Revenant

Jessica was here for a visit and I thought an appropriate trip would be to see Mr. Fawgla, our resident voodoo chief/free meal/drinking partner/source of fun. Those of you whom followed the previous stories have probably seen his name mentioned before in a myriad of contexts. He is an important part of our lives here in the Couffo and, as such, would be a good person for Jessica to meet. Genevieve had a good time when I took her there; he taught her how to do "Sodabi eyes," a method which prevents you from becoming ill from sodabi consumption if you stare down the putrid liquid as it enters your mouth. I have yet to see it work, but he never seems to be sick, so maybe he's onto something.

I had lost my second cell phone at some point during my stay at home so I was hoping our previously arranged plans for a visit would be well-settled when I got a startling call from Fawgla himself confirming our plans - very un-Beninese and much appreciated. I imagine the call was more to change the plans than to confirm them, however, as he excitedly told me that we would be meeting in Lalo to drink then go to another town 9km away to drink some more. What?! And we had to be there early. Double WHAT?!

In all the time I have been living in Benin and visiting Fawgla's we have never traded in our shady circle under the tree, with the wooden table sticky with sodabi and cola overflows and the millions of children and pesty flocks of guinea fowl skittering about as we get to the serious task of drinking while avoiding being drunk. Why would he want to change our location? Our seasoned, well-known and comfortable spot? Never had he given me an ETA. Especially one so early - 2pm! It's still HOT! Despite the fact that we would be on motos, not walking, it's too hot to even just exist under the sun between the hours of 10:00am and 3:00pm. This threw me off a little, but Jessica needed to meet the man and, perhaps, we could convince him otherwise by not reminding him of the scheduled deviance when we got there. People have been known before to forget things while imbibing.

While we tried to get there on time we didn't leave until 2:00pm (the time we were to be there) and then my zemi realized, not before when he was driving around with other people on board, that his back tire was punctured. We stopped for a good 25 minutes to fix it. Luckily, it only took Jess's zem ten minutes of continuing on to realize that I was no longer behind them. He doubled back just in time for me to remount and take off again - what a waste of gas.

The rest of the journey was extremely uneventful (save for the extremely fast and competitive driving in which I had to repeatedly tell my driver to slow down because I imagine feeling myself flying, skidding, then rolling to a dead stop after he hit one of the pock marks in the terribly grooved dirt road). When we finally arrived to Fawgla's all the usual suspects were there: skinny, accomodating kid; whiny, big-butt kid; annoying cluster of indeterminate younger 5-8 children; older girl; repuditedly perverted "animateur"; cross-eyed old guy; spontaneously English-speaking alcoholic guy; yelling wife #1; two younger guys I don't know; and, Fawgla. The two gallon jugs full of sodabi soaking in roots, sticks, nuts and peppercorns were placed as the centerpiece on the low-lying table where they all sat, awaiting our arrival.

Upon our arrival I ordered the two Coke "chasers" I knew were necessary for our get-togethers. To my amazement, however, the old guy brought a bottle of wine and someone else brought a sparkling grape juice (with no alcohol content) that tasted like child spit. Or what I imagine that would taste. So we weren't forced into sodabi consumption for the first time. This was a very atypical visit indeed. After about two hours of this nothing much had changed except Sheena's arrival from Klouekanme -(pronounced -poorly- "Click-a-may") and the arrival of food. Standard fare; pate blanche with vegetable sauce and pieces of cooked, piment-coated chicken. Needless to say, I couldn't each much of this Satan's-fire-ball-sweat-inpsired banquet so I took a few polite scoops of pate and suffered Fawgla's insistances for about 20 minutes until it was all consumed and I could rest, slightly, easy.

Then, shockingly, Fawgla announced that we could be leaving to go to the next location. Whaaaa? Guess my plan hadn't worked and I was only stalling the inevitable drunkfest I knew I had signed up for when coming out to Lalo in the first place. I was still unsure of the meaning behind our relocation so I bewilderdly asked Fawgla again. This time he responded without the usual "to drink a little" (to which I had always mentally responded, couldn't we do that just as well here?), "to see the ghosts," he replied. My eyes widened...he must be kidding. Le REVENANTS! I knew that January 10th was the national holiday for Voodoo, but I didn't know it was a continuing celebration (this was now the 13th). Excitedly, I hopped on the back of my stranger's moto and encouraged Jessica to do the same on the Pervert Animateur's, too.

15minutes and 9km later we were in another town. I have no idea what the name of the town was or where exactly it was. As Jessica aptly pointed out, what was the point of building a town out there? Was there a road already there or did they need to pointlessly build one out to this BFE town, pop. 30? Either way, there we were, and we were given the front view table at the Copacabana. There was a weird empty space opened up in what I assume was the center of town. We were seated under a tree, with enough chairs for our entourage and a whole new sticky table with beers and sodabis displayed on it. "I chose this one for you," Fawgla explained to me as he pointed an 8% alcohol Nigerian Guiness in my direction. "Oh, delightful," I responded as Sheena and Jessica each chose a much more digestible Star.

