I don't know how else to communicate other than what I've been trying with words and dialogue and terrible, terrible French (evidently). I tried to convey the message last week that I would be leaving earlier Saturday morning than usual as it was necessary for me to be at the school at 7:30 for our departure to Ouidah. At 7:00am I went in search of breakfast, hoping it wouldn't be covered in ants. I was not so fortunate. I took my bread outside to shake it out – I am now to the point where I'll eat the bread, so long as the ants haven't broken into the interior. At that point it is just too far gone for me to search through every crevice to find the little poisons. Maman Gaius came up to me during this ritual and, in what I could only assume to be an attempt to help, began to furiously shake the bread and insist that no ants had gotten inside; though I had to point out that was not in fact the case. After some extreme frustration on my part I went in search of bread myself, which was not to be found in the vicinity and I had to gather some on my way to school. Again I missed out on bread and jam and had to pay for my own breakfast. Which leaves me furious with the indignation of Peace Corps paying a small fortune for my family to feed me cheese and eggs and pasta with red sauce on the daily and feed me ant-infested day-old bread. I realize we're in Africa, but that's something they actually do well, and daily, and costs about the same as a moto ride across town.
I would like to think of myself as not the pickiest person. Sure I have standards, but for the most part, I don't mind picking something up off the ground and eating it – depending on what it is. of course, not ice cream! So when I'm upset about my breakfast you can bet it's for a good reason. I sit in my room each morning just waiting to hear, “Alleeson.. il faut manger.” They know what time I leave every day; it's not a surprise – I have told them the two times I left early. Otherwise they're all already up before me being weird and reading the bible and singing out loud in the other room. So please forgive me if I'm not 100% satisfied that I have to go out in search of my bread and, that when I find it wrapped in a computer packaging bag, it is crawling with ants inside. I don't like waiting for things, but I'll do so as long as I'm living inside their home. But to make me wait (because I don't know where they're hiding this stuff – and EVERYTHING is hidden at all times and under lock and key – even the frigo is locked and it's not even plugged in!!) and then give me bad food is in mal form. I think my maman understands this (although she never looks pleased when I have to ask for something or when I'm visibly not pleased) as she promptly returns with a folded up piece of bread she's been safeguarding in a plastic screw top jar and a sour look on her face. I gladly relinquished my hold on the ant-infested piece I had valiantly been attempting to rid of its inhabitants whilst I ate in exchange for the undeniably older piece of bread that was ant-free. We had an understanding the other day regarding breakfast food anyway. In this culture it's necessary to get boarderline crazy in someone's face to get anything done. Politesse and kindness don't go very far at all here and you'll end up getting trampled in line for lunch. That being said, lunch was “awesome”. Macaroni and tomato sauce (like usual) but this time with smoked fish instead of cheese or eggs. The fish, I have to admit, is growing on me and I like the smokiness of it all. It's starting to taste pretty good. Dinner was actually awesome (not sarcastically) – yam stew. I'm going to learn how to make it for those “cold” nights where the rain is pouring down and it's 75 degrees outside!!! That's freezing here! And it does get chilly, though never like home. I'm here right now at the end of the rainy season and the beginning of the hot season so we'll see how long I last in that humidity and heat. At least it's not like up north (around 120 degrees certain days in the “dry season”), but that's also the best time to go see all the animals up north so I might go give it a try anyway. Being sure to bring plenty of my own water, of course. So if anyone wants to visit, be sure to come in July/August or again in January/February (after that the heat picks up really badly down here – or so I hear).
Zems are getting much easier to deal with. I have no problems “discutering” (pronounced 'dis-coot-ay) the price down to a reasonable 150francs from 250f and I'm starting to learn the value of walking away (after yelling “Tashi!” in the driver's face of course; which means “Nevermind” or “Let it go” in the local language of Adja). They'll accept the price almost every time, as long as you really mean to walk away – if you just pretend they can tell and will let you walk. Haggling for my breakfast and clothing and transportation wasn't something I was really prepared to do, but as it is quickly becoming a daily ritual I must then accustom myself to it.
