CONTINUING THE TRIP TO SENEGAL

Caution: this one has swearing. Bamako Sucks!

February 11, 2008

Waking up early is never my favorite activity. Waking up early to go sit somewhere and wait for another four hours when I could have been sleeping makes it even more painful a reality. Wake up early we did, nonetheless, because the guide book I swear we should have used as fire fodder told us to so that we could get a quick ride to Djenne – home of the “World’s Largest Mud Mosque”.

Show up at the taxi depot we did. We booked passage on a “bashay”, also known riding on benches in the bed of a crappy truck, (which is what the stupid guidebook to the most miserable trip in Africa told us to do) and then waited as taxi after taxi filled up and took off. Coming to a realization that we were going to be waiting for a long, long time for a very painful ride we asked for a refund so that we might instead get in a taxi and leave. Denied. Waiting, waiting. We finally got “full” and started to pile in. One thing about Mali is that we have to pay extra for baggage. As you all recall in the letter about leaving Cotonou you can bring however many sacks of crap you want without paying a dime more than your passage. Not so in Mali. I had to pay an extra 350F just to put my backpack on top of the stupid truck. This was the way it was with every single taxi in Mali, save the one out of Dogon, paying extra for one bag. I missed Southwest Airlines where you at LEAST got to keep one TWO check-ins, one carry-on AND a personal bag! So we paid – grudgingly – and I hid my cement sack under my seat. The Japanese dude in our truck could only yell obscenities at the terrible chauffeur and I have to say I admired his vigor. Instead, I cried silently as my spine was contorted to fit yet another fat lady on our bench where five were already sitting. After this experience I have sworn off jell-o molds – you don’t know what it’s like, but I do!! It’s not supposed to look like that! It’s supposed to be jiggly and blocky and however it lays most comfortably. So we all get in the truck and start to leave the terrible, terrible taxi gare of Mopti, Mali. Good Riddance.

15 minutes into the trip Liz and “Fat Lady” (henceforth known as “Devil” on account of her blue attire) began exchanging elbows with one another. This plays directly into ‘cramped car etiquette’. When everyone is smooshed shoulders to butt you don’t put your elbows down by your sides to give yourself a flesh wall of security against everyone else. Instead, it is more polite to put your arms up in your own lap so that everyone has enough shoulder room to take a deep breath should they, you know, need to breathe! This woman felt it was more than within her right to lock down her elbows into Liz’s vital breathing space (aka into her kidneys). Elbows turned into snarls and snarls into outright “No, YOU’RE FATTER!” This woman had the gall to tell us to take our “Real Car” (meaning, we were white so what were we doing taking “public” transport instead of tooling around in our chauffeured Landcruiser like the rest of the white tourists?).
Offended, and rightly so, Liz gave a huffy retort with corresponding elbow and it turned into all out war. In an effort to spare my own internal organs I opted to sit on the floor of the bashay (on a tire that somehow made it into the seating area while all of our personal belongings went on the roof to “make space” for more people than could possibly fit to get in), with a kid on my lap. One kid turned into two and soon I was sleeping, sitting up, with kids on my lap – not my favorite lifetime experience, but it was better than hemorrhaging. Eventually, however, the Devil still wasn’t satisfied and the crisis resumed so I dutifully took the place of Liz and took some of the brunt elbow force myself. She was not kidding around – this lady was BRUTAL! I pleaded for just a little room and motioned to those sitting across from us (she was taking up the equivalent of two people on the other side!) right then, noticing that her kid, who was not sitting with “mama” but instead was on the other side of the bashay hogging up someone else’s lap space, began a Yak Attak. I was so thoroughly repulsed with this woman and her offspring I had not choice but to close my eyes and pray for death. Well, the yakking was fortunately short lived and the “fresh” air the open truck provided was something for which I was extremely thankful at this point. At least I wasn’t sitting next to the kid with eye pus (Erin’s left). Devil was unbelievable in her self-righteousness, however, as she somehow forced out the guy to her right, now perched on the back of the tailgate with his Saddam Hussein tissue, and claimed she could take all that space for herself instead of scooting over for all of us to reap the benefits of her maliciousness. “Look, this his HIS spot,” was her argument for why she couldn’t move over to give us a little more space. Somehow it didn’t register to her that the fact he was no longer sitting in his space was a valid reason for us to move into it.

The ride finally ended (about three hours later than if we had taken a taxi instead) after a really cool ferry ride and we all gave a big, sarcastic “Bye Bye” to the Devil when she got off before us. Even the other women who didn’t speak a lick of French could see what a grade-A douche-ka-bob this lady was. Our day was complete and we got out of the bashay in the center of Djenne, in front of the crazy Monday marché and beautiful, huge mosque. Compared to the ride there, the “calm” crazy of the marché and our pretty uneventful lunch of beer, chicken and fried bananas were nothing great to write about. Yes, the mosque was large and I took as many pictures of the outside as a white, Catholic, woman is allowed. Then we waiting around for a bus back to the highway where we waiting another hour or so for a bus to take us to Bamako.

