Mrs. So-and-So would send him to a counselor to talk about anger management issues. Another pupil, one of the many princes of Azovè (yes, son of the king of Azovè), asked his American counterpart if he would send some tennis shoes like the ones he wants to wear because he likes hip hop and wears "big clothes" - literally – but in French that means something that Americans would never understand, and we don't like them asking for money or things and so I had to delete half of his letter. Including the beginning part where he mentions that all of his uncles are dead and that he misses his brother who died in 1997. I suggested he wait a few exchanges before diving into that pool of sorrow – he didn't quite understand why (Africans throw huge parties instead of funerals and no one cries when someone dies), but agreed.
Another week and another two days of reading the most ridiculous stuff you can imagine and trying to explain how "having the exchanges with you" doesn't really translate into English.
I hope you are still enjoying these e-mails as much as I enjoy writing them. I hope just as fervently that I continue be a studious observor and manage to share these interesting things with you.
The list of goods that keep a volunteer happy:
NEW STUFF:
Granola!! (Been craving it; used to eating it every day and I don't have the energy to make it myself)
THE USUALS:
Peanut Butter
Parmesan Cheese
Brownie/Cake mixes (boxed ones put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)
Dried Apricots, Craisins and Raisins
Cliff/Luna Bars
Drink Powders
Yoga/Pilates/Tae Bo & exercise CDs (like those cool dance in your house music ones!)
Jell-o and Jell-o Puddings powders!!!
Trail Mix/Nuts in general(we have peanuts here)/Sunflower Seeds
Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets, Marinades, etc.
Kraft Mac&Cheese Powder (put in baggies; these explode!)
Makeup/Perfume samples
T-shirts and Tank Tops (crappier is better so I don't feel guilty when I ruin them with my "spin" cycle)
Earrings (nickel-free)
Good Hot Chocolates
Good Football and Soccer ball!!!!! (great way to meet kids)
Face wash/acne stuff *(St. Ives Apricot Scrub is nice)
Any good new reads you've finished (in softback)
Mixed MP3 cds
Letters/Photos from you
Check out the Amazon.com wishlist
Allison Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l'Ouest
Par Avion
Send it in a padded envelope with anything that could explode (including bags of candy) stuffed in separate plastic baggies. When you fill out the customs forms be sure to put that there is absolutely no value to what you are sending (it's just a little white lie to the man so I don't have to pay more to pick it up). Say it's bibles or books or something educational – nothing you would actually send - and the value is $10 or less; that should get to me just fine.
THANK YOU!!

ROAD HOME; TRAVELING MIRACLE CURES; BENINESE CELL PHONE POLICY

I hope you all enjoyed the last two e-mails. Traveling up and down the country is pretty exhausting but I should be a profesional at it by the time you get here to visit – you are coming to visit right? Sure. So I know that I mentioned in the October 29 e-mail that I went to Gran Popo again for Jordan's birthday but as it would turn out I got a bout of tummy tumblies (whatever that is – but it doesn't feel, or smell, very good) so I pretty much did a speedy shopping trip at the markets and barely got out of Cotonou before the sun set – really late and really bad. The taxi driver refused to take me all the way to Azovè so I had to get out in Lokossa and find another driver. On the way to Azovè from Lokossa it started to rain pretty hard (it's about 10pm at this point) so I was pretty nervous and quite exhausted from waking up at 6am to get on the bus, having only a breadstick and an orange to eat all day and a stomach that did flip flops in both directions while producing burps that taste like eggs. The final leg proved, unfortunately, but expectantly, no easier. There were two accidents on the road.

Accidents here in Benin are handled in rather a different manner than back home. We are in a developing country and therefore many things are.. ahem, developing. A good example of one such thing is the lack of emergency response crews. At the site of the first accident was a good example of just such a need not being met. The rain had given up just a little bit and I was asleep in the middle of the two front seats (if you thought I could sleep just about anytime, anywhere before wait till you see me now) when the car began to slow drastically. I look up and untangle my legs from around the stick shift just in time for the driver to slam on his brakes and shift into first gear. There were the tell tale signs of a problem up ahead; clumps of tall grass ripped up from the side of the road placed in the middle of the street; Beninese Road Flares. A man twitching and writhing in pain was on the pavement with female and youth bystanders a good four feet off the road on the shoulder watching; no one was helping the man or moving him from the middle of the road. Another group of four or five men who had pulled their zemis and taxis off the road to help were working together to push the car that had driven off the road and into the bush back to where it belonged. My driver also stopped, despite the woman in the backseat's protests. He leapt out and the rain again began to beat down; all the 'helpers' scrambled back into their vehicles. Some of them even took off into the rainy night. The rain passed within a minute and my driver was back out the door for another 20 minutes of pushing and shoving to get this car back onto the road. Once that feat was accomplished all the good samaritans got back on their motorcycles and into their cars and took off; for all I know, the man is still on the ground bleeding to death internally. Each time I asked what was going on (while everyone was conversing animatedly in Fon) I was given an only slightly annoyed response of "there was an accident," and "the man would have been put in the car, but the car was in the bush so we had to get the car out." They never did say that now the car was out they were going to take him to the hospital. Less than 10km away was a 24 hour hospital from which I never saw an emergency vehicle emerge. Needless to say, I fear for my life daily, if only because of the apathy that would follow should such a meaningless and likely accident occur.

The second accident was in Jack City; less than 10km away from my house. It was a motorcycle on its side with four men standing over it waving along traffic with a flashlight. Again, the grass clump flares were present, but this time no body. I could only hope that meant he was well enough to hobble himself home. Rainy nights make these terrible drivers worse. I got home safely at the UNGODLY hour of 11:30pm to the messiest state in which my house has ever found itself. Too tired to function I could barely toss out the molding milk congealing in my disfunctional mini fridge before passing out from the week's adventures (you'll read about in the Nov. 16 e-mail).

(From October 28 Continued...)
TRAVELING MIRACLE CURES

Riding back on the bus with Shekina was a trip, literally (yuk, yuk). The announcements began right after leaving Dassa and didn't end until Bohicon; if even then, that's just where I got off the bus. Rubbing my eyes and ears in disblief I almost imagined I was back in the Paris metro except, after several minutes and no arrival of the subway police to escort him off, he kept going even despite my please of "SHUTUP!" What began as a harmless enough 'informercial' – travel promotion on Shekina bus lines this weekend – turned into a three hour HSN for the poor. The man with next to the most annoying voice I can remember was selling "cure-alls" and "season-alls" for people who don't even have enough money to cure a ham or season their fried mantioc flour balls. At first I was annoyed; then infuriated as I saw people who clearly did not have the funds for this squander their money on schemes. Literally, with one paste that smelled particularly of menthal anise, he claimed curative powers from everything from Cancer to Impotency (that's a Beninese favorite; as if repopulation was a real nation-wide concern). I supressed my urge to get up and slap the third bottle of clear liquid that claimed to cure Diabetes out of his hand and instead shouted "ARE YOU GOING TO TALK THE ENTIRE TIME!?" in French. I don't think the Beninese are used to people speaking their mind – more on Beninese complacency (something that I believe is a widespread plague in most developing countries) when I have enough time and less of a headache to give it its full due – and my neighbor just stared in disbelief for a few moments before smiling awkwardly in nonresponse. I got no solidarity in this country. But, that was response enough... the orator didn't even blink in my direction. He was on a mission to sell as many vials of vile lies as possible on our trip. I just tried to close my eyes and think of a world where taking advantage of people wasn't so commonplace. It didn't come easily. At least he was enterprising and trying to make a buck, even at the expense of his fellow man, and that is truly just that kind of ingenuity that we need here in Benin. Perhaps a better start would be with designing better buildings or different kinds of furniture or growing a variety of vegetables and perhaps not all selling tomatoes right next to each other in the marché or painting in the same style for everything. But we'll get there eventually. Really could have used the Metro police that time, though. At least he didn't have an electric accordian to do a jingle for his 'medicines'.