Last week I had a horrible, horrible time with the “villagers”. When I'm really frustrated it's hard to maintain my cool (you all still know me). In this particular instance I picked up a rock with the intention of pretending to throw it at a group of children screaming “yovo, yovo bonsoir” (it's a really cute song where they ask you for money and gifts in a really high pitched scream-like tone – it's not really that cute). Well, instead of throwing it at the punks I decided to throw it harmlessly in front of me. Well, something was against me that day because the wind straight up plucked my crappy rock out of the sky and tossed it westward; arching over what seemed like kilometres of dead space past a mother and her son and right into the face of the daughter whose hand the woman was holding. I immediately imaged chickens and goats picking at my dead body floating in the filth on the street. The little girl blinked in surprise; the mother just stood there dumbfounded. I don't know whether she realized what happened or not and the older brother just laughed. The little girl didn't cry; even when I ran up screaming English apologies in her face. Usually when you run up to children they get scared and cry. I think the family honestly was so happy to have a 'blanche' talking to them they weren't upset enough to scream at everyone to lynch me because I threw a rock at the child. (By the way, a good lynching here – which hasn't taken place in FOUR YEARS – consists of throwing a tire over the accused's head and then pouring propane and lighting a match; a really good time if you have nothing better to do than watch people be lit on fire in the street to pay for their crimes. I don't imagine that will happen again anytime soon because for the past four years gas prices have been pretty high and I don't seem them going down anytime soon, you know how that goes, it's just like that in the U.S., too, though with entirely different implications). The mother looked like she genuinely didn't notice and the child knew better than to cry. The only one who seemed to know what happened was the older boy and he was too busy laughing at me to be angry – although the Beninese don't really get angry at white people; they just think it's too funny we're white. To each other, however, the Beninese couldn't be nastier. They are the most self-loathing people I've ever witnessed. The way they address one another and the manner in which they argue at business meetings is enough to curdle my blood just listening. But when addressing me I could, evidently, throw rocks at their children's faces and everything would be great. Because I'm white and I am wonderful and everything I do is weird anyway so why wouldn't I throw rocks at their children, too? I was mortified, but all worked out well I suppose. I'm still here to write this.
I hope that after reading this you all still love me and imagine a certain glow around my head when you think of me, after all, Peace Corps volunteers make mistakes; we're still human. And I'm not yet a volunteer anyway; swear-in isn't until September 22.
take care!!!
Allison
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Post Visit with Amanda and Radio Show
Hello everyone!
I got to the internet again. Thanks everyone who's been sending me e-mails and calling. It's so great to hear from you. As an addition to my last message my cousin Kevin, who did this whole Peace Corps jumbo already a few years back in Kenya, had the great advice of going to 7-11 or some local gas station and picking up a calling card for Africa for super cheap. You can get on the horn to me for pennies a minute! Assuming I'm there (my maman doesn't speak English and sometimes doesn't think to knock on my door so you might end up speaking with my friend, Emma, who lives up the street and is another volunteer) I should be pretty easy to get a hold of and would love to talk to you!!! I try as hard as I can to get all the details and feelings of each experience down, but words sometimes just don't do justice. I can't believe it's only been, and already been, a month since I left home. I never thought it possible for time to simultaneously slow to a crawl as it flew by. I've already experienced and accomplished so much personally that just daily living in Benin seems like the Life Olympics and I just don't imagine how two years can go by without celebrating my 50th birthday at some point.
Here are some more tasty morsels to whet your palettes for what's been going on in the Motherland:
Last week, after a painful French lesson (where I attempted, in vain, to explain the plot line of Gone with the Wind in French and then had to write an essay on my trip to Benin and a book I have recently read ) Aaron (my postmate in Djakatomey) and I went to give a formation on the importance of savings (s'epargner) to a group of photographers in our area. The good news is that it was absolutely thrilling. I feel as though I can really do some good work here and got excited about volunteering all over again. People looked like they were interested in what I was saying (or what I was wearing as they don't really speak French here) they were, for the most part, asking questions. So what that they were asking questions I had already answered or previously addressed; at least they were pretending to pay attention, or maybe the second time around they got it. We had one guy who liked to come up and stand right next to us while we talked so he could write down every word on the board – despite my protests that it was just a summary story to use as an example of how to do savings. Would you believe it, but I was told to slow down my French because it was too advanced?! Most of these people haven't been through all of their education because it costs money once you pass through elementary school so girls especially don't really receive any education after junior high. Could you imagine? I had to commence the formation by explaining the actual word "savings" and what you physically have to do to (i.e. Put cash money in a bank or in a Lipton tea box locket in your bureau; a more likely scenario in this community). Not a single person in my group had a bank account and I had to explain to them the importance and benefits of not worrying about house fires or mice eating your money or, for many of them, water damage in their house. The additional benefit of gaining interest on their savings just flew right over their heads: how could they earn money from doing nothing? I just let that one go for now. The point was, it really was so basic that I feel I can do some immeasurable amount of good, especially if I can maintain the high levels of enthusiasm required to get these people to actually listen to what I say and then ACT IT OUT. That's the most important, as Amanda (the volunteer whose place I am taking) also reiterated to me. Follow-through is key with these people. Of the ten people in my class, probably only 6 will show up next session (and four of them will be there solely with the purpose of asking me to become their second or third wife – they're all pretty young so I don't think any have passed the five mark).