Almost immediately the action started up. A cloud of dust kicked up as men, women and children scurried away from this man running after them with a stick, whipping whomever was near enough to hit after an odd inaudible exchange. Well, man is not accurate. He, It, was wearing a costume of pumpkin-colored shoes that continued on into leggings with intricate and colorful sequin designs covered by a thick quilt-like skirt of red, orange, packaging paper and pumpkin colors door-knocker designs lined with yellow topped with an impressive head-covering smock thing with beads and a crochet pattern running down where a man's face should be. Attached to this smock was a disturbing collection of animal skulls, a wooden carving bust of a woman, and animal skins. He carried a fistful of thin sticks that he used at random intervals, between his slide-backwards-kick-slide dancing moves, to whip passerby and even people thinking they were a safer distance away. He was the first Revenant, or ghost, who had come to visit us this fine Beninese evening.

As the six of us, Fawgla, Sheena, Jessica, Pervent Animateur, other moto guy, and myself, watched and drank and feared for a whipping another Revenant appeared almost without a point of origin. This one was undoubtedly a more important ghost, adorned entirely with sequins in the shapes of dogs, birds, serpents and other animals on his long quilted dress and head covering. Predominately pink and red, the animals were green, gold and blue, with somewhat muted undergarments he would show off while spinning in his very showy dancing manner. He spun, spun and spun, then stopped to flick a horsetail over his shoulder while kicking one leg back before tilting and spinning again to show off the beautiful colors and handiwork of his outfit. Really something else. Until the other two Revenants appeared.

Sort of boring at first, the two other Revenants appeared and promptly crouched down at the side of the dancing ring. Decidedly much less beautiful they were nevertheless impressive in the detail of their garments. Their outfits were made with marche fabric rather than sequined designs, but wore head (entire head) coverings of beaded concoctions that sort of reminded me of a scary movie I had recently seen involving a scarecrow. One of them looked like someone had just cut up several carpets into strips and affixed them all to his throat. The other had a large weird wooden carving in the shape of a circle with three breasts on it, but it was on his back so I don't really know what it was meant to signify. Both of these ghosts danced in the same circular manner as the previous, but they both were a lot more personable than the former.

In about the top 1/3 of my second gross Guiness I was busy filming the pretty ghost dancing when I noticed out of the corner of my eye two lumbering, bulky carpets eccentric carpets walking towards us. I panicked! You would have, too! It's eerie being told these animated parlor furnishings in front of you revered and feared by every single person around you, every single heavy-breathed, gaping-mouthed, protruding belly-button child leaning heavily on your chair (and there were plenty of these) and gawking are believed to be ghosts of the people; dieties you were not allowed to address, touch or look at without their permission (i.e. giving money). And they are fast approaching your table. I didn't know how to act, where to look, what to say, could I say? I instinctively reached for my coin purse and they bowed and started talking in some weird Kermit the Frog voice. They wanted to greet us, their handler explained (as the guy who played their special drums following behind him beat in agreement). And get money, of course. After they had succeed in their mission they returned back to their crouched position at the side of the ring. As they waddled away I was instantly reminded of Cousin It and lost a lot of the anxious feelings I had initially felt. I wanted to take a photo of them, dagnamit, and I had certaily paid enough to do so.

Fawgla agreed to take me up, but we had to wait until the whipping ghost was long from sight. A fifth, and final, Revenant was center stage keeping up the audience attention and the drummers gasping for breath. It was time to rock. We kicked off our shoes and snuck across the arena to kneel in the ground before the carpet bags. Someone threw a large stick across the path in front of us so as to create a tangible barrier between us, the living, and the Revenants. After Fawgla groveled a bit and asked for permission I clicked away. Satisfied I grabbed two coins out of my pocket and made to place them next to the Revenants's hem. But Fawgla grabbed my wrist, "Oh, no! Do not TOUCH them!" he cried out with white terror in his eyes. I laughed it off, but was shaken at his fear for me, "I know, I was going to put it close enough to them to reach." He relaxed only slightly. "I know not to touch," I reassured. He cooled and we got up to scuttle back before Whipping Guy came back.

"If you touch them," he asserted, "you die." This was his explanation for his behavior as we prepared to get going. The sun was setting and we needed to meet our zemis back in Lalo for the return journey.
I could see he was serious and I was touched at his concern for me. It's a fine line to walk to maintain sincerity in the face of things I don't necessarily believe to be true but mean so much to my friends that I can't take it lightly. How can one say, with any certainty or basis of truth, that something doesn't "exist" when so many thousands, an entire region of the world, believes in it? I believed in Fawgla for that moment and was grateful to my friend for showing us this beautiful ceremony and, perhaps, for saving my life.

By the way, if you are intrigued (or skeptical) and think you might just want to have one of these silly ceremonies yourself you better save up; one of those ridiculous costumes costs around 1.000.000f CFA, or approximately $2,000 USD. I imagine this means there is money in Benin, but is it wise that it goes to the dead and not the living?

