LOBOGO HERE I GO

Lobogo was incredible. It is a village full of personality and an alarmingly large population of English speakers. I don't know if it is to the credit of the English club Ryan, another volunteer, started and has maintained for the past year, or because of the overwhelming population of Nigerian immigrants, but there are a lot. In fact, I heard less French than English or the local language (both of which Ryan speaks passably well). Friday I arrived in the heat of the marché after an hour and a half in a taxi and another half hour on a zemi. We spent hours walking around, looking at goods, then got separated. His dog, Murphy, stuck with me as I went around terrorizing little children who hated dogs (a lot of people are afraid of dogs here and you don't see many roaming the streets – although there were three times as many in Lobogo as in Azovè). He actually knows how to cook so I ate meat three times while I was there, including pork on Sunday – what a treat! Saturday we spent time in his garden which I hope to replicate and surpass in a plot of land the papa of my maman gave me next door to their house. I have to get going on that, however, as the hot season is going to be starting up soon. The only problem is that of security – it will take me several days just to get the land ready to work, but assuming I am able to do that in time to plant anything I have to also build the fence to go around it and protect it from wandering animals and humans that will steal anything without a sign on it; and sometimes even with a sign. He has a massive orange tree in the middle of it while also growing green beans, lettuce, eggplant and is currently making an attempt at California Poppies. I am going to see if I can't get a few more things going, such as carrots and cucumbers but, after doing some heavy package reading, I am not so sure I'll be successful as the weather conditions aren't exactly optimal and I don't have the proper indoor germinating equipment – heck, I don't even have the proper outdoor germinating equipment. I am going to stick it in the ground after rain, try to space them out as suggested and pray for good sprinklings and lots of sun. We'll see what comes up from that.
Sunday Ryan and I went to church at the request of one of the little kids that lives nearby, Prudence. This kid was smart as a whip, speaks English fluently (so what if most of his response to most of my questions was "Nothing"), and can dance the pants off the best. For the past year Ryan has been repeatedly asked to come to church and one member of his English club went so far as to suggest that he could easily be killed because of his attendance. As you could imagine, that would have an affect on someone, but still after much deliberation, Ryan ultimately consented and I went along because I wasn't going to make it back in time for my own congregation. Literally, Thank God! Church was insane. It was some all-Lokossa commune deal where three different priests from neighboring villages came to give mass in the local language of Mina and Yoruba, the language of Niger. After and hour of normal mass (including the three baskets of monetary gifts) divination began. Another two hours of singing, crying, shaking and candle-stick making took place and my emotions passed from annoyed to stunned to scared and, finally, jubilant! This was a Catholic church where people were screaming in the middle of the priests' prayer and then wailing commenced and people were carried by ushers to the front of the church where they squirmed and danced and screamed and sweat for all the congregation to see; while the priests just stood behind the altar in patient understanding. The two hour melody that went from wailing to heavy drums and clapping and back into wailing was intoxicating and I couldn't help but sway along with the women and men of the choir who were busy doing the chicken dance. I even picked up one of the bean shakers and made as much noise as arms could handle; at which point one of the twenty kids that had gathered around us took over. Prudence stood on the bench behind me and, with his hands on my shoulders, guided me into a two hour Soul Train rehearsal. Finally, finally, it was over and the inhabited were again picked up and carried through the church to the back sacristy where they continued to call out their faith in God and his corporeal possession. I was hankering for a drink of water, but we had to make our hellos out of the church; which took another twenty minutes during which I asked a man in a hat how the end of Ramadan was – so unaware of what just transpired that it didn't occur to me that we had been in a Catholic mass and the man to whom I had posed this question was indeed NOT Muslim. Luckily, Ryan wasn't around to be embarrassed and I quickly made my goodbyes and skeedaddled out of there. My church requirements have long been fulfilled – at least for the next week or so; and certainly enough to make up for the debauchery I have planned for this upcoming weekend at the beach (somewhat of an early birthday celebration since most of the people in my region will be gone up north for the "whipping fete" - which is exactly what it sounds like, coming-of-age boys getting whipped in a row by one another in a display of manliness).
I ended my stay in Lobogo by waiting two hours at a bar for the zemidjan who promised a half hour wait then finally taking another one that had to be sought out at the center of town. My return to the goudronne (the highway) was welcome and I was even accompanied by two men who remembered me from Friday while waiting for a taxi to take me home to Azovè. I waited all of ten minutes before being crammed into a car with six other men, a backfiring exhaust pipe, hot floorboards and a metal bar up my butt (parallel, not perpendicular; although I'm not sure which would be more enjoyable). We stopped in Djakotomey to get my house key (Aaron was watching my dog – did I mention I got a dog? Another story) only for me to realize I had no idea where Aaron lived in the dark, but his neighbors guided me to the right place only to tell me that Aaron had gone to the market for dinner. I caught up with him (the taxi long gone and four marriage proposals down the drain) and he didn't have my key anyway – it was still at the supermarche next to my house where I had sent the chauffeur (Dieudonne) who drove me to Zoungbonou (the town you have to stop in to get to Lobogo) with the key because I had forgotten to give it to Aaron – yes, life works that way here. I would trust the Beninese with my firstborn child – heck, I would trust them with YOUR firstborn child. So I took a shady zem back to Azovè (he wasn't a zem at all, but I was too tired and angry with the real zems who refused to call me anything but "yovo") where I was promptly invited to marry another group of men who were partying outside the supermarche. I have just taken to telling them all I have no heart and I am a robot and therefore would make a terrible wife. Some get it, some don't, either way I just start to talk in robot language and move my arms very stiffly and they slowly back away.
Today, Tuesday, Jordan and I went around to the local Hospital, the national Army post and the local Police to let them know we were here and didn't want any trouble. We asked them repeatedly for their radio frequency to which they replied we could simply use the telephone if we had a need of them. To which I replied, and what if the lines are down. "Well, use the portables then!" they laughed – what an idiot I am – like the fact that their networks were all just down for six months had nothing to do with my legitimate fear that their cells phones might not work in case of a national emergency. I just smiled and made them promise they'd look for my bike should some pagailleur (hoodlum) come around to steal it when I was out on one of my runs in the bush (don't worry, I keep a machete with me at all times). In other news, I am extremely tan. The sun here is brutal! You are out for an hour and come back singed. There is something to be said for that equatorial crap. It really does require some looking after. I'll be sure to steer clear this upcoming weekend... Or not! I'm fulling planning on laying in a hammock, reading and eating all the chocolate pudding they can feed me for 100 F (so not much).