I'm actually looking forward to working with kids in this town as they get excited about doing homework; they love having something to do and they really want to learn English most of all. I'm going to start a correspondence program if anyone could possibly help me set that up with local schools in your area. I need to find out how many people here are interested, but I heard that the last group was somewhere around 40 students that would get together and write letters in English that the PCV (Peace Corp Volunteer; I'm going to start using a lot of acronyms) would take home, correct, return, show, then send off to America to exchange with students there. If anyone know of students that might like to do that (in the 6th grade level), please let me know so we can get started! I know they would love to get going on that, everyone wants to know English here – Niger, Nigeria and Ghana all speak English and a lot of business gets done in these countries. The radio deejays the three of us then went to see (Amanda, Aaron and myself) were also adamant in wanting to learn English. Amanda's been doing this program at a radio station about 30 minutes (on a zem) outside of Azove in a town called Adjahomey. It's called "English Hour" but the normal host wasn't present so it was half-French, half-English hour. They spent some of the time actually discussing cool things; introducing the new PCVs, saying goodbyes and thank-yous to the leaving PCV (Amanda) and talked about what we're going to be doing, what we hope to get out of the experience, what we expect, blah blah, but then they dig deeper: why isn't Amanda already married? Did she not like Beninese guys? Will I go out on a date with the deejay? He actually went off the air to say he liked me and wants me to teach him English at my house – don't worry, but it can get pretty dangerous if you're too nice to men around here, they get the wrong idea very easily. Then poor Aaron got the grill on why doesn't he want a wife. Girls without husbands are bothered, but only because men want to take on the young yovos as wives, but young men that aren't married are like societal anomalies. How do they eat? How do they live in a clean house? Women do all these things and if you're not married that must mean you aren't clean and you don't eat. Aaron is pretty skinny, so it's only making it worse I suppose. Women in the towns and society feel it's their duty to marry him so he can survive. At least I just have to deal with annoying horndogs that I don't have to feel badly about shutting down – he's going to have to deal with not only the women themselves, but men as well pushing their daughters and sisters and cousins on him. In the north it's not uncommon for the village chief or mayor to present the lonely PCV with an underaged "domestique" to do his laundry, cooking, and whatever else is needed during the two years here. We were even taught how to politely refuse (as things illegal in America are illegal here for us as well and punishable in court).
The radio program itself was really cool, though. It's a forum for Aaron and I to go and talk in English for the benefit of the Beninese and to shamelessly promote all of our Peace Corp programs; to go over our lessons and things we want the people in our commune to know. We can talk about AIDS, global warming, savings and credit, polygamy, whatever we want. They don't have an FCC here. I'm really looking forward to having the opportunity to share my interests with the Couffo at large (the region where I'm stationed). I've already started learning Adja (one of the three local languages: Fon, Mendi and Adja are the primary; but I would like to learn some Dendi or Yoruba – further north). That will help me to integrate more successfully and to gain the trust of a lot of people around here. If I could effectively communicate in their native language I would be GOLDEN! I already have a pretty strong command of French – at least to the level necessary to teach the majority of these formations. It's only when speaking with more the more educated that my level of French will need to be heightened. The only problem with the radio broadcast was the naming issue. Here it's always last name first, but as we are from America they figured it would be good to do our last name's first. Actually I don't know what they were thinking because they did Aaron's name correctly, but the end of the story is they think my name is Henderson and they call me "Son Son" because that's the first thing he noticed in my name. Everyone who heard us on the air now thinks my name is either "Son Son" or "Henderson Allison" but that will work out okay since most people introduce themselves by last name first anyway. The zem ride back was quite amazing. It was pouring rain off and on for the day and we would pass through dark clouds then into bright, sunny skies over the freshly washed cornfields and red mud huts. There was the most incredible, full, bright arc du ciel (rainbow) in the sky and I really enjoyed the ride. Except for the fact that we could only get two zems for three people and therefore Aaron and I had to share one, which made for a slightly uncomfortable, close-quarters type of ride, but the scenery was absolutely worth it. Everything so fresh and clean and the women walking back from the marches single file along the highway with their goods riding atop their strong heads.
When we finally got back to Azove we went immediately over to Amanda's host family (now Danielle's – another stagaire in our stage) to hang out, listen to music, have our introductions and get tanked off of boxed Sangria. I'm sorry Grams and Gramps, but in this culture it is totally mandatory to drink with your colleagues; otherwise you lack a very key part of a strong relationship: trust. Of course you don't have to get drunk, that was totally optional, but it's too difficult to explain why you would prefer not to drink because their hundreds of years of tradition tells them that to share a drink with someone in their home or at the buvette means you're "good people" and can be trusted with their financial books and accounting practices. You are granted access to their livelihoods. Of course this is NOT the case for all of the people with whom I will be working, so rest easy. My family, for instance, is very, very Baptist and I will therefore more than likely be attending church with them in the near future and will more than likely find myself participating in their early morning bible reading. My counterpart is Catholic and I see him at church frequently, as is the case for another colleague of mine that is working on the AIDS project with me. Even still, some are Muslim and never drink. So don't worry! But, to continue, after visiting with Amanda's host family (who think my name is Alissandra) and then going to her uncle's (the older brother of her host family) and drinking more boxed wine I was ready for bed. But first we had to walk through the candlelight marche (where I could finally see how the voodoo is strong here) to our houses. I have met so many people already that are so excited to have me here that I can't wait to get started. Everywhere I go people want me to eat with them, to drink with them, to sit and talk with them. I just hope I have enough energy and enough things to say that I will never run dry and end up sitting at someone's table with nothing to say and no energy to open my mouth even to eat.