LATER THAT NIGHT

We were able to board a mini bus that had religious writing all over the sides. It was “safe” I suppose. Liz sat up in the cab (blocked off from all us others in the back) and shared snacks, stories and laughs with the chauffeur and manager all night while Erin and I smooshed up together in the very last row where the jump seat was and our only escape was blocked by the ladder up to the roof of the “van”. Imagine my surprise when only a few hours into our journey the chauffeur opens up the suicide back panels and asks me to drive. Apparently Liz had been touting my amazing stick shifting skills (of which she obviously would have no personal experience to speak) and the chauffeur was liking his option of sleep. In face of my polite decline (and my fingers were itching to grab that wheel, let me tell you) the chauffeur soldiered on for another couple of hours – refusing any of the normal stimulants such as cigarettes, cola nuts, coffee, ANYTHING – and finally crashed on the side of the road. Not literally, thankfully, but I was awoken to Liz at the back door telling us we might want to get out because we were “going to be a while”. The chauffeur had gotten out at a roadside stop at one in the morning in the hopes of getting a good green tea buzz, but instead fell asleep by the fire where Liz and I found ourselves shortly after watching the stars and talking about how we both remembered “that time when our chauffeur fell asleep on the side of the road in Mali and we sat up next to a fire with a bunch of random dudes under a sky full of stars, pouring tea from 6in high.”

The manager had eventually had enough of the white girls sitting around and sold us off to a city bus-turned cross-country trekker. We climbed aboard the bus and moved to the way back where I SOMEHOW got place next to the same guy on the last bus who somehow made his one seat turn into three as he slid out horizontally on the bench and into my “zone”, but only for a while as Liz begged me to switch seats with her, effectively over the hot, hot engine heat that was exhausting into the cab. I fell asleep immediately, whether from the fumes, the exhaustion of travel, or the cozy, BOILING warmth vs. the freezing winds from the window above and before I could count the number of seats our neighbor was taking up, we were in Bamako (eight hours later).

February 12, 2008

We got into Bamako’s city center, FINALLY, after being followed and harassed around the bus station. Somehow “no, thank you,” doesn’t bear the same power as it does in other countries. No one spoke enough French to understand when we said “train” at least 15 different ways. Nothing is more infuriating than trying to change your tonal inflections a myriad of ways you’d never before experienced and still not coming up with the right one. Searching, searching, and finally we found a taxi that spoke a language we could, too. We made it to the train station in Bamako. Then we couldn’t buy a ticket because it was closed. Lunch was then to be had across the street. White as we are, the server started to talk to us in local language (this actually makes sense because Mali volunteers are told to learn their local language because not many people speak French). This wasn’t so bad until he began to quiz me on things I could not have possibly known. This was due to the fact that I must have the most boring and recognizable countenance known to man. He thought I had been there just the month prior and was somewhat of a regular staple at their establishment. This isn’t the first, or the last, time that I would be mistaken for some other white skinned, brown haired, boring-looking girl. I could only hope this time my doppelganger was relatively attractive (compared to some of the other ones in Benin where I have fared quite poorly).

What needs to happen next? We looked for beer. For over an hour we looked. One man thought we looked particularly helpless so tried to help us find a bar. At first we thought, okay, the sooner we get to the beer, the better, but alas we found none. Thanking him kindly, we took our leave. Only he continued to follow us. And continued to follow us. At one point I went up to him and asked him to stop. Thinking that would work but knowing that it would not we continued then hid in an alcove as, sure enough, thirty seconds later he walked by in our wake. He caught sight of us glaring at him and that was finally the end of it as he took off running straight ahead. We spent another hour searching for beer before finally settling for water and dry, nasty pastries (that should never have been mentioned in our CRAP, CRAP, CRAP guidebook) in the heat of the afternoon. We’d walked so far that we had to a taxi back to the train station to buy our tickets now that it was open. Mission accomplished, we headed next door to use the toilet at the hotel only to find there was beer there all along. We sat there for the next three hours and got wasted. Bamako sucks.

Fully fed up with our experience we decided to go out and splurge ourselves at the grocery store (Fourni). HEAVEN! I felt a little like a jerk when I realized that the bank I had spent several hundred francs on taxis looking for earlier was right next door to the grocery store; but, by then it was closed so I felt a little better. Inside were so many lovely Lebanese, French and even American goods that I couldn’t help myself. I bought Pringles, a bar of Lindt dark truffle chocolate and some gourmet flavored cheese with saucisson sec! They had ovens and huge American-sized fridges and everything! It was quite a treat. We left feeling elated and yet, connected. Then the crap piled on again.