Taxi Ride from Cotonou

I am standing on the side of the road. It was lucky I could find some shade in which to wait, otherwise I would be sweating twice as much as I am already and getting worse. It’s quite impressive the difference between being directly in the sun and not can make. I see the glimmer of a windshield in the distance. It’s approaching along the stone road, dodging motos and moutons. I can tell it probably isn’t a taxi because the car looks too nice, too new, too cared for. It rolls by and I wave my right arm up and down, levitating, asking for the car to stop. It’s like hitchhiking, but instead of simple thumb sticking out I have to use my entire arm in one fluid animatronic movement. Instead of stopping the car glides by with a slight pause on the brakes. I shout out, ‘Azovè!’ and the car keeps going. Bust! So I wait until the next car comes by.. Just wait. I sit and wait. Then a car comes! I float the arm again in the critically acclaimed ‘taxi dance’ and yell out “Azovè!” as it whizzes by, but this time the car has more then one person in it and slows down enough for me to think it’s going to stop for good. I pick up my helmet and bag and start walking towards the car, but the driver must have conferred with his passengers that indeed I did say Azovè and takes off again before I can get to the door. He’s not going to Azovè. He might not even have been a taxi and was just pausing to see what the white lady wanted, the most likely scenario. The arrival of the third car is met with my disillusionment and I only manage à pathetic half rise and fall of the arm. With this one, however, I decide to tack on an additional point in the direction of my destination. This piques the driver’s interest and he slows down enough for me to call the ritual, “Azovè!” and he stops!!! I pick up my junk and hoof it over to the car where the driver opens the door and takes my helmet to put in the back. I climb in next to two other people and smile and say “Bon soir.” We’re rolling. “Two thousand, five hundred,” the driver says. “No, it’s two thousand,” I counter with authority, I say, but arrogance says the guy in the front passenger seat who shakes his head and butts in with an, “Oh! You white people!” “What?! It should be! It’s one thousand five hundred from Cotonou to Lokossa, right?" He nods his head. “And it’s only five hundred from Lokossa to Azovè, right?” Another nod in agreement. “So therefore,” I am reasoning in French now, mind you, with people who don’t necessarily speak the most correct French to begin with, “from Cotonou to Azovè it should only be two thousand. Do the math!” With this the entire car bursts into laughter. “You’re in Africa” says the guy in the front. Déjà vu. I know how this ends up and I’m not about to climb aboard a part-time delivery truck to sit in the sun for four hours on a dusty road while we get out every twenty minutes to push-start and jump on. I know that when I get out of the car he is only going to get 2 mille out of me. I keep quiet and try to sleep.

When my next door neighbor sees this he instantly prods me, “Are you trying to sleep?” “Not anymore” was my bitter response. We stop to pick up a new rider and switch up seating arrangements. The guy on the far left leaves, and a new guy walks up to the window. “No, he’s too fat,” says my neighbor, “where are we going to fit the fat guy?” he asks, seriously. So ‘musical chairs’ ensues. The guy to my left gets out with his mirror cargo and shifts to the front next to ‘surly old man’ and they squeeze in nice and tight while I get bumped to the middle between “Big Fat Man” and “Wake-Up Guy” and we are cruising again.

That lasts about twenty minutes and we stop again to pick up a woman that I quite honestly can’t see fitting in our sardine tin on wheels. She shoves her bags of produce in the back (miraculously with the help of African bungee cord magic) and somehow it works. It means cracking my hip out of socket, but it works. We are all squished in nice and tight now, and she gets out in less than 2km anyway so life goes back to normal with the six of us all nice and cozy. “What are you doing in Azovè?” says Wake-Up Guy. “Volunteer, Peace Corps,” I say groggily. “Oh, so you’re CIA spy?” I glare at this. “I mean, you are with the U.S. government right? You are being paid by the government to spy.” I yawn and explain that being a volunteer means taking an oath that we will fight (implicitly) against Communism, but are technically not allowed to participate in political activism (our own or otherwise). He doesn’t buy it and continues to grill me on whether or not we are considered a part of the government and our involvement with government actions. Then I start to doubt myself. Am I a spy? I am writing all this stuff for you guys. Everything I see and hear and experience, every conversation I have worth mentioning in sent in broad circles and disseminated throughout the U.S. and possibly further as it is the worldwide web and hacking is not out of our realm of reality. Was I brainwashed?