I got to the internet again. Thanks everyone who's been sending me e-mails and calling. It's so great to hear from you. As an addition to my last message my cousin Kevin, who did this whole Peace Corps jumbo already a few years back in Kenya, had the great advice of going to 7-11 or some local gas station and picking up a calling card for Africa for super cheap. You can get on the horn to me for pennies a minute! Assuming I'm there (my maman doesn't speak English and sometimes doesn't think to knock on my door so you might end up speaking with my friend, Emma, who lives up the street and is another volunteer) I should be pretty easy to get a hold of and would love to talk to you!!! I try as hard as I can to get all the details and feelings of each experience down, but words sometimes just don't do justice. I can't believe it's only been, and already been, a month since I left home. I never thought it possible for time to simultaneously slow to a crawl as it flew by. I've already experienced and accomplished so much personally that just daily living in Benin seems like the Life Olympics and I just don't imagine how two years can go by without celebrating my 50th birthday at some point.
Here are some more tasty morsels to whet your palettes for what's been going on in the Motherland:
Last week, after a painful French lesson (where I attempted, in vain, to explain the plot line of Gone with the Wind in French and then had to write an essay on my trip to Benin and a book I have recently read ) Aaron (my postmate in Djakatomey) and I went to give a formation on the importance of savings (s'epargner) to a group of photographers in our area. The good news is that it was absolutely thrilling. I feel as though I can really do some good work here and got excited about volunteering all over again. People looked like they were interested in what I was saying (or what I was wearing as they don't really speak French here) they were, for the most part, asking questions. So what that they were asking questions I had already answered or previously addressed; at least they were pretending to pay attention, or maybe the second time around they got it. We had one guy who liked to come up and stand right next to us while we talked so he could write down every word on the board – despite my protests that it was just a summary story to use as an example of how to do savings. Would you believe it, but I was told to slow down my French because it was too advanced?! Most of these people haven't been through all of their education because it costs money once you pass through elementary school so girls especially don't really receive any education after junior high. Could you imagine? I had to commence the formation by explaining the actual word "savings" and what you physically have to do to (i.e. Put cash money in a bank or in a Lipton tea box locket in your bureau; a more likely scenario in this community). Not a single person in my group had a bank account and I had to explain to them the importance and benefits of not worrying about house fires or mice eating your money or, for many of them, water damage in their house. The additional benefit of gaining interest on their savings just flew right over their heads: how could they earn money from doing nothing? I just let that one go for now. The point was, it really was so basic that I feel I can do some immeasurable amount of good, especially if I can maintain the high levels of enthusiasm required to get these people to actually listen to what I say and then ACT IT OUT. That's the most important, as Amanda (the volunteer whose place I am taking) also reiterated to me. Follow-through is key with these people. Of the ten people in my class, probably only 6 will show up next session (and four of them will be there solely with the purpose of asking me to become their second or third wife – they're all pretty young so I don't think any have passed the five mark).
I'm actually looking forward to working with kids in this town as they get excited about doing homework; they love having something to do and they really want to learn English most of all. I'm going to start a correspondence program if anyone could possibly help me set that up with local schools in your area. I need to find out how many people here are interested, but I heard that the last group was somewhere around 40 students that would get together and write letters in English that the PCV (Peace Corp Volunteer; I'm going to start using a lot of acronyms) would take home, correct, return, show, then send off to America to exchange with students there. If anyone know of students that might like to do that (in the 6th grade level), please let me know so we can get started! I know they would love to get going on that, everyone wants to know English here – Niger, Nigeria and Ghana all speak English and a lot of business gets done in these countries. The radio deejays the three of us then went to see (Amanda, Aaron and myself) were also adamant in wanting to learn English. Amanda's been doing this program at a radio station about 30 minutes (on a zem) outside of Azove in a town called Adjahomey. It's called "English Hour" but the normal host wasn't present so it was half-French, half-English hour. They spent some of the time actually discussing cool things; introducing the new PCVs, saying goodbyes and thank-yous to the leaving PCV (Amanda) and talked about what we're going to be doing, what we hope to get out of the experience, what we expect, blah blah, but then they dig deeper: why isn't Amanda already married? Did she not like Beninese guys? Will I go out on a date with the deejay? He actually went off the air to say he liked me and wants me to teach him English at my house – don't worry, but it can get pretty dangerous if you're too nice to men around here, they get the wrong idea very easily. Then poor Aaron got the grill on why doesn't he want a wife. Girls without husbands are bothered, but only because men want to take on the young yovos as wives, but young men that aren't married are like societal anomalies. How do they eat? How do they live in a clean house? Women do all these things and if you're not married that must mean you aren't clean and you don't eat. Aaron is pretty skinny, so it's only making it worse I suppose. Women in the towns and society feel it's their duty to marry him so he can survive. At least I just have to deal with annoying horndogs that I don't have to feel badly about shutting down – he's going to have to deal with not only the women themselves, but men as well pushing their daughters and sisters and cousins on him. In the north it's not uncommon for the village chief or mayor to present the lonely PCV with an underaged "domestique" to do his laundry, cooking, and whatever else is needed during the two years here. We were even taught how to politely refuse (as things illegal in America are illegal here for us as well and punishable in court).