BENINESE CELL PHONE POLICY

She cracked open and ate peanuts like a hippo does ballet (the Nutcracker, perhaps?). Her chubby, greasy hand diving in and retrieving fistful after fistful of the boiled goodies; cracking then shucking, shells flying in a 360 degree ring around her person then a forceful sucking of the meat from shell. She clicked and clacked her teeth clean in front of all of us without scruples. Then her cell phone rang, she answered and politely stepped approximately one foot away from the head table – screaming responses into the receiver continuously while the President of the artisan's association sat futilely attempting to continue his own oration on the meetings he had with the federal bureau earlier this month concerning their expectations of the artisans at the communal level. Her phone conversation continued throughout his initial statements and proceeded into the bulk of the question and answer session. I stared in disbelief and my friend, the soldeur (my "soldier") Jonsi who works in front of my house, translated for me and then pleaded with the "Organisator" of the assocation to ask her to get off the phone. The Organisator (I guess that is akin to our "Secretary") declined to interrupt Madame Treasurer to ask her to continue her phone conversation perhaps not in the vincinty of a meeting already in progress. Or at least not at the head table, next to the main speaker, in front of the audience. The phone call ended and we were again able to focus on the President's words. But not for long, her phone rang again and this time she didn't go through the trouble of getting up and leaving the President's side to speak.

After this second phone call ended she began to play Jenga tower games with her one, two, three, four cell phones then laid them out like soldiers of fortune to display her fonctionnaire (like "white collar") wealth to us all. She slid forward in her plastic chair and leaned back into a more comfortable position; which freed her legs to perform a butterfly movement – in and out, airing out her crotch under the table in view of us all. This was perfectly hilarious enough; but it got better. After all that eating, talking, prespiration and subsequent airing ritual the poor woman was so tuckered out she just fell asleep right at the head table in the middle of the meeting – head resting on her right palm, her manners just to the left, on the floor below. I mean, I was tired, but I stayed awake through time-tested practices I had learned at university, but I suppose we can't all be so fortunate to sit through four years of academic lectures learning how to stay awake despite all boredom and partying the night before acting to the contrary.

Cell phone culture in this country is unlike anything I have ever before witnessed and I can only hope I do not pick up any bad habits to accompany into meetings I may have at home after this is all over. Anyone at anytime can answer any phone ring and then carry out a conversation; whether in the audience or actually speaking to a group, it doesn't matter. Even worse is when they don't (I still haven't figure out how this is possible, but it happens a good 70% of the time) recognize their own ring and allow it to bleat out for several moments of agony. Some argue this is a function of their sharing culture and that in fact they are allowing us all to notice they have a cell phone and it rings a pretty ring we can all listen to and share and enjoy equally. Do you think many Americans would agree with this? Yea, I don't think so either. Adding insult to injury, they have the absolute WORST choice in ringtones and I have been snapped into nostalgia on more than one occasion when I hear "Jingle Bells" on someone's cell phone they have neglected to put on vibrate and cannot seem to recognize in time to answer. Receiving calls from a Beninese person is just as perplexing an ordeal. They have a habit of "beeping" you, which is to say they call and let it ring once so you see they called but don't actually waste their own credits speaking to you and instead wait for you to return their call and spend your own credit to converse with them. Enterprising, I know, but annoying nonetheless. They have a knack for finding that fine line.

Health is doing better after two days of sitting on my butt with my new love: West Wing. I only have seasons six and seven (and only five or six episodes from each) that I have been watching over and over. They are just so witty and fast I catch something new each time. I could see myself on Capitol Hill and the more and more I sit here in the dark in Africa and think about it, the more and more I feel I just might make a move to get there (let's be real, I'd move anywhere else after this). But, we'll see.. I have two years to continuously change my mind based on television series – anyone seen Weeds yet? Now that's an idea!



THE LIST again (just think of it as a repayment for all these fascinating, scintillating glimpses into the secret world of a PCV; it's either a package every now and then or your first born child in a few years):

New Stuff:
Pocket Thesaurus
Parmesan cheese
Bacon Bits
File Folders (just need a couple and I haven't found any yet here)
Sticky Notes (the thin, colored strips)
I could use a couple more Bandanas (thanks T&Sam!!) they come in handy for lots of things here!!

The Usuals:
Brownie/Cake mixes (boxed ones take out and put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)
Dried Apricots, Craisins and Raisins
Idahoan Potato Packs
Sports/Energy Bars
Drink Powders
Yoga/Pilates/Exercise cds
M&Ms
Reese's
Red Vines
Jell-o and Jell-o Puddings
Peanut Butter
Trail Mix/Nuts in general
Thai Curry Pastes
Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets – marinades, etc
Kraft Mac&Cheese powder (leave the pasta at home and be sure to put in baggies!!! These explode)
Makeup/Perfume samples
Cheap Target-like Earrings (nickel-free)
Good soccer ball!!!!
Acne/Face Stuff
Any good new reads you've finished (in softback)
Mixed MP3 cds
Letters from you! It's fun to get mail in general and I get to e-mail about as often as it takes a letter to get here so if you're feeling Victorian I would love to have a letter from you with some thoughts, funny stories, photos, whatever; and it costs about $1 to mail so don't be cheap with the emotions okay – Bogarting is not cool no matter what the hoarde.

Allison Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l'Ouest
Par Avion

Send it in a padded envelope (put some religious stuff on it, I guess it helps? Not really sure) and usually it is a good idea to send the stuff in separate Ziploc bags (in case of any explosion accidents). When you fill out the customs forms be sure to put that there is absolutely no value to what you are sending (it's just a little white lie to the man so I don't have to pay more to pick it up). Say it's bibles or books or something educational and the value is less than $10; that should get to me just fine.
THANK YOU!!

WHIPPING FETE IN BADJOUDE, BIRTHDAY IN NATITINGOU, THE TAXI TO BASILA INTERLUDE, BASILA TO BOHICON AND BEYOND

This e-mail from my first trip up North on my birthday. I went to go experience a coming-of-age ritual that takes place once a year on the full moon at the end of the month of October where boys whip each other. Yes, read on for more. Pictures will come the next time I have internet.

Thank you to all of you who have been sending me great e-mails with stories and tales of what is happening back at home. Time just seems to be at hyperspeed here with new adventures every single day so it's nice to remain a little in touch with what else is going on outside my little “cultural exchange” bubble. It's so easy to get wrapped up in life here that you forget the world outside; it's really easy to see how most Beninese can be so consumed with their own lives and so moated from world events that they remain, for the most part, clueless on what's going on outside of West Africa or Benin or even their own little village. Many families are lucky just to have a radio spouting out local information let alone know someone who has a television where, if they happen to be one of the rare ones that care enough, they can watch the news – that is, if the signal is coming in and there is audio with the pictures, but it's mostly Beninese news anyway, not much in the way of world events. Long story short, thanks for bringing me little pieces of home when you can.

