Friday, November 23, 2007
THANKSGIVING
I apologize in advance for this e-mail. I don't know when I am going to get to the internet next so I wanted to get this out before it became irrelevant. P.S. It's extremely sappy and was written while still intoxicated by too much weird food and and intense missing of family and friends. If you want to skip the corn (as in, corny) I suggest not reading the last paragraph which is mainly addressed for those aforementioned friends and family. Other bits are kind of funny, full of poignant self-discovery and just fact-filled story telling for those with enough curiosity to want to read it. Let me tell you about my Thanksgiving. In the morning I prepared a sweet potato casserole; two actually, because I didn't know how much one and half kilos of sweet potatoes really was. I pressed some coffee (the addiction that no ocean nor disparity of national incomes could kill) and spent two hours going through the motions of figuring how just how to mash a kilo and a half of sweet potatoes with just one dinky African-made fork and how to do all the measurements with no actual measuring cups or spoons. Then came the elusive oven temperature game. I have a big pot with some old tuna cans and a bunch of sand at the bottom that has been used for so long the lid is warped and it about as effective as an oven that constantly has its door ajar, no rack and no temperature gauge would be – which is to say, not very. Despite all that messing around I had time to spare (I woke up around 7am to get started and boiled the potatoes the night before to save time) and so I took a zem to Aplahoué to pick up some packages that awaited me. I figured that since the post office opened at 8:00am I would have a chance it was open by the time I got there at 9:30am. I was wrong. The doors were shut and locked and there was no note on the door. As I was fuming, baffled at how a servant of the public could so consistently cease to be present during the known hours of the bureau's operation, a man walked around the corner, saw the door shut, gave a barely perceivable shrug of the shoulders and turned to walk away. I could not stand the apathy; the acceptance(?) that this was just the way things worked and that businesses and consumers could not rely upon their government offices to be open during consistently scheduled hours. I was furious. I know what the Peace Corps preaches: if it ain't broke, don't fix it, but this was too much. In retrospect, I shouldn't have accosted him and yelled at the ladies across the street with questions about why the Beninese were so accepting of these unreliabilities? In retrospect, I should have taken note of how calm and composed and unaffected he was. The building was closed. There was nothing he could change about that, so why pitch a fit – my method of dealing with it. In retrospect, perhaps my way of dealing with the world is not the best; why did I think it was better to encourage the passerby to become angry at the situation instead of turning it around and taking a lesson from him that I can't change what was taking place and allowing myself to become upset because of it, as powerful as I imagine I can be, wasn't going to magically open the bureau. So it was a visionary moment for me; which are fortunately becoming increasingly more frequent. I was still angry, however, that I had paid 300 francs to basically go on a little morning joyride; but, it was a nice ride although perhaps not worth the 300f. Maybe worth 150f, but certainly not 300f. I will never be complacent about wasting money. I returned to my house and then packed for my trip to Lobogo. Aaron and Tom showed up and we sat around for a period of time after which we finally set off for our Thanksgiving in Bennyland. The taxi ride was insignificant though I did get in a great shouting match with the chauffeur concerning the suffocation of his passengers in back. (a little aside: contrary to what this e-mail might imply, I don't spend my days screaming and becoming angry with people, but I do quite frequently have heated discussions with certain classes of people such as marché mamas, chauffeurs and zemidjans: a practice which is not only an acceptable form of discussion in Adja-land, but is encouraged by many and even applauded when performed by a white female – very entertaining to boot). Upon arrival in Zoungbonou (remember this from the last time?) we sought out some decent motorbikes for the long journey through red dirt. It took some persuading but finally my zem driver agreed that 700f was an acceptable price to pay; which then took another 20 minutes of convincing for the other two zem driver and the four others who weren't driving but came over to argue anyway. At one point a zem driver told me that because I was white I should be paying the higher price to which I wagged a very serious "no, no, no" finger and chased him back to his perch where the rest of the zemi drivers were laughing hysterically. That was the end of that discussion and we all took off in a cloud of red dust. Not quite the "Mod Squad" but enough so that I felt cool when I put my Ray Bans back on. We arrived at Ryan's house just in time for the final moments of our dinners' lives. In a strange flourish of protest my zem driver refused to give me back the correct change and instead only gave me 200f for my 1000f bill – evidently he was not okay with our price. I extracted the remaining 100f without violence, I'm not saying I didn't threaten, and went to the side of the house where the first chicken had already met its demise. Ryan had purchased two chickens and two pintards for the princely sum of 16mille francs. I have to admit, I always sort of knew what it meant to run around like a chicken with its head cut off, but I had never really before witnessed this expression in action. Thanks to Africa, I am no longer a stranger to chicken death but normally it is done with a firm grip on the chicken and a slow, methodic cutting and draining. Ryan, however, preferred the more dramatic exit and used a machete and not so much gripping as grasping (I'll leave you to decipher what I mean by differentiating the two). Tom held the chicken down, but that was pointless. No sooner had the machete blade made contact with the earth on the other side of the chicken's neck than Tom's hand came up to protect his face from the flailing, flying, cartwheeling headless chicken. I mean, this thing took off into the sky – without a head!! It was awesome. Truly something to experience. I sincerely suggest every one of you either kill a chicken in this manner yourself, but if not at least watch another brave soul perform the act (you all have the Discovery Channel right?). If I ever ran around like that I would be extremely fit and will forever more consider it the highest compliment should someone tell me that I resemble this fantastic display of agility, athletic talent and determination to persist after death. So we killed all the chickens and the pintards (well, I watched with Liz and Aaron and Jesse) and all stood around in a huddle while Ryan and Tom disemboweled the meal. It was fascinating and there were lots of oohs and aahs and ugghs coming from the white people in the huddle while the other 85% of the huddle were strangely calm and unresponsive; they'd seen this all before, in fact, just the night before. We all came inside and watched the football games I had been sent (THANK YOU!) and it was almost like real Thanksgiving. After we watched the Bears come back in a slightly shocking victory over the Packers (yea, I'm pretty far behind) we all went out to the local bar: The Bel Air. On the way we stopped to visit Ryan's garden which was completley destroyed during his visit up north for four weeks. They tore down his palm branch wall; tore up his lettuce plants; ripped through his bean teepee and even dug up from the ground the basine he was using for a water hold. It was like visiting a vegetable cemetery that was victim to a very serious grave robbing. Very depressing and disheartening. I hope the same fate does not befall my garden; but his is hidden back into a forest-type area and mine is right on the road so should any little pagailleurs pagaille my garden they wil be