The radio program itself was really cool, though. It's a forum for Aaron and I to go and talk in English for the benefit of the Beninese and to shamelessly promote all of our Peace Corp programs; to go over our lessons and things we want the people in our commune to know. We can talk about AIDS, global warming, savings and credit, polygamy, whatever we want. They don't have an FCC here. I'm really looking forward to having the opportunity to share my interests with the Couffo at large (the region where I'm stationed). I've already started learning Adja (one of the three local languages: Fon, Mendi and Adja are the primary; but I would like to learn some Dendi or Yoruba – further north). That will help me to integrate more successfully and to gain the trust of a lot of people around here. If I could effectively communicate in their native language I would be GOLDEN! I already have a pretty strong command of French – at least to the level necessary to teach the majority of these formations. It's only when speaking with more the more educated that my level of French will need to be heightened. The only problem with the radio broadcast was the naming issue. Here it's always last name first, but as we are from America they figured it would be good to do our last name's first. Actually I don't know what they were thinking because they did Aaron's name correctly, but the end of the story is they think my name is Henderson and they call me "Son Son" because that's the first thing he noticed in my name. Everyone who heard us on the air now thinks my name is either "Son Son" or "Henderson Allison" but that will work out okay since most people introduce themselves by last name first anyway. The zem ride back was quite amazing. It was pouring rain off and on for the day and we would pass through dark clouds then into bright, sunny skies over the freshly washed cornfields and red mud huts. There was the most incredible, full, bright arc du ciel (rainbow) in the sky and I really enjoyed the ride. Except for the fact that we could only get two zems for three people and therefore Aaron and I had to share one, which made for a slightly uncomfortable, close-quarters type of ride, but the scenery was absolutely worth it. Everything so fresh and clean and the women walking back from the marches single file along the highway with their goods riding atop their strong heads.
When we finally got back to Azove we went immediately over to Amanda's host family (now Danielle's – another stagaire in our stage) to hang out, listen to music, have our introductions and get tanked off of boxed Sangria. I'm sorry Grams and Gramps, but in this culture it is totally mandatory to drink with your colleagues; otherwise you lack a very key part of a strong relationship: trust. Of course you don't have to get drunk, that was totally optional, but it's too difficult to explain why you would prefer not to drink because their hundreds of years of tradition tells them that to share a drink with someone in their home or at the buvette means you're "good people" and can be trusted with their financial books and accounting practices. You are granted access to their livelihoods. Of course this is NOT the case for all of the people with whom I will be working, so rest easy. My family, for instance, is very, very Baptist and I will therefore more than likely be attending church with them in the near future and will more than likely find myself participating in their early morning bible reading. My counterpart is Catholic and I see him at church frequently, as is the case for another colleague of mine that is working on the AIDS project with me. Even still, some are Muslim and never drink. So don't worry! But, to continue, after visiting with Amanda's host family (who think my name is Alissandra) and then going to her uncle's (the older brother of her host family) and drinking more boxed wine I was ready for bed. But first we had to walk through the candlelight marche (where I could finally see how the voodoo is strong here) to our houses. I have met so many people already that are so excited to have me here that I can't wait to get started. Everywhere I go people want me to eat with them, to drink with them, to sit and talk with them. I just hope I have enough energy and enough things to say that I will never run dry and end up sitting at someone's table with nothing to say and no energy to open my mouth even to eat.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Dutch Ovens, Peanut Sauce and Ouidah