WHIPPING FETE IN BADJOUDE

I took my sweet time heading out of town on Thursday morning. I had already missed the bus in Bohicon so I knew what awaited me; the seek and destroy mission of the taxi cab I was going to have to find and discuter with to get me to Djougou in time to catch another taxi out to Badjoude. So when my traveling partner, Liz, and I finally roused ourselves out of the house it was a relief that we got such a decent price out to Bohicon (only 1500F after twenty minutes of arguing over the price and much rejection of the least comfortable motos – it's a good 40km+ trip you don't want to take on a bad moto, a.k.a. “Mate”). Once we got to Bohicon an hour later there was the expected frantic search for a taxi. Usually, someone will see you walking with a large bag on your back and lead you to someone waiting to fill a taxi. We argued for the good price of 6000F (they began at 8000F ) and then sat around and waited while the driver attempted to fill up the rest of the car – although they'll always tell you they're ready to go that is usually the case only 10% of the time. Luckily, another car full of northern Beninese (Muslims) was coming back up from Cotonou and we fit perfectly into the front seat of their full trip to North. We got sold off to that car and started our voyage only two hours after we left the house (that's good!). It was also a straight shot up to Djougou with our only stop being that for food in Dassa (the halfway point for all South-North travel).

I want to take a moment to stop and humbly demonstrate to you all how ignorant I have been in my life and how grateful I am to have such a rich learning environment currently. As you probably all know, I grew up in a relatively small town with a pretty simple dichotomy of two homogeneous populations of Caucasian and Mexican inhabitants. Going to college in the rich San Diego suburb of La Jolla didn't really improve matters too greatly although I certainly was introduced to quite a large number of other cultures and ethnicities. Despite (and because of) all this, however, I did not learn a great deal about Muslim beliefs and practices. In fact, before this year I can't really say I have ever actually known and spent time with someone of that faith (knowingly). Certainly UCSan Diego has its share of students from the East, but mainly the far east and India; not so much from the Middle and, being as it is college, many of those who were from that region didn't necessarily practice their faith to the fullest. As a result of America's freedom of religion, etc. individual religious practices are usually kept much more private in contrast to what you might see venturing into the North of Benin where entire villages share religious beliefs and therefore practice more openly. Having said that, I would now like to share how I humiliated myself in front of Liz by demonstrating my religious and cultural ignorance. While waiting to be served at the “Health Before All” restaurant on the side of the road in Dassa, I went to wash my hands. Liz came to join me when she asked what I was doing, “washing my hands,” I replied, “Just want to be good about keeping sanitary, but” I continued, turning to look at the group of men behind me, “those guys are really clean. Look, they're even washing their feet before they eat!” To this Liz burst into laughter and explained to me what an idiot I am. “They're getting ready to pray,” she could barely get out through her laughter, “when they pray they have to be clean where their body touches the mat; so their hands, their feet and their forehead.” Oh, boy! Learn something new everyday I guess. I won't get into how I fondled the driver's prayer beads (akin to a Rosary) when inquiring into their purpose hanging from the review mirror.

We finally arrived in Djougou with record time and I'm sure they were glad to be rid of me. Honestly, it was a good trip with laughs and jokes all around – mainly all around the front seat of the car, but all around nonetheless. Djougou, as you will hear probably on more than one occasion, is a terrible, terrible place to have to find a taxi. They are notorious for overcrowding. I suspect this is because it is not a large enough (or centralized enough) for many taxis exist in this area and, as a result, they attempt to address the transportation needs of the town in the only manner available to them; packing people in as efficiently as possible with the least amount of consideration for comfort as possible while charging the same price for a much more comfortable ride in another town. The quality of the ride is insignificant; it's the distance you are traveling that determines your price (there is no first class taxi ride out of Djougou). Liz and I found a taxi pretty quickly, but then the Tetrisesque people-fitting that ensued took another forty-five minutes of bickering, arguing, elbow-jamming and shoving. It was an hour long ride with four grown people in the front (plus one child), four grown people in the back (plus luggage and two children) and four grown people in the middle (plus two children) in which area I was forced to sit underneath a man who had his left elbow resting on my helmet which was resting precisely on the artery in my left thigh muscle and his back almost flush with my chest which allowed me to rest both elbows upon his shoulders comfortably (until I began singing “Killing Me Softly” and “Ground Control to Major Tom” into his ear loudly enough for the whole car to hear). I lost my Nalgene (for the second and, I believe, final time) in this madness.

Badjoude is a quiet little town and the English teaching volunteer, Kate, lives in a house that was previously occupied by a volunteer who currently still lives in country as a Peace Corps Volunteer Leader in Parakou (which means, implicitly, that she was well known and integrated into her community – she was soo good kids there don't say 'Yovo' they say 'Annie' when a white person walks by). She has a huge house with two bedrooms, a running shower (with warm water in the afternoons), a HUGE covered front porch and smaller back porch, a living room and separate dining room, expansive kitchen with a running sink and an extra “storage” room for her bike (the size of the living room and extra bedroom together). So, naturally, we packed in at least 15 people the first night and it wasn't even close to being squished. We ate delicious yam pilet with peanut sauce (real chunks of peanut in it) and something like chicken then went to the local bar where we drank for several hours waiting for the party to start.

At around 10 or 11pm the dancing and singing begins as groups of boys, old men and sometimes women from the different communities come around and show off their skills. There were men in bras and skirts, girls singing and drinking your beer, young boys with purple goop sliming out of their mouths (I think it was supposed to look like blood) until 2 a .m. when we'd finally had enough of the whipping demonstrations and drunkeness and went home. The moon was full and the sky was beautiful so I slept indoors to avoid the misquitos and listened to the whistling and singing that did not end until after I had gotten in the taxi to leave the next day. Actually I had terrible heart burn from earlier and was on the verge of being sick from all the beer so I wanted to stay close to the toilet. After an extremely uncomfortable two hours or so on my Thermorest (thank God I brought it!) the house started to rouse itself again for the day's festivities. The whipping begins at dawn and so that really means an hour or so after dawn we were all dressed, ready and waiting in the middle of the street to see where the oncoming parade of feathered, bloodied, loinclothed and whip-ready boys and men where going to begin their ritual. They chose a field and overtook it like a calvary riding down a hill to meet a battle and began circling in a violent congo line singing their victory song to get psyched up for the first skirmish. After a few seconds of this I got pushed down the spectator hill and into the fruckus which was alright with me as my camera had already been broken at Fawgla's and I was now at the mercy of using other people's (the one in my hand at this particular moment belonged to Sebastian). So I circled around with the men in drag, the boys in shorts and the 'warriors' in headdresses and war paint. Then they began to pair off in according “likeness”; the little boys would find another little boy and the warriors another warrior and the men in drag continued to dance around like boozers. There were 'referee' types dispersed within the whippers that would monitor each skirmish and determine the winner at which point he, the victor, would be hoisted onto the shoulders of the spectators and thrust into a new victory circle that was being formed as the skirmishes ended and each victor declared. Women, really little children, really old men, and white people were all spectators that sang and cheered on as several more rounds of skirmishes and victory “psyche-up” dance circles took place. At one point I thought it would be cool to hold one of the whips and dance with it, but quickly returned the whip when I was told that to hold a whip signified I wished to join in the whipping fights. “Here is your whip back, thank you, sir. I prefer water balloons or a good old-fashioned food fight to prove my manliness.” He responded with a blank gaze and a toothless grin. After what seemed hours, and was in fact several hours, the fighting broke up and everyone grouped off into mini-parades that went back out onto the main street and separated; one going West, one heading East and another still going back South through the deserted market stalls and into the bush. I headed back to the porch to nurse my pain and get some water. I was locked out. It sucked. So eventually that day I left. But the fighting and the blood was cool. Enjoy the photos.