witnessed and either stopped or turned in for punishment when I return. At the bar we finally got down to some Thanksgiving business with some beers and football. Half the town showed up to play catch with us as we sat around and soaked up the fading sunlight. It was picturesque and magical; I got to speak to some family and it was a bittersweet moment. Here I was, sitting in rickety plastic chairs at a rusted off-centered table basking in the oncoming twilight with some of friends, drinking some mediocre $1 beer and watching as thirty Africans ranging in age from 2 to 45 cried out "Ici! Ici!" (Here! Here!) for the ball and laughed as they missed and threw back awkwardly. Some of them were really good and I wondered if they had practiced before with some former volunteers' ball or if there really existed a genetic predisposition to incredible football skills. The world may never know; or at least I'll leave it to some curious health volunteer with an obsession with gene traits. After all the excitement finally came the eating. I'm used to the early Thanksgiving dinner where the food starts around 12 and you proceed to simultaneously digest while ingesting more and more throughout the day and probably finish up around 9:30pm; about the time we here sat down to a dinner of banana bread, popcorn, potato wedges, market bread, casserole and fried chicken/pintard with spicy barbejus (pronounced "Barbie Jew"). SHOCKINGLY the casseroles came out fairly well; especially considering I was missing one ingredient and added another. I can't say it was the best Thanksgiving I've ever had, but I can say with certainty it wasn't as bad as I had expected and could have been a lot worse considering the circumstances. I am thankful to have the courage and support of friends and family to come to Africa and have it all the same. Thank you all for reading these. It gives me a bit of purpose in writing them to know I have a bit of an audience. I hope the holiday season finds you all well and in good spirits. It really can be much worse so please look around at your wealth of family, friends and comforts and know that you are truly blessed just to be born an American.I'm done preaching. I just wanted to write that I am thankful for knowing every one of you.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
DEJA VU IN NATITINGOU; CHUTES IN TANGUIETA; CORRESPONDANCE CLUB
I apologize in advance for this e-mail. I have been wanting to write it for a while, but life has actually been picking up in terms of work. I am also still digesting from our makeshift Thanksgiving last week (one down, one to go). I had to write about that one in a separate e-mail, though. This one was hard enough and I know bombarding your inboxes with these huge files gets tedious. So open each at your leisure and just enjoy. There won't be a test, I promise. Luckily for you all, I fear I'm sinking into the hole where nothing is new anymore and I forget to tell you guys about the interesting things that happen in everyday life. Perhaps this will result in my being less of a prolific correspondent. For some of you, I apologize. If there are specific things you would like to know about, don't hesitate to ask; perhaps there are different things here to which I have already grown accustomed and don't bother to mention to you.
For Early Service training we went right back up to Natitingou. It was another 7 hour ride of joyous fun and delightment. Going to the "bus depot" in Bohicon is always a trip as it requires you to jump up at the first sight of a bus (usually anywhere from 20-200 minutes late) and run to snag the empty seats that may or may not exist on said bus. To accomplish this task, however, you must run across the red terrain lot, barge through the vendors with heavy lids of crap on their heads, shove and shoulder out the other potential riders then finally grab the attention and plead convincingly with the maitress charged with managing the passenger load and fares to land yourself a spot.
In this particular instance (and the reason I prefer to not travel in groups – any more than two travelers and the difficulty of your voyage increases exponentially with each addition) there were only three empty seats and we were four (with a fifth on the road up ahead). We (I) pleaded with the woman to let us board as four and we could share one seat and she acquiesed, begrudgingly. Much to the chagrin of another gentleman who legitimately held a reservation but from whom we stole an empty seat nonetheless. The result of which being that I was sitting cheek to cheek with Sebastian and a little African boy who looked as though he had been in situations more comfortable than he was in now pressed up against the side of a bus, but had also been punished worse enough to know better than to say so. Three older French people also managed to persuade their way onto the bus and so the styrofoam luggage had to go under (where it belonged anyway); although it took some manouevering around the foot of a gendarme agent who refused to budge (although I can't say I understood his protests unless he didn't want white people sitting at the back of his bus) and carried the big gun to validate his protest.
The trip itself was relatively uneventful. I scared the crap out of this little girl by my whiteness and we stopped in a few random towns for food and snacks. When we arrived in Nati, it was raining and that sucked, but we got to the hotel without problems and had air conditioning in our rooms (though it was raining, you still want the air conditioner – that humidity)! There isn't really much else to say except we ate really well (the $8 pizza photo), stayed up really late, and drank expensive Nescafe freeze dried coffee (it took us two hours to get the price down from $2 to a little over $1 – it's insane to think of paying Starbucks' prices for worse than 7-11 flavor!). I left Nati as the person in charge of updating the formation binder for the next stage of volunteers coming July 4th (yea, sucks for them!) and being the official contact on radio programs. I'm loving having some new responsibility once again with which to occupy my excessive free time.
CHUTES IN TANGUIETA
After our stint in Nati was over, a group of us took off on in a taxi up through the beautiful hillsides of northwestern Benin. It looked like California, but I think that about everyplace I visit. The only difference was the little roadside stops were red, straw-roofed huts and little naked black children and goats ran along side the highway. This was a new Benin for me and I was thrilled to be viewing some different terrain than what I normally see in the south.
We went up to Tanguieta where another volutneer, Mike, lives in a neat little concession complete with with a grave, memorial and the first full latrine I have seen in-country. (All they do is tear down the surrounding walls and move them to where they have dug up another pit latrine. Sometimes they'll cover the old latrine hole with cement, but was not in this instance what they chose to do). We spent the first night just hanging out and seeing the town – which is right in the hills and is quite charming! They did controlled burning on the hillsides that was eerily beautiful to watch as we ate our street meat and beans and rice while the sky behind the hill was lit up orange and blue.
The next morning we set out for the waterfalls; each of us on the back of a moto to traverse the 40km trip of red dirt and burning sunny hillside. My moto broke down at one point and we had to walk a distance (his spark plug gave out). We finally got it going again, just in time to head up to the town of Tanagou which is just as picturesque as all get-out. Here we waited and waited and waited for the volunteer posted there and her friend to get out of their hut and come up the last little way with us. Emily is the health volunteer used to living out in the bush; the place where no zemidjans go. Sweet girl. While we were waiting, Emma's driver dropped his moto on his foot and we had a bit of an emergency. Luckily, we always have a little bit of a med kit on us and we patched him right up – but then he left his bloody rag on the ground and I had to scold him for being an idiot (and how is AIDS spread?).
