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!!

Cal at the Meat Market

Every "jour du marché" brings with it surprises and excitement – what's coming in from all the surrounding villages and how many oranges CAN he fit in that station wagon? The answer; a lot! It's no surprise, then, that you'll usually be coming home with something a little extra in your bag. Today it was a wiggly, flea-ridden little guy named "Cal." God, I seriously hope I didn't get lice from him. Jordan and I went to the "meat market" which is at the end of the cobblestone street from the road to Aplahoue. Chickens, dogs, rabbits, cats, goats, ducks, turtles and other wonderfully edible animals sit in sad cages waiting for haphazard Americans to see a pet in one of their cute little faces and take them home. First, of course, we weighed the options of dogs (there certainly were plenty) and finally settled on saving one little main course for the tidy sum of 1.000F CFA (about two dollars). Afterwards we went immediately to the veterinarians where we paid for a rabies vaccination we then had to administer ourselves. Cradling our little bundle of joy all the way home Jordan and I fretted about the potential for lice, potty training, and what to do when we're both out of town and don't want our puppy to end up dog food himself. We gave him a nice Pantene Pro-V washing and began picking away at the fleas. After a while we gave up and put him in a box surrounded by concrete blocks I pried from the side of my house. He had a tasty dinner of soggy bread and water – hey, it's no Iams, but we're in Africa for Christsake! I hope he doesn't end up being a whiny dog that poops all over the place; I hope he does what I had intended, which was eat malevolent lizards and other gross things in my yard and keep a watch out for creepy people climbing over the walls of my concession. If not, I could always just open the door and look the other way. I doubt he'd get very far before meeting the same fate as his mouton neighbors. In less appealing news, the surprise my neighbors came home with from marché today was some sort of cross between a rooster that crows constantly and a peacock during mating season. It's been a real treat to listen to and I hope they have their feast or ceremony or wedding or whatever soon because I need to get some sleep.