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!!