We finally made it up to the waterfalls and had a little hike in through some beautiful rivers and streams and some really stinky mud pits that were hard to avoid slipping into. The biggest fall (there are a couple on the way up) is beautiful and the brackish water below has been approved by decades of volunteers for swimming so we all dove in without hesitation while our moto drivers watched (they're afraid of water and aren't really known for their swimming abilities). Nearby was a cave full of bats where we spent some time just hanging out... very cool to say you hang out in a cave, toxic guano or otherwise.
To get to top of the fall itself you have to scale the wall, hoist yourself up using vines well-rooted into the rock for leverage and them climb and shimmy your way through cracks in the wall up to the top. Basically, once you've already reached the summit, you have to jump off because there is no safer way of getting down. Now if you really know me you know that I'm absolutely the worst at guessing heights and distances, weights and childrens' ages, but I would say this fall is about 45 feet high (take with a pound of salt). We got up there and it was far enough to really make you shake in your booties; a very impressive height. Far enough of a distance to hurt my feet when I hit water – the second one to jump – even though they were pointed, far enough to hurt the inside of my legs for two days. It was much higher than I remember being the Spanish Flats at Lake Berryessa or the rocks of our youth at D.L. Bliss. Those didn't hurt when I hit the water. And I got off easy; you should see the other guy! We spent the day swimming and lolligaggin around afterwards and I wish I had the photos to prove it, but alas, I have no camera and my friends are in other towns. One fine, random day you'll see a blur in some water and that's me at the falls; don't doubt it. I was hideously ill on the bus the next day so I'm going to chalk that up to being in water that was neither boiled nor filtered. But it was fun!! Took some of the heat off, too.
CORRESPONDANCE CLUB
This week marked the first of our (Jordan's and my) Club de Correspondance. Kids from both the "quatrieme" and "cinqieme" levels (equivalent to seventh and eighth grade) of CEG (General Learning School) come to the club on Tuesdays or Wednesdays and we help them write letters in English to American students. There is a lady in Georgia (the state, not the former Soviet country) that helped Amanda and Erin (the two volunteers we replaced in Azovè) do the same club and she agreed to help us this year so we gather up all the letters and send them off all together for her to distribute once they reach those shining shores of U.S.A.
You show up to the school and immediately children (I use the term loosely as some of these kids are 17 or 18 years old) swarm to ask you questions in poor English (American standards); trying to pry your bike away and walk it for you while messing with your gears (most often there are at least two doing this, one at each handle); trying to tell you where the class is but no one really knows because the classroom is decided upon the moment you are so fortunate as to find one that is not currently being used by someone else. An order of use is in existence, although its efficiency and efficacy are questionable, so Jordan and I are forced to hunt for classrooms each meeting.
Finally finding the classroom and all the students (yes, that comes next, they all arrive from other parts of the school grounds; some of them never make it), we commence with correcting and reading the letters they, hopefully, have all prepared and written beforehand. This itself is quite a challenge as they are all so eager to sit next to a white person (a girl especially) that they yell, scream and crowd around as you attempt, in vain, to listen to the soft-spoken girl sitting next to you who is trying so hard to pronounce "How" instead of "oh" that beads of sweat are forming on her brow. That sweat also might just be because for that brief moment she has lapsed in her Africanness from as a result of being in such a proximity to me that my whiteness rubbed off – I sweat profusely and incessantly here, and not just beads of sweat but entire necklaces and back rivers. Let's just say it requires no less than three showers a day to feel adequately free of dirt and debris from just existing here; but that's another story for another time and another audience.
So we are writing letters; rather, I'm trying really hard to focus on what the kid next to me is trying to say (they all pretty much write the same letter), while everyone else is circled up in a hideously close range to my face breathing answers (correct and otherwise) down our necks while we try to work. Some of the students are really pretty good and have a strong command of whatever type of English it is they are learning (it's not really "American" english, not quite British, either – it is the special breed of African English that is so unique to this area of the world, the .. um.. African area). One such pupil is named Josh (a.k.a Marus) and wrote a quite impressive missive about the merits of tackle football (he could take out his aggression on people when he is angry) and how his favorite music is hip-hop. Everything about him said he would fit in quite well in America. I just couldn't get past the purple John Lennon shades he was sporting. Undoubtedly, he was the teacher's pet and the coolest kid in school. Which is funny because thinking back on it, no one is really "cool" here. You just are who you are. No one can really afford nice clothes or a car or go out to fancy restaurants to eat. In fact, many people can't afford to go to public school – yes, that's right, the kids at the public school where we are doing our letter club have to pay for their tuition and then they have to pay for their books. If you think about it, we do, too, but in the form of taxes and because there is no feasible way to tax people (their roads don't have names let alone everyone possessing mailboxes or house numbers) continuing education in a "public" school requires cash money and so only those who are wealthy enough may attend. More on the schooling system another time, I really just wanted to tell you about Josh. The kid was hilarious. He literally wrote "My favorite sport is tackle football because I can take out my aggressions when I am angry." I'm pretty sure if a kid in the States wrote that Mrs. So-and-So would send him to a counselor to talk about anger management issues. Another pupil, one of the many princes of Azovè (yes, son of the king of Azovè), asked his American counterpart if he would send some tennis shoes like the ones he wants to wear because he likes hip hop and wears "big clothes" - literally – but in French that means something that Americans would never understand, and we don't like them asking for money or things and so I had to delete half of his letter. Including the beginning part where he mentions that all of his uncles are dead and that he misses his brother who died in 1997. I suggested he wait a few exchanges before diving into that pool of sorrow – he didn't quite understand why (Africans throw huge parties instead of funerals and no one cries when someone dies), but agreed.
Another week and another two days of reading the most ridiculous stuff you can imagine and trying to explain how "having the exchanges with you" doesn't really translate into English.
I hope you are still enjoying these e-mails as much as I enjoy writing them. I hope just as fervently that I continue be a studious observor and manage to share these interesting things with you.
The list of goods that keep a volunteer happy:
NEW STUFF:
Granola!! (Been craving it; used to eating it every day and I don't have the energy to make it myself)
THE USUALS:
Peanut Butter
Parmesan Cheese
Brownie/Cake mixes (boxed ones put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)
Dried Apricots, Craisins and Raisins
Cliff/Luna Bars
Drink Powders
Yoga/Pilates/Tae Bo & exercise CDs (like those cool dance in your house music ones!)
Jell-o and Jell-o Puddings powders!!!
Trail Mix/Nuts in general(we have peanuts here)/Sunflower Seeds
Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets, Marinades, etc.
Kraft Mac&Cheese Powder (put in baggies; these explode!)