Last night Aaron and Emma came over and Aaron and I tried to make Saus d'Arachide (peanut sauce). I was totally expecting it to taste like peanuts.. I was hoping it would taste like peanuts – I love peanut sauce! Instead, Patricia made the entire meal, including roasting and grinding the peanuts herself into a paste which she called "du buerre d'arachide" (peanut butter) which tasted nothing like Jiffy, for the record. When Aaron and I showed up to make our meal Patricia had already started going on what was supposed to be peanut sauce. Aaron had to keep from gagging when she threw in the obligatory fish bits (he hates the fish here) while I laughed my butt off. It wasn't until she also threw in the fried squishy "cheese" that I had a problem. With our newly ruined sauce we had, of course, some clump of starch made with the flour of mantioc and water. Basically it's constructed like many other things here: boil water and add flour and stir until your arm is going to break from the thick, porridgey consistency. Then you stir a little bit more and VOILA! You can add any form of "red sauce" you want to it. In this case, the only reason why it's called peanut sauce is because you use peanut oil instead of regular, old, red palm oil. It's still that same artery-clogging goodness you've come to expect at every Beninese table. Dessert, luckily, was a much different story. While all the host family raved over the disgusting peanut sauce disaster the three whiteys went to town on a recipe for Pineapple Upside Down Cake. Yes, we formed a Dutch oven the way I never imagined possible; by taking a Peace Corps issued standard water boiling pot and placing several well-burned tuna cans inside. After adding some run-of-the-mill dirt to the bottom of the pot we placed a non-stick (GOD I love chemicals like Teflon) baking pan on top that we filled with the goodness of batter and pineapples we were able to construct using good eyesight, a broken mug for a measuring cup and five or six street-vendor sachets of sugar, a tub of nasty yellowed margarine spread, the best pineapples I have had in my entire life and what I think might have been baking soda or powder – I don't know, it came in an unmarked baggy. After some uncertain temperating over the open coals (that's right, real coal) a decent 45 minutes later we three yovos were enjoying the best pineapple upside down cake I would venture any of us had ever eaten. Hilariously enough, none of the Beninise really enjoyed it at all. For how open they expect us to be with all their 'burn-your-mouth-off" piment meals and oily palm red sauce and fried dough balls they sure aren't receptive to the finer, sweeter delicacies we strive to concoct. Maman Gaius could barely force a nimble into her mouth with me standing over her, plate neatly shoved under chin to catch any crumbs she may have begrudgingly let slip through her lips. I personally was ecstatic that not only was I able to bake something delicious, but did so without temperature gauges, measuring cups or even proper ingredients over hot coals outside in Africa.
Yesterday we went to Ouidah. I had a rough morning start (but I'll write about the bread next week). So the bumpy, two-and-one-half ride through some of the most developed towns in Africa commenced with me in a sour mood. After fighting off some fierce road illness we made our way into Ouidah, home of the slave trade history and Voodoo capital of Benin. We visited the Portuguese fort, which was actually a fort built by the French then burnt by the Portuguese in 1961 then rebuilt and made to house weird, burned artifacts found in the rubbles and local Africrap vendors. That said, I saw some very cool pictures and lots of burned former slave chains and really, really neat gift ideas. The jewelry and art over here is so incredible it's almost worth the insane prices; especially the Kama sutra metal figurines (what home would be complete without that collection?). After that visit we made our way over to the Sacred Forest where one of the former kings of Benin turned himself into a tree, paving the way for future generations of his family to turn into trees. Many of the Voodoo deities are represented in sculptures around the "forest" (which was about the size of Brad's backyard) and some really spoke to me, so I named them after certain family members; can you guess which ones? The history behind this forest is that "Once Upon a Time," in Africa, there was a king who liked to frequent the woods. One day he goes missing for over a week. During that time he talked to a panther but then eventually he either turned into the panther which then turned into the tree or the panther itself turned into the tree or he just went directly from human to tree and skipped the entire panther thing. Either way the rest of his family followed suite and there is rumored to be an entire royal lineage of trees now located in the forest. The proof that is indeed a sacred forest, our tour guide Martine de Souza tells us, is that in 1982 a man tried to cut down one of the trees, but then fainted. When he came to, the tree was back up and had righted itself. Each year since then, on the same day this occurred, the Beninese who believe celebrate this miracle in the forest.