After hitting up a nice cyber café we were accosted by a Ghanian man looking for someone to give him money. While persistently claiming he didn’t want money he asked us for money to call his girlfriend and ask her for the answer to the secret question on the Western Union transfer sheet. First of all – if this ugly man had a girlfriend she surely was stupid enough to pick a question he couldn’t answer. Secondly – why would he ask us for money by telling us he didn’t money? Thirdly – was it necessary to scream “Fuck You” when his scam didn’t work on us and we politely declined to give him money afterall? No! And I didn’t appreciate him doing it an inch from my face. I don’t think I’ve ever come that close to hitting someone, but I certainly felt the blood boiling under my skin and out of respect for his stupid girlfriend declined to sock him where it didn’t matter (right in his ugly puss). Then we couldn’t find the Indian food restaurant we were searching for when sidetracked by the Ghanian Gerk. I was in a bad place and started eating my Pringles.

Instead, we got in a taxi and headed back to the area near our hotel where we could hopefully have some more luck finding a restaurant. We walked around for another hour or two down streets without names, numbers, or any sort of significant markings before finally finding the Thai place mentioned in our stupid guidebook. “We’re all full,” the snooty host said as he took in our appearances, the record spun quickly to a stop and all the other white folk looked up abruptly from their delicious-smelling meals to gawk. We can take a hint, but instead pointed to the empty tables and asked about a waiting list. Impassive and stern, the host somehow guided us out the door without a problem. I think it was the fatigue/hunger/general disillusionment with Bamako that made us as docile and easily turned away as kittens. This is how we ended up at the “Southwestern Eatery” Appaloosa – where the black servers were forced to wear denim button-downs, black cowboy hats and the white ladies behind the bar looked like saloon whores circa 2001. I don’t know which “Southwest” this restaurant was supposed to represent but on the wall were license plates from Virginia (not even West Virginia) and Maine, the soundtrack started with Melloncamp and ended with five songs from the BeeGees greatest hits and the “black bean burrito” was stuffed full of red, marché beans. I got a migrane and we went home. That’s how it ends in Bamako. Bamako sucks.
February 13, 2008

The TRAIN was AWESOME!! We had to be shown our seats, sadly, though they were clearly marked. This meant that we had to pay a guy to do what we could have easily done ourselves (another sad result of everyone in Mali finding white women incompetent). One of the coolest parts of the train – apart from having a lot of space to stretch out – is that the bathroom is on the train. Not just that, the bathroom is a hole in the ground over the tracks! You can’t use it when the train is stopped, for obviously reasons, but it is fun as heck when you’re rambling and rolling along to watch the ground, too. Well, I got a kick out of it.

Two men came and sat across from us in our little “booth” and promptly spilled boiling hot milk on all of us. What a great start – and what the hell were they doing with hot milk? Grown men! They ask if we’re European. When we respond ‘no’ they then guess by nationality out of European countries. “Oh, you’re not European. You’re Spanish, then?” Really asinine. Finally we give in out of the pure pain of our conversation. It went like this:
“We’re from the United States” us.
blank stares as a response from Milk-Spillers.
“America,” us.
“Oh, right! But how do you speak French?” Milk-Spillers.
“Benin,” us.
“But how are you in Benin?” Milk-Spillers.
“Volunteers with the Peace Corps,” us.
“Oh, Dutch!” Milk-Spillers.
“No, American Peace Corps,” us.
“BUSH!” Milk-Spillers.
“No, we live in cities in America,” us.
“No, George Bush!” Milk-Spillers.
(believe it or not, Milk-Spiller #1 was the more intelligent just by the mere faculty of speech).

The trip was relatively uneventful, which was a nice change. We spent our time just lounging, sleeping, eating (I smeared bread in my chocolate moosh-pile; forgetting I was in Africa when I bought the bar of chocolate and took it on a hot train trip with me), and enjoying the scenery. Then night fell and it was time for our drunken companions to leave. There wasn’t really enough stop time on the train for the unscheduled ones (thank GOD!) so our companions called out to someone on the platform to catch their mountains of stuff they passed it through the cabin window. The only problem to this method was that the window was too small so they ended up spending more time trying to shove through the larger packages than it would have taken to just load it up on their backs and trek outta there. Oh goodness, the efficiency is alive and well throughout.

MORE TO FOLLOW LATER! I have real work to do now people!!!

Love you,
Allison Henderson

That address again for those “must send ‘ers”

Allison Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l’Ouest
PAR AVION

I appreciate and love everything you send me. Except crap. Don’t send crap. My house is little.

FIRST PART OF WAIST

FEBRUARY 2008

The trip I knew was going to be a voyage that lasted an eternity, the writing I knew would take longer so thank you all for being patient as I put together this tribute to the first African road trip in my life (don’t know if I have it in me for another, but we’ll see).

FEBRUARY 5, 2008

We got to Cotonou a day early in anticipation of our journey out to Burkina Faso. We’re taking a night bus to save money on a hotel and to make the traveling easier (as in, if you’re asleep it goes faster, and a heck of a lot less heat in the bus at night).