As I am swirling in self-doubt and questioning the eternal question of the meaning of existence and “Who Am I?” he does a change of topic that would rouge the cheeks in shame of the best NASCAR pit crew. “What were you doing in Cotonou?” “Using the bank and the internet” WHY?! WHY do I answer these questions, and with honesty?! So unnecessary!! “Is your boyfriend in Cotonou?” I doubled back, “What? Cotonou?” Then I spot a hole of freedom, “No, he is in Djakotomey. Yes, he lives in Djakotomey. And he is my boyfriend and we’re dating together,” I reassure him of the fact that there will never, ever be a chance for him and no point in even asking for my number like they normally want to. “What network is your phone?” Drat! Boyfriend is obviously not enough of a deterrent, I must develop some inner problem and right quick. Although, being an international spy for the U.S. government doesn’t help to decrease my intrigue. “97” I reply with surliness evident. “Ah, MTN,” he smiles knowingly (oh no! is that HIS network, too?! It’s cheap for us to date because he can call me on the same network) “Everywhere You Go.” Oh! Thank God! He just wants to demonstrate his command of English slogans, “Yes, so I hear.” Then he falls asleep and Big Fat Guy nudges me into waking him up and although the temptation of revenge is gnawing at my soul I decide to let him sleep just to give myself peace – spiting my funny bone to save my sanity. And it goes like that until at least Come.

At Come we stop. For no reason. Literally, I can't see any point in stopping in Come. I get the idea of wanting to eat, Come is known for their snails, bread, and "ablo" - a flat corn muffin type thing - but when the driver gets out and just stands there while I fight off the fists being thrust through the windows into my face trying to get us to buy their goods I don't see the necessity. At last, he gets back in the car and we're off. I am still confused, but by now it is expected.

The driver is swerving potholes at alarming speeds. He honks at big trucks he passes in the of a motorcyclist who sports the look of impending doom across his rapidly approaching face. I take a deep breath and try to relax as we dip and slide and roll over through and around every road hazard imaginable. The driver isn’t fazed and just honks and keeps on rolling, until he slams on the brakes unexpectedly. There is a goat in the road. Someone’s paycheck just munching rotten road trash. Unsuspecting that he is next in line for a roadkill dinner he waited until the last possible second, until the driver was slamming on his brakes, until I can't see his little body in front of the hood any longer from the back of the car and he darts to the left across the road and I rub my neck from the whiplash. By now, every part of my body is aching; my legs crossed and slammed together until my feet are going numb, my hips turned to fit in at 25% and my back tingling from being twisted, my ribs sore from the elbow of Big Fat Man digging for the past hour. My head just hurts from the nausea caused by the leaking gasoline smell in the car.

We stop again in Lokossa. I also hope that we keep on going, but more and more frequently we have been stopping and being sold off in the taxi depot. Essentially I would have to give up my position that I had fought to make comfortable for the past two hours of the trip to get into a whole new, fully loaded taxi ready to annoy the shit out of me. Luckily for me on this one trip I get to keep my seat and after only a few moments we are on our way again. To Dogbo. That's usually quite a painful stop. On more than one occasion I have been involved in a few feuds. Most recently Jordan and I were in a taxi when a man came up to the driver's side window to talk to us. After calling through the window, "yovo, yovo, blanche" repeatedly I'd had enough and called out, "this isn't a zoo. We're not animals for your display." Stupid as he was, or playing a great kindergarten 'whatever you say is the opposite game' he replied, "this is a zoo? You are animals for me to watch?" I fumed. "Get out of here," I cried out. "Driver, can we please leave?!" The driver turned around to get back into the car, found the good sitting on the window sill, yelled at him for something (we can only hope to spare us but it's possible he didn't want his car door more screwed up than it was already). The dude backed off and moved around the front of the car to Jordan's window where he leaned in to talk to her again. I tried to swat him away from behind the chair and Jordan took a swing at him with her purse - hitting the incoming woman as a bystander. He jumped back and then moved down to my window, where he tapped the glass. Obviously this boy has never paid attention to the signs at the zoo because I'm sure there are more than a few that explicitly state: Do Not Tap the Glass. I snapped.

I jumped out of the car, ripped off my bags and threw them in and took off after him. I chased him away from the car and towards the back of the marché. I thought he would get the point, but I didn't expect this: he tore off. He was frightened by me and he was sprinting as far away as possible. I couldn't help but laugh at this grown man sprinting away from a comparatively small white girl in a dress. I laughed all the way back to the taxi where all the zemis cried out, "what did he take? what did he take?" I just laughed. How ridiculous this all was. "Just know that he ran away from a girl," I told everyone. I was only going to take so much rude and offensive behavior and that was now evident. I then yelled out to him a emasculating comment as we pulled away and he sheepishly walked back from the marché. Dogbo was done.

From here is Djakotomey - home to Aaron and then Dennis. Look to the right to see the ridiculously large white German eagle on the brick wall of an iconoclast house seen along the highway. And then it's done.

At last! There is hope. The last 5km from Djakotomey were the longest. So long that by the time I spot the road sign that marks my house after the Supermarché Immaculé. "At the sign," I cried out to the driver. "At the sign?" He asked back, incredulously; they always think white people don't know what they're saying when they're speaking French. "Of course, I don't live in the sign, just drop me off there," I replied. "Oh, ok," he saw, just in time to slam on the breaks one more time, dust flying, back tires spinning right in the large dirt area in front of the compounds including my house. "Ok, thanks." I cringed as I peeled myself out of the sweaty plush back seat. I just want to get inside and take a shower. Good thing I don't have to do this again until next week.