BIRTHDAY IN NATITINGOU

The one day of whipping and feting was enough for me and I decided to head out the next day after lunch. Actually, the allure of a carrot cake, Ryan's bad “Happy Birthday” singing and my friend Emma waiting for me in Basila, were too much and I packed up my stuff in an alarmingly fast twenty minutes and set out to find myself a taxi. Once inside the taxi (there, luckily, was one that passed me on my hike along the dirt road) with my knees pressed into my face and my backpack stuffed behind my head (there was no room at all in this thing) I passed out. I awoke to a marché where we were stopping so everyone could get out an argue with the driver. Literally, we all had to get out of the car and stand around and argue with the driver. So I threw in my two cents (in English, of course, as they were all speaking their local language). “And another thing,” I screamed, “Your seats are very uncomfortable and there is a reeking of corn in the back.” In my ranting I didn't stop to notice that three other girls who had left HOURS before I had were standing nearby watching the exchange. “Oh, hey guys!” We agreed that as it was my birthday I should stay with them and take the ride they hitched and go to Natitingou for steak (my original plan was to go to Basila, but .. steak!) So I packed up my stuff, said “sayonara” to my driver (he didn't get it) and loaded my gear up on a truck full of grain that took another forty minutes to go less than 10k, and included a push start on more than one occasion and that really cool, 'run and jump on the back of the truck because we can't stop again' experience. Then we made it to the final hill back into Djougou and rolled backwards down it, then drove back up it and made it (miraculously) on time to catch the last bus to Nati.

Upon arrival to Natitingou I immediately entered the yovo mart (the one with the good, expensive European and Arabic products) and got myself some cream cheese, a Virgin Cola and some peanut M&Ms. I was in heaven! The ticket taker on the bus, a man I sat next to but never actually spoke to, came running in behind me to ask for my telephone number. This is perfectly normal for people to do, by the way. He wanted me to put him in my phone under the name “Coton Bus” (which is the bus line for which he works). Shaking off that uncomfortable encounter two of the girls, Sarah and Yesenia, and myself headed up to the Peace Corps Volunteer workstation. We got ready for dinner and headed back out to the road – and I saw the most beautiful thing! Against the backdrop of a crimon and gold sun setting behind the green and blue hills of Natitingou, down the red dirt road at full gallop comes a beautiful, black horse foaming at the mouth and running for all his life under the tree branch crop of the man standing tall riding him. My jaw dropped and I watched this magnificent creature sprint like the wind from one end of the road clear down to the other side and into the disappearing world beyond the trees. It was the second horse I had seen in three months and the first one that looked ridable; and was being ridden in the most passionate manner! Happy birthday! I had a crappy steak, but meat nonetheless, with some fantastic french fries for dinner. Too bad it was covered in some kind of mushroom sauce (I picked them off – obviously haven't been here long enough if I'm still being picky). The fireworks lightening display brought a ton of rain but we finally made it back to the workstation where I made my carrot cake and watched 'So I Married an Axe Murderer' (all I wanted for my birthday) and the other two passed out on the couches, leaving me to talk with those of you who called (thank you!). All in all, not a bad birthday. Certainly, one of the most memorable.

THE TAXI TO BASILA INTERLUDE

This is a moment to tell you again how terrible the taxis out of Djougou can be. I took a taxi straight from Nati to Djougou for 1500F and it took about 1hour and a half. I got in a second taxi in Djougou and aimed for Basila. It's the same distance from Nati to Djougou as it is from Djougou to Basila but it took nearly three times as long because my crappy excuse for a driver stopped approximately every 7km to pick up more passengers. The ride was never comfortable at its best and at its worst was downright unhealthy. I was suffering from terrible allergies (the north wind blows rough) and had missed lunch due to traveling so therefore was in a particularly foul mood, but the presence of no less than 18 souls (one poor old man was stuffed in the trunk area) and poultry in one station wagon filled to the rusting metal skin with yams and luggage on top was more than I could handle and, after the fourth stop, I began to complain. Admittedly, I was “yovo” placed in the front and therefore the most comfortable position, but there were a few in the back who knew of their rights as passengers as well and would attempt to aide me in getting the chauffeur to stop his incessant pack-rating of clients. We would travel down the road at capacity and he would stop to pick up even more goods and people. I argued with him; I complained, glared, cursed and insulted, but still he would not stop stopping. At one point (when there were 13 people in the car) I asked why the driver didn't stop to pick up the three people waving him down as we could have easily strapped them on the roof next to the goat. When we finally reached our destination I was so livid I refused to pay the full fare and commenced an all-out battle of screaming and arguing in front of many who live in the town. It was ultimately settled that I would pay only 1200F of the original 1500F and I pulled a very American consumer trick and took down his license plate while threatening to call the authorities (whomever they may be). I threw in a “where is the police station?” for good measure and got outta there on a zemi to Emma's house.

BASILA TO BOHICON AND BEYOND

“What name should I put on your luggage?” The sweet ticket taker in the plaid shirt asked me. Foreseeing the complication that would arise I said slowly, “Henderson, H-E-N-D-E-R-S-O-N,” during which spelling the smile faded from his lips and a look of confusion and dread took its place, packed up its stuff, moved North and settled on his forehead. “How about I just put 'white lady' is that okay?” I replied that would be fine. I was on the Shekina Bus line from Basila to Bohicon. My slow journey home from Natitingou was almost at its terminus. My one night stay at Emma's was relaxing and restorative.

Emma's house is located in a newer development area of Basila – much like what we have in America where there will be clusters of new houses set apart from the main city separated by mud roads and surrounded by tall grass, flooding puddles, and dirt huts that have already existed in the 'new neighborhood' for years – the 'suburbs'. It's called “Camp Pioneer” (we get a real kick out of that name). Her house is amazing. She has a guest room; a double bed and armoire in her room. She has a dining room with a table in it; a kitchen that's not located in her bedroom and is fully stocked with ketchup, four different kinds of gourmet teas, and a drying basket for dishes (I use a dysfunctional bidet – no doubt installed by an optimistic, if not altogether misguided, proprietor). She has electricity, but no running water – I'm beginning to see the pros and cons to each scenario. Her latrine is HUGE and clean (claustrophobia is easy to develop when bugs could potentially begin crawling on you mid-urination). Her neighbors are sweet and she has a baby she straps to her back; which I guess is nice, if you like that sort of thing. She is living in the bush and I can't say I don't envy it. Beautiful scenery surrounds her and her standard of living is much cheaper than mine – her bread is cheaper, she has cheese, and her yams are much larger for the same price. She doesn't have butter or other fancy things, but when she goes to Nati every couple of months she can pick up things like olive oil, etc. and does alright for herself. She made me some delicious yam hash browns and fried eggs and their local bread for toast. It was like “Chez Emma Basila, Benin B&B”. Meanwhile, Coton Bus called me and offered to buy me MTN phone credit because he's “just like that.” I politely declined. Flowers would have been nice, though. Another gentleman from the taxi ride to Djougou called just to ask if I was married, I told him I had a boyfriend (it's just so much easier that way and my conscious stays a little more clear), “Ok, thanks,” and he hung up. Men! Why don't they just tell you what they want? Always these games. Haha. I think I'm going to have to start giving out a wrong number when I'm in the North. In the South no one ever has calling credits so it's safe to give out your correct number. In the North, however, where they are much more forthright with their marriage proposals (in the South all they want is to “exchange ideas”), everyone seems to have surplus of credits and the desire to use them calling and proposing to me.