After that treat we all went down to the real tourist goldmine: La Route de l'Esclave. This was incredible and an attraction not to be missed. Unless, of course, the Beninese were in charge of marketing. Yes, that's right, I didn't even know we passed by the "Tree of Forgetfulness" until it was gone because there wasn't even a tree there any more and we couldn't get out of the car to take a picture of the mermaid statue that now stands in its place. The mermaid, the Beninese assume you could surmise (I couldn't), represents the slaves going across the ocean to America... not turning into mermaids, just floating over them to get to the Americas. So you know to take a picture of the mermaid because it used to a be a tree that made people forget their homeland. I didn't get it either. Anyway, the mermaid, err the tree, was placed there by the King of Ouidah at the time, Guezo, to make the spirits of the slaves walking past that way to the ocean from as far away as Nigeria forget their homeland, their culture, their identity "just in case" they died and were pissed and wanted to come back and exact revenge on him. To invoke the forgetting power of the tree men were required to circle the tree nine times and women seven. I guess men remember more than women, I don't know the reason behind the numbering. After circling, slaves were held in the Zomai (or room "where the light is not allowed to go"). Sometimes people would wait at the Zomai for several months in complete darkness. The statues to the side of the Zomai building represent the slaves in bondage. The sculpture in front of it is representative of all the different cultures of the slaves. For those who were too weak to survive this far a mass grave further down the route is placed to mark their passing. A sculpture to the right of the massive grave marking is a symbol of the freedom from slavery that death granted. One last stop before the end was the "Tree of Hope"/ "Tree of Return" (also poorly marked). The tree itself is quite remarkable, but people are just hanging out around it with no hullabloo or significant, visible markings. There is no way this type of lazy marketing would take place at a U.S. Tourist attraction (just picture the World's Largest Ball of Twine in comparison to this). The snack bar was a friggin' cooler with an arrow sign on it and a bag of water tied to a stick as advertisement for beverages!!! The slaves would circle around this tree three times in hopes of counteracting the previous tree's powers of forgetfulness and coming back to their homeland in spirit. This was the ultimate ritual before the their departure at the "Door of No Return". This was one of the most impressive monuments I have seen in the world. Again, not much fanfare, but I think in this case it was much more appreciated. It wouldn't be the same had tons of tourists been taking photographs of the powerful columns that supported an carved image of slaves walking towards the ocean on the northern facade, their backs to Africa, their sides on the eastern and western sides and their faces towards the horizon, their uncertain future and inevitable death, on the southern. This was the last sight of millions of Africans forced to leave their home. It was humbling to imagine even more that several centuries had passed until at least their descendants were able to return home. It was another experience to hear the facilitators that accompanied us murmur in ignominious agreement that it was the Africans who sold the Africans into slavery. We, as "whiteys", had imagined there would be some sort of anger or hatred displayed against us on our visit through slave history (not unlike what we sometimes witness being experienced in the Southern U.S. Territories), but instead received the exact opposite sentiments. It was the kings of Africa, the leadership of the land and its people (Benin and Nigeria specifically), that captured, forced into bondage, and sold their then enemies, and now brothers, to the Dutch, Portuguese, French, English and Danish. And now it is their shared pain of a history of self-inflicted torture and suffering that unites them. It is an admirable sentiment I wish could be echoed in similar situations currently existing in the world. It was an incredible visit and I'm thankful we were able to see this part of the history of Benin and its culture. I got the vague notion that these sites are not more impressive because of the personal humiliation of the country for its ancestral behavior; in a grand gesture these markers are the acknowledgment of faults, but there is also a strong preference to not blast it out too loudly that their past is largely marred by self-destruction and deceit through human bondage. But that's just my opinion, who knows exactly – that's what I'm here to figure out through experiencing the culture for the next two years.
I already have more stuff to write for the next e-mail, but I'll give you all a break with this. I understand how fatiguing it could be to read all this (imagine living it) so I'll let you go with a quick preview of what's to come:
Monday I have lunch again with Danielle's family then dinner at Emma's to speak Adja (her maman never learned French). Tuesday night I might have a break, although I promised Emma I'd help with dinner again and I said I would try and bake something for my post visit volunteer – we'll see if my Dutch oven experience was a fluke or if I'm really getting good at this. Wednesday I leave for the "post visit" in the north. My actual post is Azovè, where I live right now, so my director gave me to option of going to visit someone else because I am already living where I'll be for the next two years. That means I'm going to Natitingou (if you have a map) with free time (no vacation days necessary) and will be enjoying a nice 10-15 hour drive Wednesday morning with a car full of Beens (I'm trying to catch this on, but I don't think it's going to fly). Needless to say, I'll have plenty to share by the time I get to the internet again.
Enjoy the plethora of photos!!!
Yesterday we went to Ouidah. I had a rough morning start (but I'll write about the bread next week). So the bumpy, two-and-one-half ride through some of the most developed towns in Africa commenced with me in a sour mood. After fighting off some fierce road illness we made our way into Ouidah, home of the slave trade history and Voodoo capital of Benin. We visited the Portuguese fort, which was actually a fort built by the French then burnt by the Portuguese in 1961 then rebuilt and made to house weird, burned artifacts found in the rubbles and local Africrap vendors. That said, I saw some very cool pictures and lots of burned former slave chains and really, really neat gift ideas. The jewelry and art over here is so incredible it's almost worth the insane prices; especially the Kama sutra metal figurines (what home would be complete without that collection?). After that visit we made our way over to the Sacred Forest where one of the former kings of Benin turned himself into a tree, paving the way for future generations of his family to turn into trees. Many of the Voodoo deities are represented in sculptures around the "forest" (which was about the size of Brad's backyard) and some really spoke to me, so I named them after certain family members; can you guess which ones? The history behind this forest is that "Once Upon a Time," in Africa, there was a king who liked to frequent the woods. One day he goes missing for over a week. During that time he talked to a panther but then eventually he either turned into the panther which then turned into the tree or the panther itself turned into the tree or he just went directly from human to tree and skipped the entire panther thing. Either way the rest of his family followed suite and there is rumored to be an entire royal lineage of trees now located in the forest. The proof that is indeed a sacred forest, our tour guide Martine de Souza tells us, is that in 1982 a man tried to cut down one of the trees, but then fainted. When he came to, the tree was back up and had righted itself. Each year since then, on the same day this occurred, the Beninese who believe celebrate this miracle in the forest.
