UNGENTLEMANLY-LIKE CONDUCT, HARMATTAN IN KANDILAND, ANIMAL PARADE

UNGENTLEMANLY-LIKE CONDUCT

IST – yet another acronym to deal with here in the developing world – was an interesting week spent half inside a conference room with a medieval type lock on the door and a not-quite-soundproof bathroom chamber on the side, half out in La Residence Coteb and Parakou at large. This was our “In-Service Training” where we spent hours learning about child trafficking and children’s rights, national tax policies, microfinance interest rates and application procedures, composting and trash management programs, moringa cultivation and use, how to spread information about AIDS on bike tours, how to make ovens out of mud and straw, and other interesting facts and tidbits to help us through the next 20 months of our service. Breakfast, lunch and snacks were included, however, and there was meat at every meal so I can’t say it was all bad.

Most of you being from the wide world of business are used to a life where series of informative meetings are quite commonplace, if not daily routine. Now imagine those meetings in Africa and in French, Franglais, English and other languages of whose origins I’m still not quite certain. Those of you who can, please try and picture the range of colorful characters that were paraded in front of us volunteers and our homologues (who were included for two days worth of these sessions). We had one representative from the Import/Export bureau (another long acronym I can’t quite remember off the top of my head) that was reminiscent of the eloquent, loquacious speech of our beloved APCD (short – or long – for boss of S.E.D.), Jacques. Another fellow who spoke to us about taxes I swear increased in volume, intensity and pitch with every response to a question. At one point my ears began to ring and I was forced to seek solace inside the amplified bathroom walls.

The most entertaining and perhaps shocking presentation was given by the savings and credit man. While excitedly explaining to us “yovo” volunteers the cultural thought process behind the Beninese and their bizarre money saving tactics (i.e. they don’t – as soon as one earns some money it is spent) he gave a metaphor that perhaps made perfect sense to use in this instance to his view of his cultural base that failed to translate quite as well into our Occidental culture’s values and norms. “You need to focus your aim,” he explained while garishly grabbing his groin, “or else you’ll spill your seed everywhere.” At this he shook from left to right, still maintaining his grip in the targeted area. I thought perhaps I had misunderstood the French, and maybe he was actually reaching for his pocket and just slipped up a little, but upon reflection saw how this was not so and before much thought (I learned to jump in quickly when I don’t understand the French otherwise they’ve already moved on to the next topic) proclaimed that I did not understand the example provided. To my exclamation of miscomprehension Jacques immediately stammered out that the reference was one perhaps not culturally appropriate for all the audience and apologized profusely. It was then I understood just what the speaker had meant in his display. Admittedly, it was just another day in the Peace Corps accomplishing our goals of cultural exchange. And again, the daily meat was a nice change of pace, not to mention first hot standing shower in six months!

HARMATTAN IN KANDILAND

After IST I went up to Gogounou, where my friend Emily is posted. Like many towns in Benin, there was one main strip that ran the course of the highway, then sort of gave up and petered out to either side of it. After walking for ten minutes we had seen the bulk of the town and its offerings. Including the mosque and several characters (the Marché Mama Emily jokingly refers to as “God” and the man who sells the bags of whisky) there were some fun families around the same area as Emily’s house. One of these families has two sons named Akilu (Ah-key-loo), the prize accounting student at Parakou, and Mouda, Emily’s MacGuyver and general fix-it-all champion. As a result of Emily’s intimacy and reliance on their support I spent plenty of quality time with both of them, and didn’t really do much else for the two days.

Harmattan is both a blessing and a curse. In the north, it’s downright debilitating. Like during the rainy season, whenever something isn’t quite right it is always occurring as a result of Harmattan. Unlike the rainy season, you wake up cold from the wind and everything is covered in a fine layer of dust. I recently declared a stalemate in the war against the dust at my own house and am now just trying to keep my skin moisturized enough to prevent the cracking like I experienced there in the north (check out the photos – guess which one is the dried Nile River bed that my heel is become).

Expectedly, the windiness also leads to some interesting animal behavior. “Ah! Suicide!! We have a suicide!” was I cry I heard from Emily outside as I was unpacking in search of a missing 40,000 fCFA. Not sure what I expect, I immediately ran outside to her aide. Whether to blame avian flu or Hamattan winds we could not decipher for what awaited us at the bottom of Emily’s water well could have been the result of either cause. There, in the water from which we were to drink, bathe, cook, and have sexy water balloon fights (right?) was a dead chicken, bloated and floating in our faces with defiance. What to do? Well, let’s call Mouda who rigged up some sort of basket on a wire and hauled up the poison poultry. I, for one, was in awe of his boy scout-worthy resourcefulness, but that was short lived as the bleak reality remained that our water was tainted with “Eau du Poulet Mort”. Again, Mouda, ever the asset, offered to get a cart and take the big, black water bucket to his concession, fill ‘er up and return. So, with minimal effort and minor emotional scarring we had clean, full water thanks to Mouda the Magnificent!! I wish I had a Mouda in my town, although I guess Jonsi is close enough (he waits in line to pay my electricity bill for me and feeds my dog when I’m gone) though I’ll never get to see what he can do with a ‘dead bird in the well’ conundrum.