The next morning I waited near the center of town for a bus to come pick me up. One passed me and said that though they had no room (as the woman next to me helped herself on in) there would be another bus coming shortly. As he finished his sentence the bus arrived, with empty seats in sight, and passed right on by. I sat there in disbelief. I was not exactly thrilled by the idea of taking another taxi and so I pouted until a dark horse pulled up along the road and I jumped on. Shekina Bus tours – never heard of it, but it was the right price and I had a window seat; nevermind that my neighbor insisted on interrupting my OBVIOUS reading time and refused to speak audibly so I had to continuously yell out, “I can't hear you. Speak more loudly, please.” In Dassa we stopped again and I ate the lunch Emma packed for me (yea, she's that cute), had a little Coke (I think they still put the real deal in it it's that good!) and talked with Jordan (who was on the Coton Bus from Nati that passed me). A woman came up to me to tell me that she saw me and my husband on Friday when I was lunching in Dassa with another Coton Bus crew. “Yea, that was another white girl, but enjoy your lunch anyway,” I replied. She nodded and went back to eat with her friend; yea, that was all, just wanted me to know she (didn't) see me last time. Got back on the bus and was rolling on my way to Bohicon. Upon arrival, Jordan and I met up and argued for a price with zems for a good thirty minutes before finally walking away (which is the invitation for those afraid to accept the lesser price in front of their brothers – solidarity, you know – to follow us and give us a lift for the price we gave). Riding back to Bohicon was a 40km ride of fun! I need to buy a motorcycle when I get home. It's just thrilling going through that jungle scenery where the clouds above resembled little cream puffs dotted all over (I knew their form would congeal and grow menacing with thunder within hours) listening to Duke Ellington explain how if it ain't got swing it don't mean a thing. Then I was home and Aaron and Tom made me Mexican food for dinner.

Still in Nati on the second trip which began on Sunday and today I am going to the waterfalls in Tanguieta then on Friday will travel back down to Cotonou, will stay the night, do some grocery shopping, then shoot across tomorrow to spend Jordan's birthday in Gran Popo before finally getting back to Azovè on the 11th. Then I'm never leaving again. Until Thanksgiving at Fawgla's with the Mono-Couffo crowd!! OH yea, and I start formations with some photographers on the 13th. There is some work to do!

Love to you from the jungle cruise.

The list again: (should you feel the need to send something to me!)
Good Tea
M&M’s
Reese's anything
Candy bars
Red Vines
Peanut Butter
Trail Mix
Fruit Leathers
Dried Apricots and Craisins
Taste of Thai Curry Pastes (at the grocery store; they last and are delicious over boring rice!!)
Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets – marinades, etc. (Kraft Mac&Cheese powder is almost gone!)
Jell-o and Jell-o Pudding (crazy Cosby cravings; can't imagine why)
Brownie and cake mixes (take out of plastic wrap and put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)
Anything that smells good: soap, candles, incense, sachets of lavender/jasmine, etc.
Drink powders (like little Crystal light and Lipton tea flavors to go)
Super glue
Headbands (not hair-ties)
Makeup/Perfume samples
Cheap Target-like Earrings (nickel-free, I’m allergic! Otherwise I’d buy it here)
Good soccer ball!!!!
Leave-In Conditioner
Heavy duty Conditioner
Any good new reads you've finished (in softback, of course)
Mixed MP3 cds
Little sticky notes (the colored ones that are thin)
Markers
Luna Bars or similar type sports/energy bars (get hungry out on the long bike rides)
Planting seeds for hot/tropical weather
Information or books on gardening/planting – seriously clueless here
Coffee
Candle wicks
Photos!!
Yoga CDs (audio or video)

Allison Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l'Ouest
Par Avion

Send it in a padded envelope (put some religious stuff on it, I guess it helps? Not really sure) and usually it is a good idea to send the stuff in separate Ziploc bags (in case of any explosion accidents)

THANK YOU!!

LIGHTENING STRIKES; CLOSING THE FRONTIER; AN AMERICAN ASIDE

Hope life is going well for everyone. I heard about the fires in San Diego and I pray everyone is safe and that too much damage doesn’t occur. You are in my thoughts, please be careful.

Hope you all enjoy this for now:


LIGHTENING STRIKES

Africa really is the beginning of all things. The root of all humanity and creation. All things began here. Forces of nature are stronger here than I have ever previously seen. For an even stronger connection with the natural beauty of this country I decided to clean out an area behind my house to contain a warming water tank (a huge black, plastic bucket that could house about four showers' worth of water to be warmed by the sun throughout the day and maintain a little heat for the shower at night – it's not running water, like inside, but it's warm and it's under the stars) and “shelving” (stacks of bricks) for bottles and soap and candles for lighting (no outside lights). It already is equipped with a clothesline so I can hang my towel and other things so they do not rest on the ground. It really is ideal, so I'm hoping it all works – the bricks breed animal habitat and the concrete floor is actually the lid to my septic tank (having a flushing toilet unfortunately doesn't mean I won't get stuck in a 'latrine cloud' every once in a while). While creating this gem of a douche (shower) I spotted some lightening. Quickly moving my bike undercover I stopped only momentarily to recognize that I could see the moon and stars; this is not very usual if lightening is present. Taking another glance around I realized the lightening was coming from an isolated point north of my house. It was just a floating cloud of light flashing through the sky. The half-moon and the stars were out, well illuminating my area as I brought a chair outside and enjoyed a cup of Chai tea (thanks Clare!) and the fireworks display. Literally, it was one large cloud that flowed by as slowly as clouds do but was flashing inside like a rave party for the Gods. Once in a while a bolt would escape the festivities and streak across the sky surrounding the cloud. The Adja term for this is loosely translated to mean “second moon” and I find this to be a very fitting name for what was taking place in the sky that night.

It was after following one of these bolts with my eyes that I spotted a cluster of fireflies dancing along the perimeter of my concession. It was no “Pink Floyd Laser Light Show” but as I sat, sipping my tea, contemplating the party cloud and the fireflies sparking around my empty concession I realized how magnificent it was that I had the time for, and newfound devotion to, doing such simple things as enjoying my surroundings. I know that even if a floating lightening cloud had passed by me in San Diego I probably wouldn't have taken the time to bring out a chair and dedicate two hours of my evening to watch it pass. Patience is not only a virtue, but a blessing and I pray I can learn this in my two years here and maintain it for the rest of my life afterwards. I think I'm off to a good start already.

CLOSING THE FRONTIER

This morning I went out to buy some bread. The price had increased by 40F – which is a lot considering I can buy lunch most days for 50F total (that's rice and beans for lunch with some oil, spicy fish sauce and gari – crunchy flour – sounds good, but after everyday for two weeks it gets old and fattening, but I've given up on trying to avoid the latter anyway). So I said “no thank you,” and walked away. This was after yesterday when there was no salt bread to be found and the only reason anyone could give me was “because it isn't here,” literally, “it isn't here,” so I had to buy the one other type of bread. I tried to look at the brightest of sides; at least I have bread at all in my town. Aaron, my postmate in Jack City , has to come to Azovè or wait until a marché day to get bread in his town (only 10km away!).