PARASITES

I just finished my middle-service medical exam where I am tested, inside and out, to ascertain my health status.

Turns out I have a certain type of parasite that requires no treatment as my body should be able to rid itself of it. Funny, though, that's what they said the last time they found that certain parasite in my .. excess.. back in March. Is it not possible that I have had this same "body capable" parasite in me since then, as they did not deem it necessary to treat it at that time? One can't help but wonder. Apart from a few heat rashes and an eye twitch I seem to be all in working order - yay me! That's not to say that I am a model volunteer when it comes to health concerns.

In fact, I was chastised for my lack of following Peace Corps policy. I don't boil my water *gasp* and I don't sleep with my mosquito net; despite the presence of creepy-crawlies. Living on the edge has never been more thrilling. I am very pleased, however, that the doctors here are so concerned with my health.

TEACHING ACCOUNTING TO ILLITERATE WOMEN

At the Avedogui primary school I sit waiting on hot concrete steps. The key for the classroom has not as yet arrived and only a few of the women have begun to arrive. It's only 10 minutes after our session was scheduled to start so I shrug and accept that we are still technically "on time."

As more and more women arrive I wonder where the key is and when it will finally arrive. It is usually the male secretary of the women's group that brings the key, sweating and in a hurry, but it is also usually around the start time and so far I have no sight of him.

After 30 minutes and the arrival of almost all the women, plus a few new faces I've yet seen, I decide to call the secretary to ascertain his whereabouts.

"Alo?" his crackly voice shouted through the weak network technology.

"Oui, Gilles, c'est Allison. Vous etez ou maintenant?" I respond with slight annoyance that his immediate answer was not the customary "Je viens." (Hello, Gilles, it is Allison. Where are you right now?)

"Je suis au village," was the actual response. No apologies in his voice. (I am out of town)

"Uh... what?" I lapsed into English with my annoyance. "Nous avons une session pour les femmes et vous avez le cles." (We have a session for the women and you have the key)

"Il y a une autre," he offered. (There is another)

Apparently, there was another secretary (what?!) for this group, though none of the women present knew of a second secretary, who had a key to the room. To Gilles it was also apparent that this mystery secretary was coming right now with the key. All we had to do now was wait; keep calm and wait.

After another 30 minutes I was finally tired of waiting and called Gilles again to find out the locale of our key. The sun was hot, the women were restless, I was finishing my "waiting book" and didn't have a reserve - we needed to get going on whatever our next move was. "Il vien," again.. not something I wanted to hear. "Je/Il/Elle/On viens," is the blanket response for "(Sub.) will come at some point in the future; though you will never know when and who it will actually be when they arrive." Anytime I hear that phrase I cringe, knowing that I am now precluded from every knowing anything for certainty.

Accepting the fate that we now had spent over an hour sitting on the sunny steps waiting for some man I have never met, and neither had the women for that matter, to bring a key to a room that we had been using, with regularity, for the past two months. What was more perturbing was that Gilles new we had a meeting and had not deigned it necessary to inform us that he would not be coming and that we had to find our own way to get the key. It is this sort of non-reliability or lack of responsibility that makes working here so difficult. Regardless of his committing to the meetings (it was he who approached me to come do the work with group) he determined it was not worthwhile to respect this commitment and allowed us to rely on him which lead us to sitting here idly waiting. I hate to say this, but it is a common theme he that men place women as second tier and therefore lack the respect normally given to colleagues when that colleague is not a male. In this instance, the man (Gilles) felt it beneath him, or perhaps did not even consider the disrespectful nature of his attitude, to inform the women of his absence from our session.

In spite of the discourtesy, I decided it was not worth the time to get here and subsequent waiting to just leave again without doing what we had all set out to. I attempted to assemble the women in some semblance of groups; there were 18 of the proper group and 6 additional women who were a part of the second group that had arrived early. With my groups assembled and two partially conversational French speaking women and paper taped to the walls in a mock blackboards I began to teach the third installment of our accounting class. Considering that the women were three thick surrounding board, holding onto their howling children trying to breastfeed and all see the board at the same time, with no place to sit (the stoop being all of two-and-a-half feet wide) and no real translator I think we moved through explanations and examples quite well using hand gestures and oratory emphasis (yelling the same word over and over again thinking repetition leads to comprehension).

More than I could accomplish in one session, however, is the physical hurdles of holding a pencil. It is amazing to consider that almost all of these women have no idea how to use one. As we were moving through the examples and I was trying to get them to understand how to fill out the incomes and expenses sheets I repeatedly had to hold their hands and teach them how to draw even a seemingly simple straight line. It's another affirmation of how truly fortunate I am growing up as an American in a developed country where I learned to use a pencil at a very young age. I stood there, helping a woman who has seen more of life's experiences than I could ever imagine, to do something I had mastered as a 6 year-old in kindergarten. Yet another "right" I have taken for granted my entire life; the abilities to write and draw.