Makeup/Perfume samples
T-shirts and Tank Tops (crappier is better so I don't feel guilty when I ruin them with my "spin" cycle)
Earrings (nickel-free)
Good Hot Chocolates
Good Football and Soccer ball!!!!! (great way to meet kids)
Face wash/acne stuff *(St. Ives Apricot Scrub is nice)
Any good new reads you've finished (in softback)
Mixed MP3 cds
Letters/Photos from you
Check out the Amazon.com wishlist
Allison Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l'Ouest
Par Avion
Send it in a padded envelope with anything that could explode (including bags of candy) stuffed in separate plastic baggies. When you fill out the customs forms be sure to put that there is absolutely no value to what you are sending (it's just a little white lie to the man so I don't have to pay more to pick it up). Say it's bibles or books or something educational – nothing you would actually send - and the value is $10 or less; that should get to me just fine.
THANK YOU!!
For Early Service training we went right back up to Natitingou. It was another 7 hour ride of joyous fun and delightment. Going to the "bus depot" in Bohicon is always a trip as it requires you to jump up at the first sight of a bus (usually anywhere from 20-200 minutes late) and run to snag the empty seats that may or may not exist on said bus. To accomplish this task, however, you must run across the red terrain lot, barge through the vendors with heavy lids of crap on their heads, shove and shoulder out the other potential riders then finally grab the attention and plead convincingly with the maitress charged with managing the passenger load and fares to land yourself a spot.
In this particular instance (and the reason I prefer to not travel in groups – any more than two travelers and the difficulty of your voyage increases exponentially with each addition) there were only three empty seats and we were four (with a fifth on the road up ahead). We (I) pleaded with the woman to let us board as four and we could share one seat and she acquiesed, begrudgingly. Much to the chagrin of another gentleman who legitimately held a reservation but from whom we stole an empty seat nonetheless. The result of which being that I was sitting cheek to cheek with Sebastian and a little African boy who looked as though he had been in situations more comfortable than he was in now pressed up against the side of a bus, but had also been punished worse enough to know better than to say so. Three older French people also managed to persuade their way onto the bus and so the styrofoam luggage had to go under (where it belonged anyway); although it took some manouevering around the foot of a gendarme agent who refused to budge (although I can't say I understood his protests unless he didn't want white people sitting at the back of his bus) and carried the big gun to validate his protest.
The trip itself was relatively uneventful. I scared the crap out of this little girl by my whiteness and we stopped in a few random towns for food and snacks. When we arrived in Nati, it was raining and that sucked, but we got to the hotel without problems and had air conditioning in our rooms (though it was raining, you still want the air conditioner – that humidity)! There isn't really much else to say except we ate really well (the $8 pizza photo), stayed up really late, and drank expensive Nescafe freeze dried coffee (it took us two hours to get the price down from $2 to a little over $1 – it's insane to think of paying Starbucks' prices for worse than 7-11 flavor!). I left Nati as the person in charge of updating the formation binder for the next stage of volunteers coming July 4th (yea, sucks for them!) and being the official contact on radio programs. I'm loving having some new responsibility once again with which to occupy my excessive free time.
CHUTES IN TANGUIETA
After our stint in Nati was over, a group of us took off on in a taxi up through the beautiful hillsides of northwestern Benin. It looked like California, but I think that about everyplace I visit. The only difference was the little roadside stops were red, straw-roofed huts and little naked black children and goats ran along side the highway. This was a new Benin for me and I was thrilled to be viewing some different terrain than what I normally see in the south.
We went up to Tanguieta where another volutneer, Mike, lives in a neat little concession complete with with a grave, memorial and the first full latrine I have seen in-country. (All they do is tear down the surrounding walls and move them to where they have dug up another pit latrine. Sometimes they'll cover the old latrine hole with cement, but was not in this instance what they chose to do). We spent the first night just hanging out and seeing the town – which is right in the hills and is quite charming! They did controlled burning on the hillsides that was eerily beautiful to watch as we ate our street meat and beans and rice while the sky behind the hill was lit up orange and blue.
The next morning we set out for the waterfalls; each of us on the back of a moto to traverse the 40km trip of red dirt and burning sunny hillside. My moto broke down at one point and we had to walk a distance (his spark plug gave out). We finally got it going again, just in time to head up to the town of Tanagou which is just as picturesque as all get-out. Here we waited and waited and waited for the volunteer posted there and her friend to get out of their hut and come up the last little way with us. Emily is the health volunteer used to living out in the bush; the place where no zemidjans go. Sweet girl. While we were waiting, Emma's driver dropped his moto on his foot and we had a bit of an emergency. Luckily, we always have a little bit of a med kit on us and we patched him right up – but then he left his bloody rag on the ground and I had to scold him for being an idiot (and how is AIDS spread?).
We finally made it up to the waterfalls and had a little hike in through some beautiful rivers and streams and some really stinky mud pits that were hard to avoid slipping into. The biggest fall (there are a couple on the way up) is beautiful and the brackish water below has been approved by decades of volunteers for swimming so we all dove in without hesitation while our moto drivers watched (they're afraid of water and aren't really known for their swimming abilities). Nearby was a cave full of bats where we spent some time just hanging out... very cool to say you hang out in a cave, toxic guano or otherwise.
To get to top of the fall itself you have to scale the wall, hoist yourself up using vines well-rooted into the rock for leverage and them climb and shimmy your way through cracks in the wall up to the top. Basically, once you've already reached the summit, you have to jump off because there is no safer way of getting down. Now if you really know me you know that I'm absolutely the worst at guessing heights and distances, weights and childrens' ages, but I would say this fall is about 45 feet high (take with a pound of salt). We got up there and it was far enough to really make you shake in your booties; a very impressive height. Far enough of a distance to hurt my feet when I hit water – the second one to jump – even though they were pointed, far enough to hurt the inside of my legs for two days. It was much higher than I remember being the Spanish Flats at Lake Berryessa or the rocks of our youth at D.L. Bliss. Those didn't hurt when I hit the water. And I got off easy; you should see the other guy! We spent the day swimming and lolligaggin around afterwards and I wish I had the photos to prove it, but alas, I have no camera and my friends are in other towns. One fine, random day you'll see a blur in some water and that's me at the falls; don't doubt it. I was hideously ill on the bus the next day so I'm going to chalk that up to being in water that was neither boiled nor filtered. But it was fun!! Took some of the heat off, too.
CORRESPONDANCE CLUB
This week marked the first of our (Jordan's and my) Club de Correspondance. Kids from both the "quatrieme" and "cinqieme" levels (equivalent to seventh and eighth grade) of CEG (General Learning School) come to the club on Tuesdays or Wednesdays and we help them write letters in English to American students. There is a lady in Georgia (the state, not the former Soviet country) that helped Amanda and Erin (the two volunteers we replaced in Azovè) do the same club and she agreed to help us this year so we gather up all the letters and send them off all together for her to distribute once they reach those shining shores of U.S.A.