Luggage packing for the bus took two hours. Then, when we finally are ready to get going we have a roll call onto the former Jacksonville Jaguar team bus. Just imagine what pandemonium ensued as the bus agents tried, in vain, to pronounce all the mysterious names and match them to poorly scribbled-out bus tickets. It took us a little while longer to actually get onto the bus. Good thing the seats were numbered. Too bad some lady thought she was in Liz’s seat (apparently the number 7 looks remarkably like the number 9). She’ll come into this later, but for now we’re finally all seated, even seat 7 who tried in vain to repeatedly seat herself in 13 after 9 failed. The Egypt v. Cameroon match comes on and for a moment we’re entertained. The driver arrives and we’re thrilled it is only an hour late (10pm instead of designated departure of 9pm). We start driving, lurching forward in our Jaguar bus with the midget leg room and not the anticipated coolers full of Crystal and Courvoisier, then stop abruptly in a zone of bad television reception so that even as we sat for the next 35 minutes we couldn’t even watch the game they had so considerately put on for us just a few moments before. The engine and the busload of people sat running, waiting for – what?

For the second time we take off again. Enjoying our apple dinner (Erin hits a male passerby with her core – bad karma to come?) we go approximately 0.5km before stopping again at the gas station. It’s at this stop where we see the true art of lacking in efficiency. While the bus driver leaves his engine running to get and pump gas, three more bus workers get off and stand around the pump, discussing how to best negotiate inserting it into the bus. Meanwhile, nothing else happens. When the gas has successfully been pumped (25 minutes later and four more ‘helpers’ jumping of the bus to lend a hand) the driver takes his time wiping down the windshield by hand with a little plastic teapot – again, something that could have taken place while the gas was being pumped? Also, has he never heard of windshield wipers? I guess not as I watched him swipe, back and forth with his hand and little plastic teapot until the entire, giant windshield was clean. Then we were off again. Still in Cotonou, four hours after we got to the bus stop. Well on our way to a wonderful journey in Africa.

But wait, not quite yet. It appears that seat 7, or was it 13, or wait, 9? Has too much luggage blocking the aisles where crew workers want to lay down. It is customary on every African bus to have one chauffeur, at least two luggage handlers, one guy to take the money from passengers who get on en route, and I suppose two or three extra to stand around should anything go wrong with the engine. It is also customary to never account for them when filling up the seat capacity. The woman refused to move her baggage and the crew members were forced to lie in the aisles along the bus. Fire hazard, what? My only prayer was that should the bus crash I be thrown safely from its burning carcass otherwise I burn inside it, unable to maneuver past the bodies wedged in the aisles. The evening ends with this: Can’t finish writing because the chauffeur turns off the overhead lights so we can watch a work of cinematic genius – Dead or Alive (seen it? It reminded me of Street Fighter but with primarily hot girls instead of equal sexes fighting it out). The next few hours before I finally crash from exhaustion are crap kung fu and the glowing cigarette butt of the driver on the longest chain smoking marathon I’ve ever seen in the review mirror and a crew member pushing my leg out of the way so he can sleep under my skirt.

FEBRUARY 6, 2008
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

We finally got into Ouagadougou at around 3:00pm (after spending 20 minutes at the border exiting Benin, another hour and 10.000CFA getting our visas upon entry to Burkina, then 2.5 hours sitting, waiting, bus unloaded for customs to stop by, look at our bags and say that we could go). We got in just in time to miss our shot at the Mali visa so we’re staying the night at the Cathedral (how fitting on Ash Wednesday).

Burkina has great produce – we went to their supermarket (open 7j/7 – what?) and saw so many types of cheeses, meats, fruits and vegetables! Strawberries, artichokes, red bell peppers and balsamic vinegar were some of the best finds (Snickers and Twix ice cream bars were pretty thrilling in their own right though I certainly didn’t partake)! It’s like being in a real big city! The buildings are newer, with more lights and decorations (a bit over done though, like someone on the city decorating committee got a deal at the Target after-holidays sales), less crowding and minimal diesel fumes. They have an air conditioned movie theatre playing Gothika and 300 (did those even come out at the same time in the U.S.? I don’t think so) as well as an outdoor one playing Jurassic Park (the Lost World one, not the real one) and American Beauty. There are no taxi motos here, only taxis cars (green ones that charge basically 600CFA for the car no matter where you’re going and an even bigger bummer if you’re traveling alone). More impressive is the terrain and wildlife. We cut through Benin’s Park Pendjari on our way up North and came out the other side in real desert (Sahel) with dry bush trees, parched earth and massive watering holes where one or two of the many herds of cows are stopped to rest and drink. On the side of the road multiple donkey carts plod along with one, sometimes two, bodies sitting up top to give an occasional unenthusiastic stick thump on the donkey’s rear end. Neither of them wants to be working, but they’re out there in the heat nonetheless. There really is no alternative. They plod along for miles in one direction to fill up on sticks, or hay, or buckets of something else, turn around and trudge back for miles in the direction they came.