As the sun commenced setting and the first group was wrapping up I had to address the second group (of which there were now 12 women waiting). It was simply too difficult to teach another session without seating, a place to write and, finally, no light as we had now been outside for over three hours. We scheduled our next meeting for two weeks later, not on a market day, and one hour before I would actually arrive (to make sure they are all here "on time" it is sometimes necessary to give them an extra buffer hour to get here). I left the women dispersing in the sunset to their homes and felt a quiet glow of success in succeeding over cultural hurdles within the solidarity of women's desire to succeed in the face of such adversities.

AZOVE MARCHE DAY

One rule to follow at any given point during a marché day: Don't tell anyone anything about whatever it is you are doing or why you are buying the things you are buying. It leads to a series of follow-up questions that may ultimately lead to “give it to me.” It might be a joke, best not to take a joke too lightly, but even if so, it takes a while to learn to laugh at this joke so just avoid it altogether if possible.

It's not a particularly hot day which is why I left my house at the early hour of 16:00 (4pm). The sky is clouded, but I know it won't rain: the people here are innately meteorologists and they still have all their goods out in the elements – the miraculously-appearing tarps are safely tucked into the shopkeeper's secret holes. I leave my house with my formerly-full of cement sack and walk slowly so as to avoid, if at all possible, sweating through my dress.

First I stop by my tailor's shop. It's off the main road behind a wooden “gas station.” The tailer is sitting out at his sewing machine with a pile of fabric on the table next to him underneath a crudely constructed reed lean-to outside his concrete, unlit, one-room studio shop. He is the president of the tailor's association in Aplahoué and this is his workshop. My bathroom is about the same size and with the same number of windows, one, but I would argue has quite a lot more charm than his studio. I drop off the the pair of shorts I would like for him to copy for me. I am obsessed with shorts now – they are funky, cool, board short length and easier to wear when I'm not working or giving a formation. Play clothes you can sweat in without embarrassment.

I leave his shop and walk past the butchers. They have killed a cow today. When I rode by earlier to my English club I saw a live one waiting outside the shop, tied up, unknowingly waiting the axe. I knew it was going to be a lucky day for me! If I want, I can buy a kilo of raw meat for 2.200francs and take it down to Hotel Plateau where they will grind it up for me in their kitchen for a small fee. I don't have the energy for that so I just watch as one guy squeezes and cleans the intestines and another one hacks at the skull with the bulging black orbs hanging as eyes to get at the meaty brain behind the bone. The hide is sprawled out on the ground as their work area. The feet are still attached in all four corners like a sick twist of the already-sick “bear skin rug” found in much fancier parlors. This butcher is only butcher by name because he kills and cuts up the meat, but he doesn't know what a porterhouse or t-bone is and couldn't make a sausage to save his life, or mine. I thought I would teach him the differences what is a better cut until I realized that, even looking at the graph I downloaded from the internet, I still can't figure out how the pretty dotted lines correspond to the white sinewy-coated red muscle hanging from the hooks in the wall. The guy squeezing out the intestines on the ground has finally gotten to me and I make to go.

With flies around me, I leave the butcher's for the walk to the marché. On the way I end up walking cautiously behind the skeletal form of the guardian of Djakotomy's museum. He's clad in an unbuttoned blue silky-type fabric shirt and torn plum-smuggling jean shorts. He is wielding a long, wide blade, dancing the African funky chicken with eyes closed, arms flapping and knees bent, his head bobbing up and down. I slowly, carefully, tactfully choose my moment to escape from his wake; expecting that at any moment he will do a spin move, a bob and weave to the side or step backwards with a flourish and stab me. I see my moment of freedom and lurch forward with terror in the huge whites of my eyes as the crowd of spectators on either side of the street laugh hysterically and I motion with my arm the terrible knifing fate I was evading. Safe from an untimely demise, I proceed to search out the plastic egg caddy I so desire.

I reach the heart of the marché; to the right is the grain and more food-type goods; just past the alley where the majority of the tissue vendors set up shop. To the left can be found the peanuts, the plastic goods and the miscellaneous knicks and knacks like viagra box-backed mirrors, soft porn posters and “strong fist” afro picks as well as piles upon piles of second-hand clothes, shampooers and soap sellers, more fabric vendors, nail stations and shoes and the food court. In between is the highway to Aplahoué and throngs of people traversing back and forth to the annoyance of the cars and motos who will proceed in clouds of diesel fury whether the humans and animals get out of the way or not. The latter of the two sides is where I head; women and men and children sitting atop cement floors with their wares out on display under reed ceilings that are empty of human life three days of every week. I step over piles of garbage, through women getting their hair washed, past goods piled high in impossible stacks worthy of the awe of any fan of tower building in a desperately hopeless search for a plastic egg caddy that will make my egg's safe return home to my table so much more feasible. Mobile vendors clog the narrow pathways through the stalls as they set their goods down from off their heads and discuss prices and exchanges for the items she's toting; the exact same items her counterpart in the stall is selling.