Continuing on our tour the following day we headed up to Kandi on the motos of Akilu and his buddy, Joel. Along the 45-minute drive over picturesque streams and women doing laundry on rocks I saw cows tied up like pets, a couple of beautiful horses lying in the dirt, and dogs running freely around towns! (Dogs!!) The north has meat (one of only two livestock farms in Benin is in Kandi) and real dairy products unlike in the south where cow meat is not very common outside of Cotonou and the only “dairy” we get is imported butter, powdered milk and fake wagashi (“cheese” made from powdered milk). I think the last time I saw a cow here – dead or alive – was Christmas. Kandi, more of a truck stop than a town, had a Confort Lines bus bureau where I made a reservation (more like a ¼-sized trailer) to go home the following morning. After the important tasks were finished, we four went out for chicken and beer and spent half the time arguing politics (I couldn’t believe it when Joel argued for George Bush and exclaimed his desire to see Tex-ass) and the other half of the time dancing stupid dances (see the photo of me doing the Bobaraba). When a group of white people came in (French), both our friends were outraged at our disinterest. For them, when they travel or see other black people they feel as all of the same family and treat each other accordingly. For us, it was just a group of white people trying to fit in like us and we wanted to make as little a deal about it, to act as though it were the most natural thing in the world and therefore ignore it as so. Uncomprehending of why we wouldn’t want to make it a big deal to see our “brothers”, the topic was changed to why Joel thought I was Spanish (on account of my “French” accent like usual). After so much excitement we decided we’d had enough and called it a night. I had to be up by 6:30 the next morning to catch the painfully long bus ride back down to Azovè (Bohicon, then a zem to Azovè).

On my voyage back down I had a lot of time to witness the northeast during Harmattan. I got the feeling like I was visiting home again during the fall season. Going backwards I saw now how the lush green palms, bushes and tall grasses of the South gave in to the hotter, drier climates in the hills. Like miniature mountains against an azure, cloudless sky, huge, out of place, boulders rose up out of brown grassy dry patches spotted with burned black ground underneath. The trees were an interesting mix of continued greenery covered in dust with huge portions of foliage turned brown, but not yet resigned to tumbling down to rest below. The brown and green trees, the starched corn grass and the grey, passive boulders give way along the roadside to fluffs of white that I perceive in my ancient mind as beginnings of snow. As the fluffs increase in number and size I grudgingly admit they are rather balls of cotton, wayward escapees from cargo trucks resting trapped in the stiff roadside grasses. Within Kandi’s borders I saw huge mountains of cotton, not quite ski slope scale, but large enough to remind me of snow plows through the streets of Tahoe. This is the largest cotton-producing region in the country and the method of transportation only lent itself to my homesick imagination. There is no snow in Benin, despite my gullible belief upon arrival that there were mountains (and snow) to be found in the north. Though no snow, there is admittedly a type of fall, but here is “Harmattan”.


ANIMAL PARADE

After a long week in Parakou at training and a few days with Emily in Gogonou and Kandi, then the 11 hour trip back to Azovè I spent a day settling it, which meant a lot of reading and relaxing. By the afternoon of the second day, it was time for me to get off the couch from my Forester and enjoy the dusty winds of Harmattan season.

First thing was first, at Parakou I was charged with distributing notes from other volunteers to their host families. This meant I was to walk from one end of Azovè to the other as a postal servant – gosh it would be nice if they actually did this like in the U.S., but here, if you don’t have a post box you don’t get mail – or you hope the clerk at the bureau (the one clerk) is kind enough to keep your mail on the office grounds until you arrive. I thought it was going to be a stroll in the park – or rather, a nice stroll through my town with my little dog trotting alongside. I knew Africans (at least Beninese Africans) weren’t predisposed to liking dogs – the only ones they see are wild animals that would bite you if you got close enough – but nothing could prepare me for the reactions I got walking Cal around town on a leash.