After that treat we all went down to the real tourist goldmine: La Route de l'Esclave. This was incredible and an attraction not to be missed. Unless, of course, the Beninese were in charge of marketing. Yes, that's right, I didn't even know we passed by the "Tree of Forgetfulness" until it was gone because there wasn't even a tree there any more and we couldn't get out of the car to take a picture of the mermaid statue that now stands in its place. The mermaid, the Beninese assume you could surmise (I couldn't), represents the slaves going across the ocean to America... not turning into mermaids, just floating over them to get to the Americas. So you know to take a picture of the mermaid because it used to a be a tree that made people forget their homeland. I didn't get it either. Anyway, the mermaid, err the tree, was placed there by the King of Ouidah at the time, Guezo, to make the spirits of the slaves walking past that way to the ocean from as far away as Nigeria forget their homeland, their culture, their identity "just in case" they died and were pissed and wanted to come back and exact revenge on him. To invoke the forgetting power of the tree men were required to circle the tree nine times and women seven. I guess men remember more than women, I don't know the reason behind the numbering. After circling, slaves were held in the Zomai (or room "where the light is not allowed to go"). Sometimes people would wait at the Zomai for several months in complete darkness. The statues to the side of the Zomai building represent the slaves in bondage. The sculpture in front of it is representative of all the different cultures of the slaves. For those who were too weak to survive this far a mass grave further down the route is placed to mark their passing. A sculpture to the right of the massive grave marking is a symbol of the freedom from slavery that death granted. One last stop before the end was the "Tree of Hope"/ "Tree of Return" (also poorly marked). The tree itself is quite remarkable, but people are just hanging out around it with no hullabloo or significant, visible markings. There is no way this type of lazy marketing would take place at a U.S. Tourist attraction (just picture the World's Largest Ball of Twine in comparison to this). The snack bar was a friggin' cooler with an arrow sign on it and a bag of water tied to a stick as advertisement for beverages!!! The slaves would circle around this tree three times in hopes of counteracting the previous tree's powers of forgetfulness and coming back to their homeland in spirit. This was the ultimate ritual before the their departure at the "Door of No Return". This was one of the most impressive monuments I have seen in the world. Again, not much fanfare, but I think in this case it was much more appreciated. It wouldn't be the same had tons of tourists been taking photographs of the powerful columns that supported an carved image of slaves walking towards the ocean on the northern facade, their backs to Africa, their sides on the eastern and western sides and their faces towards the horizon, their uncertain future and inevitable death, on the southern. This was the last sight of millions of Africans forced to leave their home. It was humbling to imagine even more that several centuries had passed until at least their descendants were able to return home. It was another experience to hear the facilitators that accompanied us murmur in ignominious agreement that it was the Africans who sold the Africans into slavery. We, as "whiteys", had imagined there would be some sort of anger or hatred displayed against us on our visit through slave history (not unlike what we sometimes witness being experienced in the Southern U.S. Territories), but instead received the exact opposite sentiments. It was the kings of Africa, the leadership of the land and its people (Benin and Nigeria specifically), that captured, forced into bondage, and sold their then enemies, and now brothers, to the Dutch, Portuguese, French, English and Danish. And now it is their shared pain of a history of self-inflicted torture and suffering that unites them. It is an admirable sentiment I wish could be echoed in similar situations currently existing in the world. It was an incredible visit and I'm thankful we were able to see this part of the history of Benin and its culture. I got the vague notion that these sites are not more impressive because of the personal humiliation of the country for its ancestral behavior; in a grand gesture these markers are the acknowledgment of faults, but there is also a strong preference to not blast it out too loudly that their past is largely marred by self-destruction and deceit through human bondage. But that's just my opinion, who knows exactly – that's what I'm here to figure out through experiencing the culture for the next two years.
I already have more stuff to write for the next e-mail, but I'll give you all a break with this. I understand how fatiguing it could be to read all this (imagine living it) so I'll let you go with a quick preview of what's to come:
Monday I have lunch again with Danielle's family then dinner at Emma's to speak Adja (her maman never learned French). Tuesday night I might have a break, although I promised Emma I'd help with dinner again and I said I would try and bake something for my post visit volunteer – we'll see if my Dutch oven experience was a fluke or if I'm really getting good at this. Wednesday I leave for the "post visit" in the north. My actual post is Azovè, where I live right now, so my director gave me to option of going to visit someone else because I am already living where I'll be for the next two years. That means I'm going to Natitingou (if you have a map) with free time (no vacation days necessary) and will be enjoying a nice 10-15 hour drive Wednesday morning with a car full of Beens (I'm trying to catch this on, but I don't think it's going to fly). Needless to say, I'll have plenty to share by the time I get to the internet again.
Enjoy the plethora of photos!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.JPG)