You show up to the school and immediately children (I use the term loosely as some of these kids are 17 or 18 years old) swarm to ask you questions in poor English (American standards); trying to pry your bike away and walk it for you while messing with your gears (most often there are at least two doing this, one at each handle); trying to tell you where the class is but no one really knows because the classroom is decided upon the moment you are so fortunate as to find one that is not currently being used by someone else. An order of use is in existence, although its efficiency and efficacy are questionable, so Jordan and I are forced to hunt for classrooms each meeting.
Finally finding the classroom and all the students (yes, that comes next, they all arrive from other parts of the school grounds; some of them never make it), we commence with correcting and reading the letters they, hopefully, have all prepared and written beforehand. This itself is quite a challenge as they are all so eager to sit next to a white person (a girl especially) that they yell, scream and crowd around as you attempt, in vain, to listen to the soft-spoken girl sitting next to you who is trying so hard to pronounce "How" instead of "oh" that beads of sweat are forming on her brow. That sweat also might just be because for that brief moment she has lapsed in her Africanness from as a result of being in such a proximity to me that my whiteness rubbed off – I sweat profusely and incessantly here, and not just beads of sweat but entire necklaces and back rivers. Let's just say it requires no less than three showers a day to feel adequately free of dirt and debris from just existing here; but that's another story for another time and another audience.
So we are writing letters; rather, I'm trying really hard to focus on what the kid next to me is trying to say (they all pretty much write the same letter), while everyone else is circled up in a hideously close range to my face breathing answers (correct and otherwise) down our necks while we try to work. Some of the students are really pretty good and have a strong command of whatever type of English it is they are learning (it's not really "American" english, not quite British, either – it is the special breed of African English that is so unique to this area of the world, the .. um.. African area). One such pupil is named Josh (a.k.a Marus) and wrote a quite impressive missive about the merits of tackle football (he could take out his aggression on people when he is angry) and how his favorite music is hip-hop. Everything about him said he would fit in quite well in America. I just couldn't get past the purple John Lennon shades he was sporting. Undoubtedly, he was the teacher's pet and the coolest kid in school. Which is funny because thinking back on it, no one is really "cool" here. You just are who you are. No one can really afford nice clothes or a car or go out to fancy restaurants to eat. In fact, many people can't afford to go to public school – yes, that's right, the kids at the public school where we are doing our letter club have to pay for their tuition and then they have to pay for their books. If you think about it, we do, too, but in the form of taxes and because there is no feasible way to tax people (their roads don't have names let alone everyone possessing mailboxes or house numbers) continuing education in a "public" school requires cash money and so only those who are wealthy enough may attend. More on the schooling system another time, I really just wanted to tell you about Josh. The kid was hilarious. He literally wrote "My favorite sport is tackle football because I can take out my aggressions when I am angry." I'm pretty sure if a kid in the States wrote that Mrs. So-and-So would send him to a counselor to talk about anger management issues. Another pupil, one of the many princes of Azovè (yes, son of the king of Azovè), asked his American counterpart if he would send some tennis shoes like the ones he wants to wear because he likes hip hop and wears "big clothes" - literally – but in French that means something that Americans would never understand, and we don't like them asking for money or things and so I had to delete half of his letter. Including the beginning part where he mentions that all of his uncles are dead and that he misses his brother who died in 1997. I suggested he wait a few exchanges before diving into that pool of sorrow – he didn't quite understand why (Africans throw huge parties instead of funerals and no one cries when someone dies), but agreed.
Another week and another two days of reading the most ridiculous stuff you can imagine and trying to explain how "having the exchanges with you" doesn't really translate into English.
I hope you are still enjoying these e-mails as much as I enjoy writing them. I hope just as fervently that I continue be a studious observor and manage to share these interesting things with you.
The list of goods that keep a volunteer happy:
NEW STUFF:
Granola!! (Been craving it; used to eating it every day and I don't have the energy to make it myself)
THE USUALS:
Peanut Butter
Parmesan Cheese
Brownie/Cake mixes (boxed ones put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)
Dried Apricots, Craisins and Raisins
Cliff/Luna Bars
Drink Powders
Yoga/Pilates/Tae Bo & exercise CDs (like those cool dance in your house music ones!)
Jell-o and Jell-o Puddings powders!!!
Trail Mix/Nuts in general(we have peanuts here)/Sunflower Seeds
Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets, Marinades, etc.
Kraft Mac&Cheese Powder (put in baggies; these explode!)
Makeup/Perfume samples
T-shirts and Tank Tops (crappier is better so I don't feel guilty when I ruin them with my "spin" cycle)
Earrings (nickel-free)
Good Hot Chocolates
Good Football and Soccer ball!!!!! (great way to meet kids)
Face wash/acne stuff *(St. Ives Apricot Scrub is nice)
Any good new reads you've finished (in softback)
Mixed MP3 cds
Letters/Photos from you
Check out the Amazon.com wishlist
Allison Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l'Ouest
Par Avion
Send it in a padded envelope with anything that could explode (including bags of candy) stuffed in separate plastic baggies. When you fill out the customs forms be sure to put that there is absolutely no value to what you are sending (it's just a little white lie to the man so I don't have to pay more to pick it up). Say it's bibles or books or something educational – nothing you would actually send - and the value is $10 or less; that should get to me just fine.
THANK YOU!!
Thursday, November 8, 2007
ROAD HOME; TRAVELING MIRACLE CURES; BENINESE CELL PHONE POLICY
I hope you all enjoyed the last two e-mails. Traveling up and down the country is pretty exhausting but I should be a profesional at it by the time you get here to visit – you are coming to visit right? Sure. So I know that I mentioned in the October 29 e-mail that I went to Gran Popo again for Jordan's birthday but as it would turn out I got a bout of tummy tumblies (whatever that is – but it doesn't feel, or smell, very good) so I pretty much did a speedy shopping trip at the markets and barely got out of Cotonou before the sun set – really late and really bad. The taxi driver refused to take me all the way to Azovè so I had to get out in Lokossa and find another driver. On the way to Azovè from Lokossa it started to rain pretty hard (it's about 10pm at this point) so I was pretty nervous and quite exhausted from waking up at 6am to get on the bus, having only a breadstick and an orange to eat all day and a stomach that did flip flops in both directions while producing burps that taste like eggs. The final leg proved, unfortunately, but expectantly, no easier. There were two accidents on the road.