At the 'yovo mart' (supermarché) French butter went up by 100F . This was painful enough but then I went up North and discovered it was 300F cheaper! I was outraged and demanded an explanation from my grocer as to why these prices are increasing. Aside from the obvious reason that the CFA is experiencing some inflation, he gave me the “frontier is closing,” as an explanation. “For which reason?” I asked incredulously. “For the holidays,” he said with a straight face. “The holidays? In December?” (I could think of no others, but yet I am not Beninese so maybe there was something I was missing) “Yes, Christmas and those others,” he replied. “But it's October!” “Yes. It takes a while.” That was it. It was that simple. The boarders need to be closed down; the border to Togo especially it would appear (across which all the wheat is made into flour) as the bread and butter prices have increased and who knows what all else. Normally prices fluctuate with season, assuming you can still find the products when they are out of season; the price for the most delicious oranges you have ever tasted will increase to two for 25F (or the equivalent of 6 cents in the U.S. ) instead of the five or so you can get when they're in season. Same goes for peanuts and tomatoes (peanuts cease to exist at all, let alone for an increased purchasing prices, out of season and therefore peanut butter can become quite the commodity).

The problem then arises that while the borders are being secured in anticipation of a crazy Christmas Eve, Benin starts feeling the squeeze of having close to no ability to provide for itself. Sufficient means for milling wheat enough to supply the country does not exist in Benin and therefore they have to look Westward to Togo . Frightening as it is, this is the reality in Benin and is one reason countries in the midst of development find it so difficult to become self-reliant when their very breakfast is contingent upon their neighbors and the upcoming holiday festivities. Poor organization is also to blame; despicable infrastructure and pervasive corruption in the government only compound an already painful problem of moving goods across borders and intrastate. As a result, naturally, the price at the Douane (toll) and import taxes increase and, especially heading northwards in Benin , then is augmented more once it gets to the areas for distribution. By the time the product actually hits the shelves the Beninese could be paying anywhere from 20-30% more for their products. These money worries are not entirely unlike the pain many in America are feeling as a result of the credit market so I guess for now I'll just bite my tongue and cough up the extra 40F for the good salt bread. Butter, however delicious, is unnecessary and I'll think twice before reaching in and putting another 100F across the counter. All I gotta say is there better be a good freakin' Christmas party for all this.

AN AMERICAN ASIDE

As just a little side note I wanted to make a statement regarding how nice it is to not read food labels anymore. Not only because they don't really exist or even because when they do I can't figure out the conversions from kilo Joules or grams into Calories and 'percent daily values' fast enough to tell myself not to eat the entire carton of whatever I just picked up at the yovo mart, but just because I don't have to. The older, married men LOVE fat women and think it's just lovely when you gain some weight and the younger, more threatening ones, are a bit turned off by it so I get the best of both worlds! Younger men tend to think twice before walking over and asking me for my number and older, taken men who pose no threat of marriage or harassment (theoretically) flatter me. So while I might have to work really, really hard once I finally get home (and you will all have to work really hard to not let me know just how big I've gotten) I am going to enjoy the next two years of guilt-free eating. It is definitely an interesting and new feeling to eat only when hungry, follow what my body tells me it is craving or only what's available and to eat only until full (because it's usually pretty nasty or boring food) to get enough nutrients to sweat profusely for the next four hours while I do manual labor just to survive and maintain a clean house. So maybe I won't be getting all that large after all; but at least I don't spend two hours in the grocery store anymore reading labels and thinking “if this is 75% fat free does that mean I can eat 75% more of it and still have the same outcome as the normal, better tasting alternative?” It has been difficult, however, reading my body and trying to determine what certain stomach aches and body pains might be telling me I need to add (or remove) from my body!! All the multivitamins in the world probably won't prevent me from getting anemic so it's good to keep on the lookout all the same; if only my entire body came with a label and some nutrient gauges.


The new list: (should you feel the need to send something to me!)
Good Tea
M&M’s
Reese's anything
Candy bars
Red Vines
Peanut Butter
Trail Mix
Fruit Leathers
Dried Apricots and Craisins
Taste of Thai Curry Pastes (they last and are delicious over boring rice!!)
Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets – marinades, etc. (Kraft Mac&Cheese powder is almost gone!)
Jell-o and Jell-o Pudding (crazy Cosby cravings; can't imagine why)
Brownie and cake mixes (take out of plastic wrap and put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)
Anything that smells good: soap, candles, incense, sachets of lavender/jasmine, etc.
Drink powders (like little Crystal light and Lipton tea flavors to go)
Super glue
Headbands (not hair-ties)
Makeup
Cheap Target-like Earrings (nickel-free, I’m allergic! Otherwise I’d buy it here)
Good soccer ball!!!!
Leave-In Conditioner
Heavy duty Conditioner
Any good new reads you've finished (in softback, of course)
Mixed MP3 cds
Little sticky notes (the colored ones that are thin)
Markers
Luna Bars or similar type sports/energy bars (get hungry out on the long bike rides)
Planting seeds for hot/tropical weather
Information or books on gardening/planting – seriously clueless here
Coffee
Candle wicks
Photos!!

Allison Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l'Ouest
Par Avion

Send it in a padded envelope and usually it is a good idea to send the stuff in separate Ziploc bags (in case of any explosion accidents)

Thanks and love you!!!