The restaurant we were so excited to visit was closed on Wednesdays of all days so we begrudgingly headed back to the familiar Lebanese cuisine to which we were so accustomed. There was a banana milkshake on the menu – something I ate a lot of every chance I got as a kid – and it wasn’t half bad, but not quite like we used to make at home. Ouagadougou was shaping up to be an okay place so far.

FEBRUARY 7, 2008

We breakfasted at a place called the “Four Seasons” (4 Saisons) but really should have been called One or Two Seasons based on their lack of available menu items. Though the first three items I tried to order were unavailable and I finally was reduced to settling on a hot chocolate and toast (but they ran out of jelly) the hot chocolate was the most amazing I’ve had in Africa! The roadside woman selling strawberries sweetened the deal and the refrigerator revealed a hidden jelly reservoir despite previously fruitless searches (I’m just full of the puns today), so breakfast turned out alright if not half-decent. Liz was pretty disappointed that their café au lait was actually just Nescafe and their espresso machine was broken so just went for the regular coffee treatment, but had an awesome omelet with potatoes. Erin’s “petit four” (which in America usually means some sort of assortment of tiny cakes or pastries) was a handful of cookies that tasted remarkably like pound cake so it was a win-win in all cases. Though the food was surprisingly pleasant, the abundance of street-side beggars was something I hadn’t yet been introduced to and found unpleasant as I tried to eat my food with four kids staring at me, eyes pleading and hands outstretched, their empty tomato paste can coffers full only with pointed blaming and my subsequent guilt. I got over that real fast, however, when a fully grown man came over to ask for money because he had just returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca. OOOOH!! I remember now. Muslims give alms. It tends to breed an underbelly reliant on the generosity (and piety) of presumably Muslim passerby and unsuspecting guilty white folk. Since I’m not Muslim and apparently cold-hearted and poor myself, I felt exempt from the guilt of not giving every single kid walking around with nice shoes and full outfits on money, but then my Catholic upbringing sort of swung it back around and I evened out with a general sense of crummy okie-dokieness.

Lunch must have been pretty uneventful because I can’t remember anything to write about. In fact, I don’t think we ate lunch. It pretty much went right from late breakfast to the grocery store and then looking for the restaurant we’d missed out on the night before. On the way there we hit up the Artisan’s Center where we could buy crafts without haggling over prices. Unfortunately we were instantly hit with the artisans who continued to insist that I was not American, but rather, Spanish hiding in an American’s body. I’m used to pushy salesmen but I can’t say I’ve ever experienced it to the degree we did upon leaving the center. For the next twenty minutes or so I was trapped explaining to one man why not spending time walking over to his shop to see the same exact crafts I just bought at the center and then politely decline to purchase them was not considered rude in my country, especially when I was late to go to dinner and getting increasingly angry from my state of empty stomach. At one point the bugger artisan literally likened my refusal to visiting the shop as to stepping on the face of his child. It was either that or his Friendship, I can’t really say I was paying much attention to his French at this point. I have selective French comprehension that comes in quite handy in these pestering instances.

Dinner, in contrast, was quite possibly my favorite experience of the entire trip (even in retrospect as I write this). It's called le Verdoyant and it is in a nicer part of town (near the Artisan's center) and is closed on Wednesdays... so sad. I started with a sweet taste of my past: Gin Fizz. Not quite up to Papa Mel’s par (a real man, not a bar, but now I’m thinking…), but it was a welcome treat. This carried over to a demi-carafe of what I presumed to be a Côte du Rhone red (never again; I’m so disappointed every time I spend more money trying to get a taste of the good stuff then find myself conspiracy theorizing that the restaurant just opened the same ‘ole box of Bonita and poured it into the carafe then charged double. I’d rather live without and have my memories of the better days of wine consumption). Luckily it didn’t all end like this as my endive, hazelnut and Roquefort salad immeasurably pleased my depraved palette. I admit, I was never a real fan of the wedge salad (more my mom’s style) but in a meal tribute to memories of my family I gave it a go and was more than pleased with the selection. This was followed by lasagna. Wait, I didn’t do that right. It was Lasagna. Phenomenal! Lasagna that was worthy of a decent restaurant in the U.S. Maybe I’m biased being as I am from a cheeseless, practically beefless existence, but it really was an amazing batch of Lasagna, wood-fired oven and all. The restaurant obviously had what it needed going for it as by mid-meal I turned around to a sea of white folk. Normally I try to avoid the ex-pat crowd but I was on vacation and thus taking photos and hob-nobbing with the fairer skinned ones wasn’t as embarrassing as it can be in my own territory. The meal was so good we even tipped. I think it was the second, if not the first, time since I got here. Thoroughly sated, we all returned to our hotel with the comfortable bed, fan, but still-cold-showers and seatless, shared toilets.