I give up looking for the egg caddy and begin a search in vain; hoping to find for sale some sort of vegetable other than a tomato or okra. My search is frequently stalled, however, as motorcycles and boys pulling metal carts yell and beep through the impossibly small and closed throngs of foot traffic. I have to climb into someone's stall to safeguard my nine long toes from joining the smaller tenth.

All this walking, sweating, talking and avoiding has worked up inside me a thirst and I spy a woman selling something out of a bucket. It is the color of tea, with bags of ice floating in it and a tiny hybrid lemon-lime sitting at its side. The woman currently drinking out of the bowl (we all share here) seems to be enjoying it, but when I ask what it is, the vendor can only say “sweet”, “sweet”. When I ask, “is it tea?” she nods yes, then says “no, sweet”. She gets tired of my continuous questions and dips a little into the bowl for me to taste. I ask how much it is and try a sample, then I think to ask how she treated the water beforehand; did she boil it? Is it from a pump, or *shudder at the thought* a well? She just answers, “sweet” and I down an entire bowl in a thirst-induced delusive craze. I pay the 25f and turn to face my destiny; did I just knowingly give myself amoebas? Did I willingly put myself on the path to a excruciatingly painful intestinal backlash? With a shrug of my shoulders I reconciled that I have survived this far sometimes making decisions without really considering consequences so why should I stop now? Besides, there is still the other half of the marché to see. “I don't understand what you're saying, but thanks for the drink, Toots” I say in English as I take my leave of the group of six or so women and their spawn that had gathered to laugh at the faces I involuntarily made as I drank the concoction then contemplated my fate. “Toots” they reply in fits of laughter. “Toots!!”

Waiting for the right moment I grab onto some lady's baby strapped to her back and hitch a safe passageway to the other side of the highway. I have learned that if you don't know when to go, just latch on to a Beninese lady and you'll do fine. Ones with babies you'd think tend to be more cautious, but this couldn't be further from the truth. I don't know if it appears as a buffer to potential vehicular impact, but they book much more frequently than those women without infants attached to backs and men. I have chosen wisely and am across the street faster than I can say “infanticide.” An extremely tall man (probably Togolese, the Beninese are hard pressed to pass 5'8”) dressed in a shabby blue zemi t-shirt yells “Champagne” as he passes me; a new nickname for me that I thought was due to the fact that I once wore a yellow shirt. I have since realized that champagne is no a popular drink in developing countries, if known at all, and learned that it was a call for a “demoiselle.” I laugh; I have been unknowingly called much, much worse.

Heading downhill I end up trapped behind two fat, fat, fat ladies chewing the cud off their corn cobs as their big butts wibble-wobble down the hill blocking off any chance of access to the freedom of being ahead of their tortuously slow, meandering pace. I am in Piment Place and it is unbearable. Piment, the Beninese spice of choice, is in the air so potently you know you have approached the perimeter because everyone is coughing from the fumes. My eyes water with fear and piment tears as I contemplate being pancaked between the terrible twins should I decide to make a run for it. Thank GOD! One stops to chew a particularly difficult kernel and I leap ahead and out into safety. Piment dust lingers in my eyes and nostrils and I cough up the tickles in my throat, but I have so far evaded the pancake death.

I see the crowd of people bargaining over hundreds of sacks of corn, beans, and rice in the factory courtyard to my right. I narrowly am able to dodge a boy pushing someone's purchases of five huge sacks full of some type of grain in a metal and wood pushcart and head left. The piment is wearing off as second hand clothing sellers are mingled in on the right in front of the cornfields and the piment women stay under the shelter against the buildings on the left and I wind down the corridor to my destination. “Yovo, la blanche” they cry out and I wag my finger in dismay. Women laugh uproariously when I chide one comrade with a single, solidarity finger rigid in the air. My index finger, of course. I don't think the middle would be quite as effective here – the index finger has an air of reproach they can't stomach! Though, in fact, the most heinous insult I have learned thus far is the five-finger palm thrust that signifies, with a special corresponding noise, of course, that your mother was the fifth wife of your father. True hurt.
Fingers and palms forgotten, finally, I am there. I have reached my destination. I out my cement bag in joyful anticipation. Orange Valley: where station wagons with an inconceivable amount of juicy fruit dump out their goods in piles upon piles of sacks and ladies bargain 1 for 25 francs, no, 2, okay, 3, and then throw in 6 extra as a cadeau (“gift”) because you just purchased 50 of the most delicious oranges you've ever tasted for less than one American dollar.