LOBOGO HERE I GO

Lobogo was incredible. It is a village full of personality and an alarmingly large population of English speakers. I don't know if it is to the credit of the English club Ryan, another volunteer, started and has maintained for the past year, or because of the overwhelming population of Nigerian immigrants, but there are a lot. In fact, I heard less French than English or the local language (both of which Ryan speaks passably well). Friday I arrived in the heat of the marché after an hour and a half in a taxi and another half hour on a zemi. We spent hours walking around, looking at goods, then got separated. His dog, Murphy, stuck with me as I went around terrorizing little children who hated dogs (a lot of people are afraid of dogs here and you don't see many roaming the streets – although there were three times as many in Lobogo as in Azovè). He actually knows how to cook so I ate meat three times while I was there, including pork on Sunday – what a treat! Saturday we spent time in his garden which I hope to replicate and surpass in a plot of land the papa of my maman gave me next door to their house. I have to get going on that, however, as the hot season is going to be starting up soon. The only problem is that of security – it will take me several days just to get the land ready to work, but assuming I am able to do that in time to plant anything I have to also build the fence to go around it and protect it from wandering animals and humans that will steal anything without a sign on it; and sometimes even with a sign. He has a massive orange tree in the middle of it while also growing green beans, lettuce, eggplant and is currently making an attempt at California Poppies. I am going to see if I can't get a few more things going, such as carrots and cucumbers but, after doing some heavy package reading, I am not so sure I'll be successful as the weather conditions aren't exactly optimal and I don't have the proper indoor germinating equipment – heck, I don't even have the proper outdoor germinating equipment. I am going to stick it in the ground after rain, try to space them out as suggested and pray for good sprinklings and lots of sun. We'll see what comes up from that.
Sunday Ryan and I went to church at the request of one of the little kids that lives nearby, Prudence. This kid was smart as a whip, speaks English fluently (so what if most of his response to most of my questions was "Nothing"), and can dance the pants off the best. For the past year Ryan has been repeatedly asked to come to church and one member of his English club went so far as to suggest that he could easily be killed because of his attendance. As you could imagine, that would have an affect on someone, but still after much deliberation, Ryan ultimately consented and I went along because I wasn't going to make it back in time for my own congregation. Literally, Thank God! Church was insane. It was some all-Lokossa commune deal where three different priests from neighboring villages came to give mass in the local language of Mina and Yoruba, the language of Niger. After and hour of normal mass (including the three baskets of monetary gifts) divination began. Another two hours of singing, crying, shaking and candle-stick making took place and my emotions passed from annoyed to stunned to scared and, finally, jubilant! This was a Catholic church where people were screaming in the middle of the priests' prayer and then wailing commenced and people were carried by ushers to the front of the church where they squirmed and danced and screamed and sweat for all the congregation to see; while the priests just stood behind the altar in patient understanding. The two hour melody that went from wailing to heavy drums and clapping and back into wailing was intoxicating and I couldn't help but sway along with the women and men of the choir who were busy doing the chicken dance. I even picked up one of the bean shakers and made as much noise as arms could handle; at which point one of the twenty kids that had gathered around us took over. Prudence stood on the bench behind me and, with his hands on my shoulders, guided me into a two hour Soul Train rehearsal. Finally, finally, it was over and the inhabited were again picked up and carried through the church to the back sacristy where they continued to call out their faith in God and his corporeal possession. I was hankering for a drink of water, but we had to make our hellos out of the church; which took another twenty minutes during which I asked a man in a hat how the end of Ramadan was – so unaware of what just transpired that it didn't occur to me that we had been in a Catholic mass and the man to whom I had posed this question was indeed NOT Muslim. Luckily, Ryan wasn't around to be embarrassed and I quickly made my goodbyes and skeedaddled out of there. My church requirements have long been fulfilled – at least for the next week or so; and certainly enough to make up for the debauchery I have planned for this upcoming weekend at the beach (somewhat of an early birthday celebration since most of the people in my region will be gone up north for the "whipping fete" - which is exactly what it sounds like, coming-of-age boys getting whipped in a row by one another in a display of manliness).
I ended my stay in Lobogo by waiting two hours at a bar for the zemidjan who promised a half hour wait then finally taking another one that had to be sought out at the center of town. My return to the goudronne (the highway) was welcome and I was even accompanied by two men who remembered me from Friday while waiting for a taxi to take me home to Azovè. I waited all of ten minutes before being crammed into a car with six other men, a backfiring exhaust pipe, hot floorboards and a metal bar up my butt (parallel, not perpendicular; although I'm not sure which would be more enjoyable). We stopped in Djakotomey to get my house key (Aaron was watching my dog – did I mention I got a dog? Another story) only for me to realize I had no idea where Aaron lived in the dark, but his neighbors guided me to the right place only to tell me that Aaron had gone to the market for dinner. I caught up with him (the taxi long gone and four marriage proposals down the drain) and he didn't have my key anyway – it was still at the supermarche next to my house where I had sent the chauffeur (Dieudonne) who drove me to Zoungbonou (the town you have to stop in to get to Lobogo) with the key because I had forgotten to give it to Aaron – yes, life works that way here. I would trust the Beninese with my firstborn child – heck, I would trust them with YOUR firstborn child. So I took a shady zem back to Azovè (he wasn't a zem at all, but I was too tired and angry with the real zems who refused to call me anything but "yovo") where I was promptly invited to marry another group of men who were partying outside the supermarche. I have just taken to telling them all I have no heart and I am a robot and therefore would make a terrible wife. Some get it, some don't, either way I just start to talk in robot language and move my arms very stiffly and they slowly back away.
Today, Tuesday, Jordan and I went around to the local Hospital, the national Army post and the local Police to let them know we were here and didn't want any trouble. We asked them repeatedly for their radio frequency to which they replied we could simply use the telephone if we had a need of them. To which I replied, and what if the lines are down. "Well, use the portables then!" they laughed – what an idiot I am – like the fact that their networks were all just down for six months had nothing to do with my legitimate fear that their cells phones might not work in case of a national emergency. I just smiled and made them promise they'd look for my bike should some pagailleur (hoodlum) come around to steal it when I was out on one of my runs in the bush (don't worry, I keep a machete with me at all times). In other news, I am extremely tan. The sun here is brutal! You are out for an hour and come back singed. There is something to be said for that equatorial crap. It really does require some looking after. I'll be sure to steer clear this upcoming weekend... Or not! I'm fulling planning on laying in a hammock, reading and eating all the chocolate pudding they can feed me for 100 F (so not much).