FEBRUARY 8 2008

Almost nothing was the same as we got back on a bus to make our way up to Mali. We were royally ripped off by the bus. (NEVER TAKE S.T.B.F. IN OUAGADOUGOU). They said they went directly from Ouaga (Burkina) to Mopti (Mali) for 25.000CFA, but what they should have said was ‘direct from Ouaga to Ouahigouya for 2.500CFA then get out and wait four-six hours for another mini bus to take you from Ouahigouya (still in Burkina) to Koro for another 2.500CFA and to leave early enough to catch the one that leaves with enough time to get to the border before it closes and you’re stuck in Burkina, sleeping at the border, for another night.’ Oh well, lost in translation I suppose, or they were just thieving liars (more likely option).

While we were waiting for the second round of crap travel to Mali we were approached by one of those ubiquitous ‘want to speak the “small small” English’ guys who refuse to speak French to you although that’s the only language of theirs you actually understand. He persisted in demanding whether or not we were familiar with “Peter Stevenson” who ‘lived in Sector 2’. We repeatedly denied knowing any of the Burkina volunteers explaining that were from Benin and, amazingly, not all white people are of the same family and most probably don’t know all the other white people in their own village, let alone their entire region of West Africa. It took several frustrating attempts from our side to get him to speak French and on his part explaining just who Peter Stevenson was; a brand of cigarettes (have you heard of them?). Confusion cleared and we thought he would just go away, but four hours couldn’t end soon enough and he persisted in asking us other things in English that we just couldn’t decipher (except for the spit he projected with his English pronunciation; that was intelligible enough). Finally the wait ended and we piled into the next cramped bus that would take us on terre rouge through to the desert of Mali.

I sat uncomfortably between the bench and jump seat, knee to crotch with a man sitting across from me for the next six or so hours just pining for the border and the next place I could rest horizontally. We were finally getting where we were going, so what if my spine was slightly shifted as a result. That is, until we suddenly we weren’t going anymore. The chauffeur stopped and did what any normal driver (in Africa) would do – pile more goods and people on top of the van than he should safely do as there was no more space inside of the van. This would have normally been just a minor annoyance rather than the first skirmish in the full-scale war it became had he not chosen to do so a mere 15 minutes before the border was scheduled to close with three American girls on board who had already been ripped off once that day and were loathe to pay extra later upon exiting Mali for not getting an entry stamp first on their passports. Of course we complained (I threatened to drive away, but couldn’t figure out how he hotwired his car to get it going) but that didn’t stop him taking the next 40 minutes to load his new cargo and passengers. We eventually got going again while the sun was setting and my nausea started to set in. The beautiful stars exploded into the desert’s dark black night as we drove past solemn campfires out in the brush. It was becoming magical, but my blood sugar level was still dropping from lack of food. Then, as if in final protest and in opposition-empathy to my nerves, the gas tank emptied and the van sputtered out simultaneously with my last nerves. At this point we’d already reached and passed the Mali bureau 40km inside the border and got our stamps by the light of their lantern, but now we were on to the next crisis of hunger and fatigue. I guess the driver had had enough of our complaints and tossed a 10.000CFA bill at us when we started to set in complaining again (I’m not proud of our actions, did I say I was tired and hungry and already ripped off once that day and had to wait for him to add more luggage despite our earlier protests? Not that it’s an excuse for my behavior) and threatened to walk the remaining 3km to Koro (the next town in) – which I guess must have been more of a relief than a threat to him at that stage of the trip. He took off at a brisk walk and as his glittering cell phone faded into the night I feared he just might not return for us. Luckily he must have forgotten his wallet or really liked his van because he did return on a moto and put enough gas to get us to Customs where they took down only ¾ of our bags on top to search so we were out of there just another ½ hour later.

Koro was finally reached and Omar (the Dogon guide) came to get us. I threw up next to the telephone center as he kindly waited then we went on to a campement on the outskirts of town. We had an AMAZING family-style plate of salad with sesame oil (lettuce with oil), fries and spaghetti made with a really strange sauce and served cold. I could actually only eat some of the spaghetti, but Erin and Liz looked pretty pleased with everything else. I was out by 11, lying on a matt lifted up by wooden sticks, ready to put that day behind me.

FEBRUARY 9, 2008

I checked out my journal for this day and remembered why my dirty finger prints were all over the page, rather, why the finger prints all over the page were dirty. I had just woken up from a nap atop a mud hut bar (Tati Samba in Benin) under thatch covering protecting me from the broiling heat. Even after washing my hands, which left a thick line of distinction between my pale skin and the thick layer of dust mixed with sweat on the rest of my arm, it was difficult to keep the pages clean. My view from the rooftop was that of the ancient mud town of Dogon nestled high up into the carved rock while I rest below it in the new civilization of Dogon, created just as recently as sixty years ago. The path here was flat and sandy with the occasional drop through a ravine that marked the path of the dried-up riverbed. It’s so hot out on this cloudless day, but the breeze is constant and refreshing and sounds a lot like I’m sitting by the Pacific when it blows through the surrounding palms.

