THE BREAD STORIES

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