Fawgla’s and the rabbit cage

On Saturday afternoon I went to a magical place called Lalo – which is about 16kilometers southeast of chez moi. It's a tiny village where the gas station never has any gas and the roads are sometimes too ruinous to pass over. After heavy rainfall Lalo becomes its own island and only the richest travelers could entice the zemidjan drivers to risk their baby motos through the muck – and even then sometimes they refuse. The way is long and 16k could very easily take more than two hours (as it did on my way home Sunday night). When I arrived with Ryan (from Lobogo, a town about 40k away if you go through Dogbo-Tota; 60k if you go through Lokossa)from Azovè Tom and Aaron had already had their share of sodabi from the voodoo fête in which they were invited to participate. Girls aren't allowed to participate so Liz, another SED volunteer in the Mono-Couffo (yes, there are five of us), was hanging around outside with some of Fawgla's friends from Cotonou. Fawgla needs a proper introduction now. He as adopted several years ago by an ancient Peace Corps volunteer and is now Tom's close friend. We were in Lalo for this particular instance because Tom has been building rabbit cages for Fawgla's growing rabbit-selling endeavor. At first I couldn't remember his name; so I called him "Glasspaw" and, sadly, the name fits. Although he is not a Russian nemesis of James Bond with a left arm made of glass from a freak glass factory accident that he breaks on tables and uses at a weapon frequently, I still think it works well for him – especially when he gets the crazy "sodabi eyes". When Ryan calls out the challenge "Segwo" (Check spelling) Fawgla get all twinkly and squiggly and feigns confusion – 'Tu segwo?' "You're taking a shot now?" he asks innocently. Ryan insists and Fawgla cannot back down, "I am not a bitch," he cries out in broken, slow English; thick with a the heavy village accent from his Fon heritage. Then Fawgla takes his faded Las Vegas shot glass – courtesy of Liz – and sips through his shot; almost a savoring at a level of comfort with the vile poison that I could never hope to attain. His eyes bulge, his lips pucker, his bare and hairless chest inflates with manly pride. He can stomach this; he has the force. "Ah! Tu es fort!" Then Ryan has his turn. You cannot give a shot without taking one yourself. For if then, you are just as good as a woman. I am okay with that – I don't like the sodabi. I send a petit out for a 'grande sucrerie' to chase my shots – what a glutton, they all think, to have a giant coca! It's just not done here. But I'm white and I do what I want, and you'll hear that more than once from me.
After several rounds of sodabi challenges we move on to the eating. A bowl is passed around with water and a ball of soap at the bottom. We all take turns sharing the soap and the water and then rinse with a second bowl. Then, when the pate (flour and water stirred into a gummy, flavorless consistency – if it's pate blanc or noir – or has a hint of chicken and spice if it's pate rouge) is at its most boiling and painful peak of heat we plunge our "feeding fingers" - the index and middle together in a fleshy scooping apparatus – and commence with the scooping, dipping, scraping and gulping; dripping and spilling all the way around. When someone loses their piece between the pate and the sauce it becomes a forfeit and anyone can retrieve the piece. This is especially favorable to those who have already callused their fingers or habituated themselves to the heat of the food and can more easily excavate the lost morsels. It was in this manner that I lost several choice pieces of chicken to the fray that was dinner time that night. It didn't help that my sight and motor skills were slightly retarded as a result of the intoxication. After sufficient stuffing we sat around for a longer period of sodabi, yelling and challenging. The entire transaction was a mixture between Spanish (one guy studied in Cuba), French, Fon (the native language of the region) and African English (yes, there is a difference and it's as big as the Pacific). One guy from Cotonou I had met previously at a Chinese restaurant – even in Africa, it's a very, very small world. But the common interests ended there and we didn't really talk anymore. Another guy, named Justin, promised me a horse and a cd. I told him I'd marry him if he got me a horse. We were exhausted after all this, so we retired to the one mud-walled room complete with crowing and clucking chickens, noxious fumes-leaking motorcycle, two windows, hot tin roof, one straw mattress and one foam (I think), petrol-filled lanterns (also leaking noxious fumes), and five whiteys and four Africans. Within twenty minutes all of us sober enough to realize how hot and uncomfortable we were and spent the rest of the night complaining about the heat, the noisy rain on the tin roof, the smells of the motorcycle and one of us (the least fortunate) was stuffed underneath the exhaust pipe of the actual motorcycle as a result of being on the more comfortable mattress, but with two other people. Myself, I was victim to the leaky roof and woke up to the pit pat of raindrops literally falling on my head. So I scrunched down and ended up "sleeping" twenty minutes at a time in the crotch of my neighbor. At 5:30 the first rooster in the room started to crow. The Africans and drunks can sleep through anything so Liz, Ryan and I were forced to deal with the rooster ourselves. I suggested just trying to sleep through it; Liz was too upset about the ants that were eating her and the exhaust pipe in her face (and has a fear of chickens) so she suggested just letting it be as well; Ryan, ever the adventurer, wanted to tackle the rooster head on. His first swipe at the chicken caused a lot of ruckus, but not a lot of solution. When the rooster continued to crow Ryan escalated in kind. He ran straight for the chicken which took off behind the motorcycle and around formed a flight path straight towards Liz. She, maneuvering to deflect the chicken from its fowl trajectory, pulled up the pagne she was wearing to use as a cover. The chicken, nonplussed, attacked like a bull towards a red flag and the pagne created a lock down situation from which the poultry could not find an escape. Liz kicked and screamed and twitched until she ultimately knocked the chicken loose and flung it in my direction. Like any good girl I screamed and ran and the chicken was finally free to run out of our area. Then we went back to sleep to await the what the next day would bring.
Sunday morning brought sunshine after the rain and more sodabi. We ate a breakfast of beans, pasta, macaroni noodles, fish and spicy sauce all together, family style, like all the meals. Then came sodabi for some; catching up on lost sleep for others. Unfortunately, the tin roof just made the room swelter and the door remained shut for light and chicken keeping purposes so I really just sat and sweat for four hours that morning. Eventually I raised my body to eat again, all around the table we gathered and ate delicious fried yams that came with a bowl of omlette. It literally was a bowl of cut up and fried yams accompanied by another bowl full of scrambled eggs with tons of oil, some tomatoes, piment and other afterthoughts like onions. Usually that's how meals go; a big starch that acts as a dipper to whatever sauce you created (usually includes red palm oil, fish, okra or, evidently, eggs and lots of piment). After digesting that intestinal nuclear missile I went to find someplace a little cooler – maybe with a breeze and under the trees; plus the rabbit cage making was going crazy (wood and red mud everywhere) and there was an old man who got drunk off sodabi and began teaching all the kids in the area lessons in mathematics and English spelling. It was pretty hilarious, but I was tired and hot so I went to the nearby soccer pitch to sit under a wide open tree. After two minutes of that I was playing with the kids and Ryan came to join. My team was far superior and I was AMAZED at how selfless the little kids are when it comes to soccer. On more than one occasion my goalie would throw his body through the air to stop a goal. My jaw was rarely lifted from the floor with how impressed I was in their skill and agility. Ryan's team ended up winning because they were cheaters and had six shirts on the field for half the game when I only had five and one little guy who couldn't remember if he was playing or not. I felt more like the team mom/coach than a player (which was probably best since the only good play I had was stopping the ball from the goal with my face). So I didn't cool off and I was forced (really, really wanted/needed) to take a shower at Fawgla's. His house is really au village, like what you would imagine in Africa, so I was "bathing" in the toilet area which is really just one slab of concrete with two holes (one bigger than the other for poop) and walls of straw-like substance that has plenty of peepholes for prying eyes. These most adorable little girls went and got my water, soap and sent to bathe in an area that smelled like crap, literally. I don't imagine you'll believe it when I say I actually did feel cleaner afterwards – latrine proximity withstanding. My boyfriend from the night before, Justin, was there and he and just about every other man sitting around the concession, offered to bath me because they know how difficult it can be to rinse off with only one hand. He was pretty upset when I told him I didn't want to be his girlfriend – horse or not – and I didn't want him to bathe me either. So then he suggested the next most likely thing; pick someone else to bathe me. I looked at Tom and Ryan and had to laugh. I live in a country where men can fondle one another while walking down the road because they're friends, but homosexuality doesn't exist, where women lift up their shirts and put their babies to the feeder while they talk to you, but if you catch a glimpse of their belly beads (a necklace around their waist) you caught them in the most mortifying situation, and men and women do not hold hands or show affection of any kind towards one another in public. Just the thought of asking one of them to come help me rinse off was enough to send everyone into giggles – so I just went to the see-through shower and heard them all tell me what they thought of my bathing techniques. Oh, Africa.
After a SPECTACULAR dinner of pate rouge (which is the flavored pate!) with tomato jus (a savory, hot salsa) and chicken and two more shots of sodabi (these were infused with cinnamon and raisins) it was time to head home. I had to get back in time for dinner with another family that was the former volunteer's host family. I didn't think I was going to make it in time due to the roads being ruined from the rainfall the night before and not entirely dried out from the day's sun. So I took off for Toviklin (which is one of the two towns you could pass through to get to Lalo – the other being Klouekanmey) with Ryan as there were very few zemidjans who would give us a decent price to go anywhere out of Lalo. In Toviklin we split up and he headed South to Dogbo while I went West to Azovè. I found a zem who gave me the right price to get home, but first made him stop under a tree in the local primary school because that's the only place in town where you could find a cellular network other than Libercom (I have MTN). So we sat under the tree and I tried to warn the host family that I wouldn't make it in time for dinner, but of course, I was out of credit. So we took off like a bat out of hell; for two kilometers. Then we had to stop for gas and a creepy dude on a black moto asked the little kid gas station "attendant" if would ask my permission to marry me and take me to Azovè himself as his wife. I, respectfully declined, explaining that I already had a capable zemidjan and "maybe next time". Then we took off out of there for another 6 kilometers. Then the zem's moto broke down and we were stranded in a tiny town that, for some reason, only had junior high to high-school aged boys in it. They all gathered around and talked to me while my zem tried to go out in search of someone to take me the rest of the way. After fifteen minutes, the sun starting to set and my anxieties starting to rise, guess who he found? My potential fiance from the gas station! Realizing that it was getting dark and that he had been the only moto even close to passing through the entire time we were stalled I took the chance to ride with him. I also took my zem's driver's license as a precautionary measure and promised to relinquish it to the dark rider upon our arrival to Azovè. I just needed to get home before too late because then the bandits come out onto the roads and who knows what could happen then! (Peace Corps has some great scare tactics). So we were on our way for another ten minutes or so when HIS moto breaks down! I swear, at this point I was on the verge of tears with fear of what could potentially happen in this situation. I realize that, for the most part, the Beninese are the most trustworthy people I have ever encountered and that there was no real indication this guy was a creep, but I wanted to be on the safe side anyway and it was absolutely dark at this point (8pm). He got the moto going, barely, and we barged our way through the countryside with the throttle wide open over some pretty rough roadways. I can't tell you what a relief it was to make it back to my home; to talk to the lady with the fried bean balls on my street and to talk a shower with real walls and running water. And let me tell you; that was one hell of a rabbit cage, too!!