The people of Dogon are used to tourists and became angry when I tried to take a picture of their horses without first giving away some Cola nuts I bought back in Ouahigouya just for this special purpose. We pass out 10 or so to the inhabitants to gain access to this relic of ancient Mali. Children cluster, chanting “calabash” or “coton”, hoping you will want to buy something. When you don’t they give up trying to sell you anything and start to beg cola nuts for free – children! Cola nuts!! Stimulants for Children (a new band name perhaps?)!

We got through town and hiked up rocky trails to the old town in the cliffs. This was just one of many settlements similarly situated in the face of the rock, but was the easiest for us to climb up. We saw their clay granaries; their mass cemetery of bones littered indiscriminately in a hole bored into the rock’s body; their water supply that ran down the face of a wall that millennia before was once an underwater abyss. We also saw their ‘courthouse’ with low ceilings so as to prevent fighting should the dispute not be resolved amicably. We saw where the “Hogon” lived (yea, I laughed and then repeated to the point of annoyance “Hogon of the Dogon”), the king of the Dogon people who wore neither shoes nor bathed except on every fifth day when a snake would come and lick him clean. I interjected my concern at whether or not it would take a full five days just to get that little tongue all over, but Omar just pondered my sanity and went on without response. I guess no response for me is sometimes the best response. Luckily the view was so incredible or I might have continued to imagine snakes cleaning kings. We wandered through the abandoned houses and looked out onto the vast expanse of desert land, shielding our eyes from the brilliant sunshine to fully appreciate how it used to be a lush, fertile area until the Dogon people’s continuous tree-chopping devastated the terrain, leaving it subject to alternating droughts then floods.

After the rock village and several hours in Tely post-descent at the camp/bar we left at sunset for Ende, 4km away, where we would stay the night. We ate dinner at Campement Aly, one of only three buildings with electricity in the settlement of 3,000. After dinner we cleaned up and slept in one of the hottest rooms I have ever slept in so far. It had only one window and no screen door so we had to leave the door closed, until finally, fearing suffocation more than bug bites, we opened the door and were able to sleep a little at last. Breakfast did nothing to clear up the pain of the night past, the freeze-dried coffee grounds resembled the earth we had just trodden upon all of yesterday, the ants had our sugar on them, and the “pineapple” jam tasted like grandma’s perfume, but we ate and drank up in anticipation of the day (and our perceptions already slightly desensitized from being used to African conditions).


FEBRUARY 10, 2008

After our ‘delicious’ breakfast we took off for the other side of Ende, where it seems like every Tom, Dick and Nancy has a shop shelling some sort of “artisanal” creation. The walls of the town are laced with hand-painted, -dyed, -woven articles to buy and ship back in your luggage for Auntie, Mommy, Best Friend, Grammy, Favorite Hippy Professor and Sister. There was a group of women that grew, harvested, and made their own indigo in which to dye their hand-woven wool tissues. Who doesn’t do that nowadays? Everyone has one of those women’s groups in their town! It was easy to see these women weren’t used to being introduced to white people who knew what their goods were worth and were clearly agitated when we bargained for a real price on their scarves. Needless to say, we weren’t making friends, but at least we were making good deals, and that’s what really counts when on vacation, right? After the indigo girls (and boy), we walked over to “Carving Man” (trust me, this town had an artisan for every single type of African art, quite possibly including a medicine man who would have performed a scarification if we’d named the right price), who was in the middle of carving a cool staircase made from the branch of a tree. Crouched down in his work environment, surrounded by a plethora of wooden works of art, he posed like a natural used to being photographed. After the woodsman we saw the group of men who paint batique. Except they weren’t painting anything, but they were watching a little boy on the ground painting for them. Maybe they were on a break? I don’t know, but I got a good deal on a scarf that the Indigo girls never would have sold to me for the price. Funny thing is, it was probably the Indigo girls who sold the scarf to the Batique men in the first place so I imagine something is amiss with wholesale and resale in this town.

We passed the metal workers and then the old men who sit around asking for cola nuts to jump on a horse cart with a horse that looked as though he had seen a better lifetime. Surprisingly still full of spring, we pulled away with a little puff of dust, like a cm tall, in search of the next big adventure. Our guide, Omar, had left earlier in the morning to go back to Bankass and pick up his next tour, a triad of Peace Corps volunteers from Ghana, while we continued on with his brother, Mohamed. After an eternity on the horse cart (cool views of towns and rock settlements along the way – a constant source of wonderment as I questioned how did they DO that?) we reached a little, tiny town of about four houses and a pretty impressive marché constructed entirely out of sticks. We unloaded our beings and started hiking up the mountain face. It was about 45% as intense of hikes I’d done in the past, but felt about 275% more difficult than the sitting on my butt I’ve been doing for the past 7 months. Finally, with much huffing and puffing, we made it through the rocky/tree hill (which looked remarkably like some El Dorado Hills, California hiking paths) and emptied into a mini-Eden flanked by impressive stone sculptures that reached up to the sky in a protective enclosure. Children, a few women and a man were industriously carrying calabashes of water from the river that lazily dripped through the little fertile valley to their plots of onions, lettuce, tobacco and herbs in a picturesque little commune nestled up here in the hills. Walking through and to the other side for our final climb I felt as though we’d been introduced to a secret little society of the last unknown people (though I was fully aware that this is an extremely well-known and tourist-frequented location). I almost could see Veloceraptors flying overhead and Bracchiosauruses digging for watercress in the murky brown waters – yes, I imagine everything “untouched” as a scene from Jurassic Park, why don’t you?