Accidents here in Benin are handled in rather a different manner than back home. We are in a developing country and therefore many things are.. ahem, developing. A good example of one such thing is the lack of emergency response crews. At the site of the first accident was a good example of just such a need not being met. The rain had given up just a little bit and I was asleep in the middle of the two front seats (if you thought I could sleep just about anytime, anywhere before wait till you see me now) when the car began to slow drastically. I look up and untangle my legs from around the stick shift just in time for the driver to slam on his brakes and shift into first gear. There were the tell tale signs of a problem up ahead; clumps of tall grass ripped up from the side of the road placed in the middle of the street; Beninese Road Flares. A man twitching and writhing in pain was on the pavement with female and youth bystanders a good four feet off the road on the shoulder watching; no one was helping the man or moving him from the middle of the road. Another group of four or five men who had pulled their zemis and taxis off the road to help were working together to push the car that had driven off the road and into the bush back to where it belonged. My driver also stopped, despite the woman in the backseat's protests. He leapt out and the rain again began to beat down; all the 'helpers' scrambled back into their vehicles. Some of them even took off into the rainy night. The rain passed within a minute and my driver was back out the door for another 20 minutes of pushing and shoving to get this car back onto the road. Once that feat was accomplished all the good samaritans got back on their motorcycles and into their cars and took off; for all I know, the man is still on the ground bleeding to death internally. Each time I asked what was going on (while everyone was conversing animatedly in Fon) I was given an only slightly annoyed response of "there was an accident," and "the man would have been put in the car, but the car was in the bush so we had to get the car out." They never did say that now the car was out they were going to take him to the hospital. Less than 10km away was a 24 hour hospital from which I never saw an emergency vehicle emerge. Needless to say, I fear for my life daily, if only because of the apathy that would follow should such a meaningless and likely accident occur.
The second accident was in Jack City; less than 10km away from my house. It was a motorcycle on its side with four men standing over it waving along traffic with a flashlight. Again, the grass clump flares were present, but this time no body. I could only hope that meant he was well enough to hobble himself home. Rainy nights make these terrible drivers worse. I got home safely at the UNGODLY hour of 11:30pm to the messiest state in which my house has ever found itself. Too tired to function I could barely toss out the molding milk congealing in my disfunctional mini fridge before passing out from the week's adventures (you'll read about in the Nov. 16 e-mail).
(From October 28 Continued...)
TRAVELING MIRACLE CURES
Riding back on the bus with Shekina was a trip, literally (yuk, yuk). The announcements began right after leaving Dassa and didn't end until Bohicon; if even then, that's just where I got off the bus. Rubbing my eyes and ears in disblief I almost imagined I was back in the Paris metro except, after several minutes and no arrival of the subway police to escort him off, he kept going even despite my please of "SHUTUP!" What began as a harmless enough 'informercial' – travel promotion on Shekina bus lines this weekend – turned into a three hour HSN for the poor. The man with next to the most annoying voice I can remember was selling "cure-alls" and "season-alls" for people who don't even have enough money to cure a ham or season their fried mantioc flour balls. At first I was annoyed; then infuriated as I saw people who clearly did not have the funds for this squander their money on schemes. Literally, with one paste that smelled particularly of menthal anise, he claimed curative powers from everything from Cancer to Impotency (that's a Beninese favorite; as if repopulation was a real nation-wide concern). I supressed my urge to get up and slap the third bottle of clear liquid that claimed to cure Diabetes out of his hand and instead shouted "ARE YOU GOING TO TALK THE ENTIRE TIME!?" in French. I don't think the Beninese are used to people speaking their mind – more on Beninese complacency (something that I believe is a widespread plague in most developing countries) when I have enough time and less of a headache to give it its full due – and my neighbor just stared in disbelief for a few moments before smiling awkwardly in nonresponse. I got no solidarity in this country. But, that was response enough... the orator didn't even blink in my direction. He was on a mission to sell as many vials of vile lies as possible on our trip. I just tried to close my eyes and think of a world where taking advantage of people wasn't so commonplace. It didn't come easily. At least he was enterprising and trying to make a buck, even at the expense of his fellow man, and that is truly just that kind of ingenuity that we need here in Benin. Perhaps a better start would be with designing better buildings or different kinds of furniture or growing a variety of vegetables and perhaps not all selling tomatoes right next to each other in the marché or painting in the same style for everything. But we'll get there eventually. Really could have used the Metro police that time, though. At least he didn't have an electric accordian to do a jingle for his 'medicines'.
BENINESE CELL PHONE POLICY
She cracked open and ate peanuts like a hippo does ballet (the Nutcracker, perhaps?). Her chubby, greasy hand diving in and retrieving fistful after fistful of the boiled goodies; cracking then shucking, shells flying in a 360 degree ring around her person then a forceful sucking of the meat from shell. She clicked and clacked her teeth clean in front of all of us without scruples. Then her cell phone rang, she answered and politely stepped approximately one foot away from the head table – screaming responses into the receiver continuously while the President of the artisan's association sat futilely attempting to continue his own oration on the meetings he had with the federal bureau earlier this month concerning their expectations of the artisans at the communal level. Her phone conversation continued throughout his initial statements and proceeded into the bulk of the question and answer session. I stared in disbelief and my friend, the soldeur (my "soldier") Jonsi who works in front of my house, translated for me and then pleaded with the "Organisator" of the assocation to ask her to get off the phone. The Organisator (I guess that is akin to our "Secretary") declined to interrupt Madame Treasurer to ask her to continue her phone conversation perhaps not in the vincinty of a meeting already in progress. Or at least not at the head table, next to the main speaker, in front of the audience. The phone call ended and we were again able to focus on the President's words. But not for long, her phone rang again and this time she didn't go through the trouble of getting up and leaving the President's side to speak.
After this second phone call ended she began to play Jenga tower games with her one, two, three, four cell phones then laid them out like soldiers of fortune to display her fonctionnaire (like "white collar") wealth to us all. She slid forward in her plastic chair and leaned back into a more comfortable position; which freed her legs to perform a butterfly movement – in and out, airing out her crotch under the table in view of us all. This was perfectly hilarious enough; but it got better. After all that eating, talking, prespiration and subsequent airing ritual the poor woman was so tuckered out she just fell asleep right at the head table in the middle of the meeting – head resting on her right palm, her manners just to the left, on the floor below. I mean, I was tired, but I stayed awake through time-tested practices I had learned at university, but I suppose we can't all be so fortunate to sit through four years of academic lectures learning how to stay awake despite all boredom and partying the night before acting to the contrary.
