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!!