One last rocky climb and we were on top of the rock formations enjoying a cool drink and taking in the scenery. We were in an interesting assortment of towns that form one collective village, separated by religious factions. We ate our lunch with the Ghanaian group in the Christian part of town (‘cuz there was booze) but then took a little tour of the Muslim one while getting a nice view of the Animist one in the distance. After fully stuffing ourselves with a bland concoction of couscous and corned, boxed beef (literally comes in a tin, felt like I was an Irishwoman during a world war) we left our little rockytop village and took the final stretch of our journey to the taxi that would take us to Mopti. One intense, hot climb left and we reached the top to discover that the taxi had gone. Two French ladies that we so graciously allowed to share our taxi (and the price of it) had up and commandeered the entire operation. Omar immediately got on the phone and stood atop a precarious rock to get reception in search of our driver. I took of my shoes. Within another thirty minutes we found the source of our frustration. The driver didn’t leave, at least not the one we’d hired, he was waiting a little walk away on the other side of field full of rocks for us with the same frustration we’d been experiencing waiting for him on our side of the terrain. Confusion finally over we got in the car and experienced a beautiful moving picture of dry scenery littered with rock formations and a periodic blooming garden of greens and palms to blot the arid landscape. Mopti was going to be wonderful.

LATER THAT DAY

Mopti was, for the most part, a great experience. We arrived in the evening and stayed at “Y Pas de Probleme” hotel, Liz losing her shoes in the taxi’s car as he drove away. The beds were comfortable, even if the pool was cold and dirty, and the price was decent. Finding food, after an exhausting day, proved to be more of a carnival than we’d bargained. Wandering around, walking and walking (after walking all day in the desert land of Dogon) with a random guy who had attached himself to our group as its leader through dark, dirty alleyways and past groups of street vendors whom we regarded with skepticism. My temper was quickly heating. We finally found a location and then approached the awkward business of discharging our unwanted guide when he sat down at our table. It was too delirious with hunger and fatigue to remember how it came about, but somehow he was gone and we were able to order our meal from the kindly Nigerian patroness.

In anticipation of our upcoming chow session I asked for a soap-and-handwashing station. I was directed to a back area where, to my chagrin, there was no soap. I strode out, yes it was striding, and called out for the patron to bring me soap. A man I hadn’t seen before and was sitting at the next table over called out to me to calm down and that the patroness was already fetching soap. There was no reason to “stalk” about angrily, he said. Feeling my “calm” questioned (I’m just going to assume that from my agitated state it was questioned with reason) I retorted back that I always walked in such a passionate manner and that I had no intention of fighting with our patroness. I’m pretty sure I also mentioned some fabrication about my family being military and learning how to walk like a Prussian before learning how to ride a bike. I didn’t like being called out in my frustration. We were in the middle of discussing this quarrel of fact when the patroness returned and the man started in explaining that I was coming on looking ready for a fight. My gang came in finger-snapping to my defense of naturally walking angry while the man asserted that I was looking for a rumble. I ignored him, thanking the patroness, and went to wash my hands. Upon returning to the table, the man continued to make comments and instigate conversation with us. To his query of my name I answered, Napoleon Bonaparte, much to his amusement and prompted him to address me as the “General” for the rest of our banter. When the patroness finally returned with our food I leaned over with great frustration in my voice and asked the offending man’s identity. To my great dismay and slight mortification she answered “le patron” (her husband and rightful owner of the restaurant where we were hoping to get some nourishment and relaxation). Instantly check-mated I calmed down my biting responses a little (as much as I could, which wasn’t much) and prayed for his immediate departure. My wish was granted and we sat down to a dinner without any further interruption.

FEBRUARY 11, 2008

Thought I’d give you a break. More stories to follow later when I get back to the internet.

LOVE,

Allison

Things I Could Use if You Want to Send:
- hot chocolate
- trail mixes
- dried fruits
- jerky
- food bars
- make-up
- tank tops/t-shirts
- brownie/cake mixes
- letters and photos. I long to hear from you.

- as always anything from my amazon list is appreciated
- anything else you want to send that you think I would enjoy here in Afrique.

Mail to (with sufficient religious paraphernalia):
Allison “The Coolest” Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l’Ouest
PAR AVION

You could technically leave out « The Coolest » but I can’t guarantee it will get to me without it since that’s how my people at the post office know me.

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.