Cell phone culture in this country is unlike anything I have ever before witnessed and I can only hope I do not pick up any bad habits to accompany into meetings I may have at home after this is all over. Anyone at anytime can answer any phone ring and then carry out a conversation; whether in the audience or actually speaking to a group, it doesn't matter. Even worse is when they don't (I still haven't figure out how this is possible, but it happens a good 70% of the time) recognize their own ring and allow it to bleat out for several moments of agony. Some argue this is a function of their sharing culture and that in fact they are allowing us all to notice they have a cell phone and it rings a pretty ring we can all listen to and share and enjoy equally. Do you think many Americans would agree with this? Yea, I don't think so either. Adding insult to injury, they have the absolute WORST choice in ringtones and I have been snapped into nostalgia on more than one occasion when I hear "Jingle Bells" on someone's cell phone they have neglected to put on vibrate and cannot seem to recognize in time to answer. Receiving calls from a Beninese person is just as perplexing an ordeal. They have a habit of "beeping" you, which is to say they call and let it ring once so you see they called but don't actually waste their own credits speaking to you and instead wait for you to return their call and spend your own credit to converse with them. Enterprising, I know, but annoying nonetheless. They have a knack for finding that fine line.
Health is doing better after two days of sitting on my butt with my new love: West Wing. I only have seasons six and seven (and only five or six episodes from each) that I have been watching over and over. They are just so witty and fast I catch something new each time. I could see myself on Capitol Hill and the more and more I sit here in the dark in Africa and think about it, the more and more I feel I just might make a move to get there (let's be real, I'd move anywhere else after this). But, we'll see.. I have two years to continuously change my mind based on television series – anyone seen Weeds yet? Now that's an idea!
THE LIST again (just think of it as a repayment for all these fascinating, scintillating glimpses into the secret world of a PCV; it's either a package every now and then or your first born child in a few years):
New Stuff:
Pocket Thesaurus
Parmesan cheese
Bacon Bits
File Folders (just need a couple and I haven't found any yet here)
Sticky Notes (the thin, colored strips)
I could use a couple more Bandanas (thanks T&Sam!!) they come in handy for lots of things here!!
The Usuals:
Brownie/Cake mixes (boxed ones take out and put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)
Dried Apricots, Craisins and Raisins
Idahoan Potato Packs
Sports/Energy Bars
Drink Powders
Yoga/Pilates/Exercise cds
M&Ms
Reese's
Red Vines
Jell-o and Jell-o Puddings
Peanut Butter
Trail Mix/Nuts in general
Thai Curry Pastes
Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets – marinades, etc
Kraft Mac&Cheese powder (leave the pasta at home and be sure to put in baggies!!! These explode)
Makeup/Perfume samples
Cheap Target-like Earrings (nickel-free)
Good soccer ball!!!!
Acne/Face Stuff
Any good new reads you've finished (in softback)
Mixed MP3 cds
Letters from you! It's fun to get mail in general and I get to e-mail about as often as it takes a letter to get here so if you're feeling Victorian I would love to have a letter from you with some thoughts, funny stories, photos, whatever; and it costs about $1 to mail so don't be cheap with the emotions okay – Bogarting is not cool no matter what the hoarde.
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). When you fill out the customs forms be sure to put that there is absolutely no value to what you are sending (it's just a little white lie to the man so I don't have to pay more to pick it up). Say it's bibles or books or something educational and the value is less than $10; that should get to me just fine.
THANK YOU!!
Accidents here in Benin are handled in rather a different manner than back home. We are in a developing country and therefore many things are.. ahem, developing. A good example of one such thing is the lack of emergency response crews. At the site of the first accident was a good example of just such a need not being met. The rain had given up just a little bit and I was asleep in the middle of the two front seats (if you thought I could sleep just about anytime, anywhere before wait till you see me now) when the car began to slow drastically. I look up and untangle my legs from around the stick shift just in time for the driver to slam on his brakes and shift into first gear. There were the tell tale signs of a problem up ahead; clumps of tall grass ripped up from the side of the road placed in the middle of the street; Beninese Road Flares. A man twitching and writhing in pain was on the pavement with female and youth bystanders a good four feet off the road on the shoulder watching; no one was helping the man or moving him from the middle of the road. Another group of four or five men who had pulled their zemis and taxis off the road to help were working together to push the car that had driven off the road and into the bush back to where it belonged. My driver also stopped, despite the woman in the backseat's protests. He leapt out and the rain again began to beat down; all the 'helpers' scrambled back into their vehicles. Some of them even took off into the rainy night. The rain passed within a minute and my driver was back out the door for another 20 minutes of pushing and shoving to get this car back onto the road. Once that feat was accomplished all the good samaritans got back on their motorcycles and into their cars and took off; for all I know, the man is still on the ground bleeding to death internally. Each time I asked what was going on (while everyone was conversing animatedly in Fon) I was given an only slightly annoyed response of "there was an accident," and "the man would have been put in the car, but the car was in the bush so we had to get the car out." They never did say that now the car was out they were going to take him to the hospital. Less than 10km away was a 24 hour hospital from which I never saw an emergency vehicle emerge. Needless to say, I fear for my life daily, if only because of the apathy that would follow should such a meaningless and likely accident occur.
The second accident was in Jack City; less than 10km away from my house. It was a motorcycle on its side with four men standing over it waving along traffic with a flashlight. Again, the grass clump flares were present, but this time no body. I could only hope that meant he was well enough to hobble himself home. Rainy nights make these terrible drivers worse. I got home safely at the UNGODLY hour of 11:30pm to the messiest state in which my house has ever found itself. Too tired to function I could barely toss out the molding milk congealing in my disfunctional mini fridge before passing out from the week's adventures (you'll read about in the Nov. 16 e-mail).
(From October 28 Continued...)