I have to say for brevity’s sake that there were roughly two camps of reactionary displays and only a smattering of deviance from the two. On the one hand were the fearful group, the ones that (in one extreme case) would walk pleasantly along the street, then happen to look down, see a six-inch tall dog on a chain and jump sideways into parked cars to get away from him, while Cal offered up his doggy smile in a confused manner. I agreed, who could be so scared of such a tiny dog – even if he WAS inclined to bite you, a swift kick would send him running he’s still so small, and on a leash at that!! The other camp was the disbelievers. I imagine that not too many sci-fi films have hit the little screens all over Azovè, but if they had, I’m sure many would have pictured themselves in a Richard Dreyfus state of mind, staring that the dog in marvel with curiosity and a twist of fear, shaken and stirred. The award for most common query is for, “C’est pour vous?” (Is that your dog?). The award for the most heard exclamation goes to “C’est le chien!” (It’s a dog!!!). Though wildly entertaining, I did get tired of people staring at me as though I had two heads (I suppose I did, however, one was a good five feet below the other).

Soon enough I got off the highway and made my way down to the area I, and my bizarre-o whitey antics, are better known. It’s surprising but despite living in the same town as my host family I would say I get over to visit them twice a month at the most. This was one such visit where I came to bring them cheese from the north, but sadly they were gone to Cotonou. So I contented myself with passing out candy to the neighbor kids (who were remarkably unafraid of the pup once they saw that bravery was awarded with tootsie rolls!). Jocelyn in front of her shop shrank up in the face of Cal explaining that she didn’t “know” him, and therefore didn’t like him. Cal’s demonstration incessant yanking and pulling and frenzied state over spilled food didn’t help my claim that actually he was a very nice, calm dog. What a liar I was. When grand-mama strolled up to the doorway where I was standing so made a clear, wide arc away and decided to continue on with her stroll instead of coming in afterall. She shouted a greeting from her orbit then went on to inquire as to the squirming mass in my arms. “Oh, is he a boy?” and when I replied in the affirmative, she nodded assent, “That’s good,” and I think I detected a smile from the distance, “they’re better,” she concluded. I agree. At least should I lag on my neutering duties, I never have to worry about more unplanned puppies.

Upon leaving the house I decided to take an alternate route. The highway was already buzzing with too much action for the little furball to handle so we went the back roads way, terre rouge where the grass grows up to your shoulders and people weave in the corridors of their mud houses. “Madame, bon soir,” was a slight shock to me and I jolted around to see one my little soccer players, Clemetine (not “tine” but “teen”). While I was occupied with my greetings and questions with Clementine and her entire extended family that was sitting around cooking dinner and braiding hair a pack of wild dogs was slowly sniffing out little Cal. I hadn’t seen them in my preoccupation and when I turned to go was suddenly chilled faced with the prospect of living through yet another pet’s death by mauling. I (stupidly?) reached in front of the wildlings and scooped up Cal next to my chest. I supposed if they really wanted Cal they would get me, too, but I imagined somehow if worse came to worse I could just kick (but these were big dogs, one of them fresh with swaying udders – those are the scariest because they don’t like any puppy that isn’t their own!). As I imagined the blood that was soon to be squirting out of my arm and the resulting rabies shot in Cotonou, etc. a woman named Terese came to my rescue. A simple clap, clap, clap in between myself and the dogs was sufficient and the pack scurried off into the grass. I didn’t want to admit, but the entourage that then accompanied me (Terese leading the way) back to the goudronne (highway) made me feel so much more secure in walking my pet but I had no way to thank her other than to annoy her by asking questions in terrible Afrifrench.

After all that excitement I was anxious to get home, but the town hadn’t had quite enough. I was stopped every third shack to talk about the dog, let people look at him from afar and demonstrate my wild animal taming skills by picking him up and showing him off to those too afraid to pet him themselves. In fact, I shouldn’t call it petting because it starts with just a timid hand reaching out, while the mate hand rests closely to the heart in a fear-locked boxing gesture, and when the hand gets close enough for a gentle stroke on the head they strike instead, thinking the dog’s inquiring nose is his attempt to bite their unguarded appendage. I am slowly, slowly (oh God it’s so painfully slow) acclimating the South on how to treat dogs as pets and not as pests (in the North they seem already to realize this valuable friendship and dogs are seen in almost every concession yard as guardians of the home). Stopping off at one last stall to pick up a pineapple for dinner, I was propositioned by the friend of the vendor. “You have a dog, would you like a monkey?” she asked with absolutely sincerity. Apparently, having a dog is like owning an exotic pet such as, say, a monkey or, in California, a ferret. Tempted, but wary enough to know better, I politely declined. I still reserve the right to change my mind however. But what would a monkey EAT?! Where would it sleep? Would Cal get along with it? This could be fun!! I’m imagining Monkey-Dog battles in my yard. More humane than the cock fights I witness daily and free entertainment. This could be interesting. Who hasn’t dreamed of owning a monkey at one point?

Ah, I guess it’s just another day in my Africa, overcoming pet adversity one day at a time.