TRAVELING MIRACLE CURES
Riding back on the bus with Shekina was a trip, literally (yuk, yuk). The announcements began right after leaving Dassa and didn't end until Bohicon; if even then, that's just where I got off the bus. Rubbing my eyes and ears in disblief I almost imagined I was back in the Paris metro except, after several minutes and no arrival of the subway police to escort him off, he kept going even despite my please of "SHUTUP!" What began as a harmless enough 'informercial' – travel promotion on Shekina bus lines this weekend – turned into a three hour HSN for the poor. The man with next to the most annoying voice I can remember was selling "cure-alls" and "season-alls" for people who don't even have enough money to cure a ham or season their fried mantioc flour balls. At first I was annoyed; then infuriated as I saw people who clearly did not have the funds for this squander their money on schemes. Literally, with one paste that smelled particularly of menthal anise, he claimed curative powers from everything from Cancer to Impotency (that's a Beninese favorite; as if repopulation was a real nation-wide concern). I supressed my urge to get up and slap the third bottle of clear liquid that claimed to cure Diabetes out of his hand and instead shouted "ARE YOU GOING TO TALK THE ENTIRE TIME!?" in French. I don't think the Beninese are used to people speaking their mind – more on Beninese complacency (something that I believe is a widespread plague in most developing countries) when I have enough time and less of a headache to give it its full due – and my neighbor just stared in disbelief for a few moments before smiling awkwardly in nonresponse. I got no solidarity in this country. But, that was response enough... the orator didn't even blink in my direction. He was on a mission to sell as many vials of vile lies as possible on our trip. I just tried to close my eyes and think of a world where taking advantage of people wasn't so commonplace. It didn't come easily. At least he was enterprising and trying to make a buck, even at the expense of his fellow man, and that is truly just that kind of ingenuity that we need here in Benin. Perhaps a better start would be with designing better buildings or different kinds of furniture or growing a variety of vegetables and perhaps not all selling tomatoes right next to each other in the marché or painting in the same style for everything. But we'll get there eventually. Really could have used the Metro police that time, though. At least he didn't have an electric accordian to do a jingle for his 'medicines'.
BENINESE CELL PHONE POLICY
She cracked open and ate peanuts like a hippo does ballet (the Nutcracker, perhaps?). Her chubby, greasy hand diving in and retrieving fistful after fistful of the boiled goodies; cracking then shucking, shells flying in a 360 degree ring around her person then a forceful sucking of the meat from shell. She clicked and clacked her teeth clean in front of all of us without scruples. Then her cell phone rang, she answered and politely stepped approximately one foot away from the head table – screaming responses into the receiver continuously while the President of the artisan's association sat futilely attempting to continue his own oration on the meetings he had with the federal bureau earlier this month concerning their expectations of the artisans at the communal level. Her phone conversation continued throughout his initial statements and proceeded into the bulk of the question and answer session. I stared in disbelief and my friend, the soldeur (my "soldier") Jonsi who works in front of my house, translated for me and then pleaded with the "Organisator" of the assocation to ask her to get off the phone. The Organisator (I guess that is akin to our "Secretary") declined to interrupt Madame Treasurer to ask her to continue her phone conversation perhaps not in the vincinty of a meeting already in progress. Or at least not at the head table, next to the main speaker, in front of the audience. The phone call ended and we were again able to focus on the President's words. But not for long, her phone rang again and this time she didn't go through the trouble of getting up and leaving the President's side to speak.
After this second phone call ended she began to play Jenga tower games with her one, two, three, four cell phones then laid them out like soldiers of fortune to display her fonctionnaire (like "white collar") wealth to us all. She slid forward in her plastic chair and leaned back into a more comfortable position; which freed her legs to perform a butterfly movement – in and out, airing out her crotch under the table in view of us all. This was perfectly hilarious enough; but it got better. After all that eating, talking, prespiration and subsequent airing ritual the poor woman was so tuckered out she just fell asleep right at the head table in the middle of the meeting – head resting on her right palm, her manners just to the left, on the floor below. I mean, I was tired, but I stayed awake through time-tested practices I had learned at university, but I suppose we can't all be so fortunate to sit through four years of academic lectures learning how to stay awake despite all boredom and partying the night before acting to the contrary.
Cell phone culture in this country is unlike anything I have ever before witnessed and I can only hope I do not pick up any bad habits to accompany into meetings I may have at home after this is all over. Anyone at anytime can answer any phone ring and then carry out a conversation; whether in the audience or actually speaking to a group, it doesn't matter. Even worse is when they don't (I still haven't figure out how this is possible, but it happens a good 70% of the time) recognize their own ring and allow it to bleat out for several moments of agony. Some argue this is a function of their sharing culture and that in fact they are allowing us all to notice they have a cell phone and it rings a pretty ring we can all listen to and share and enjoy equally. Do you think many Americans would agree with this? Yea, I don't think so either. Adding insult to injury, they have the absolute WORST choice in ringtones and I have been snapped into nostalgia on more than one occasion when I hear "Jingle Bells" on someone's cell phone they have neglected to put on vibrate and cannot seem to recognize in time to answer. Receiving calls from a Beninese person is just as perplexing an ordeal. They have a habit of "beeping" you, which is to say they call and let it ring once so you see they called but don't actually waste their own credits speaking to you and instead wait for you to return their call and spend your own credit to converse with them. Enterprising, I know, but annoying nonetheless. They have a knack for finding that fine line.
Health is doing better after two days of sitting on my butt with my new love: West Wing. I only have seasons six and seven (and only five or six episodes from each) that I have been watching over and over. They are just so witty and fast I catch something new each time. I could see myself on Capitol Hill and the more and more I sit here in the dark in Africa and think about it, the more and more I feel I just might make a move to get there (let's be real, I'd move anywhere else after this). But, we'll see.. I have two years to continuously change my mind based on television series – anyone seen Weeds yet? Now that's an idea!
THE LIST again (just think of it as a repayment for all these fascinating, scintillating glimpses into the secret world of a PCV; it's either a package every now and then or your first born child in a few years):
New Stuff:
Pocket Thesaurus
Parmesan cheese
Bacon Bits
File Folders (just need a couple and I haven't found any yet here)
Sticky Notes (the thin, colored strips)
I could use a couple more Bandanas (thanks T&Sam!!) they come in handy for lots of things here!!
The Usuals:
Brownie/Cake mixes (boxed ones take out and put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)
Dried Apricots, Craisins and Raisins
Idahoan Potato Packs
Sports/Energy Bars
Drink Powders
Yoga/Pilates/Exercise cds
M&Ms
Reese's
Red Vines
Jell-o and Jell-o Puddings
Peanut Butter
Trail Mix/Nuts in general
Thai Curry Pastes
Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets – marinades, etc
Kraft Mac&Cheese powder (leave the pasta at home and be sure to put in baggies!!! These explode)
Makeup/Perfume samples
Cheap Target-like Earrings (nickel-free)
Good soccer ball!!!!
Acne/Face Stuff
Any good new reads you've finished (in softback)
Mixed MP3 cds
Letters from you! It's fun to get mail in general and I get to e-mail about as often as it takes a letter to get here so if you're feeling Victorian I would love to have a letter from you with some thoughts, funny stories, photos, whatever; and it costs about $1 to mail so don't be cheap with the emotions okay – Bogarting is not cool no matter what the hoarde.
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). When you fill out the customs forms be sure to put that there is absolutely no value to what you are sending (it's just a little white lie to the man so I don't have to pay more to pick it up). Say it's bibles or books or something educational and the value is less than $10; that should get to me just fine.
THANK YOU!!
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