The sun begins to dip below the hill in nearby Aplahouè and I start to think about getting back. First, of course, I have to stop by the tissue stalls. They're on the way back from valley to the main road anyway so I trudge back up the hill, past the piment, past the tomatoes, past the catcalls and the bad drivers and the boys with wagonloads of goods. My path cuts across the return path from the meat market; where one can find dogs, cats, goats, chickens, ducks, pigeons, pigs, turtles? All for sale to eat. Women walk out with giant wicker baskets stuffed with live chickens atop their heads, men have pigs and goats hog-tied and strapped to the backs of their bicycles; bleating furiously and squirming. I remember how I saw one such soul somehow manage to loose himself from the straps holding him to the rack and swinging lose into the bike tire. That was an unpleasant sight and I can only hope the man I see riding away now has a better grasp of knot-tying. A woman passes by with no less than four goats of varying ages and sizes on rope leashes. One stubbornly plants his feet and resists. This won't last long the woman even more stubbornly pulls along on his head as though he were as light as a feather. My favorites, in a morbid way, are the cars with seemingly hundreds of pigs loaded on top like camping gear; squealing and squirming all in unison on top of the car, like a real movable feast. I pass a woman with a crate full of cats on top of turtles, dogs sleeping in piles next to ducks and one poor turtle with a hole in his shell for display tied to the crate and hanging from his back – I imagine a dork getting a wedgie and hung up on a locker by his underpants. Poor nerdy turtle. But, there is tissue to buy.

There are two columns of tissue stalls and I opt for the left-most. It's narrower, but it empties directly into the street and not out to the right and into the car depot; what would happen if I went to the right. Each stall has a plethora of tissue options, bought from Cotonou, Lome, Come, and other hubs of Benin. Haha, “hubs of Benin.” Right. The tissue originates in Holland, England, China, Togo and Nigeria in a multitude of color, thickness, softness and price. Most are bright, electric and brazenly flamboyant in neon yellows, blues, oranges, purples, greens and reds with the most ridiculous patterns. There's “The Championship” with a Stanley-cupesque drawing in the center, surrounded by Kentucky Derby rose garlands. Or perhaps the “finger,” a popular design with a bloody finger repeated ad nausea um. Maybe the flashlight tissue tickles my fancy? No, I tend to avoid the really crazy ones, even the semi-crazy ones of “chicken and eggs” or “cuckoo clock” and settle on the brown and yellow dandelions set against a royal blue. I argue for the price; 1.500f? But the color is off in the printing, I argue. She agrees, cuts the tissue in a 2-meter measure called a “pagne” (pronounced “pawn”) that she doesn't need to verify with a measuring stick. Folded and tucked safely into a black sachet, the omnipresent bane of my environment-loving soul, I pick up my tissue and oranges and leave the tissue alley for the main road back to my house. I consider picking up bananas or pineapples as a final purchase on the way. I guess I'll see what's on offer when I get there. In the meantime, I have to get across this busy, dusty road yet again.

Dusk clouds in then settles over Azovè in a matter of minutes. The strips of red, orange and pink tame the cruel sun and impossibly fill the formerly noxious and dust filled sky with beauty. All along the wooden stalls and on the road below where women sit with their wares out in wicker baskets, petrol lanterns fashioned out of old tin cans are lit. The vendors all disappear and orange floating faces remain, committed to selling as the crowds really start pouring now that it has cooled down enough to shop. I, however, am done with the marché and a thousand tiny flames dotting my horizon from left and right guide me home along the unlit and crowded street.

Maybe I'll stop and have a drink to celebrate surviving.

It's just another day at the marché in Azovè.

TRASH PILE IN KETOU - GOING TO STAGE

I needed to get to Ketou to get some information from a fellow volunteer before working stage, and despite the fact that it is pretty much a straight shot across the center of Benin, I found myself having a little trouble getting there.

After finding a willing zemidjan easily enough to travel the short distance of 40km from Azovè to Bohicon for the ridiculous price of 2.500f (it's only 700f to go to Lokossa, which is 60km away – its all about demand, never about logistical pricing) I was on my way, lucky to be ahead of the rain that was surely on its way. Riding along, my cell phone smashed up inside my helmet against my ear playing music because my mp3 player died, the zemi quickly pulled off to the side of the road and told me to get off. Fearing for a terrible delay I did so reluctantly as he first tipped the bike one way and then the other. Apparently this is some sort of gas 'saving' technique frequently practiced here (it wasn't the first time I'd seen it) though why he needed to do it I'm not sure because we filled up before we left – less than 25 km earlier. Satisfied he was getting all the gas possible we loaded back up and took off again. For approximately another 5km until we started a terrifying fishtail back and forth across one side of the highway to the other before finally skidding to a halt; once again we were on the side of the road. This time it was going to take more than a tipsy-turvy of the gas tank; our back tire was completely flattened. Good thing my driver knew how to operate on one wheel – how I'll never know since they are typically very unsafe drivers. I guess they just know how to maneuver with sub-par machinery. Lucky me.

With the moto out of commission and the rains coming on I was getting a little more than nervous I wasn't going to make it to the taxi in time to be on my way to Ketou. All the same there was nothing more to do than take my laden backpack while the huge duffelbag stayed on the moto's handlebars and we took off down the hill we were on in search of something to fix the tire. After walking down the hill and starting up a new one we passed an old man on a bike. My zemi driver asked about whatever it was he was looking for (in local language) and with dismay I saw the old man point in the direction from which we had just walked downhill. We'd been walking uphill again in the wrong direction. Now we were forced to turn around and walk up the hill we'd just descended to get back to where we were to begin with. My bags were heavy. I was planning on getting rid of a few things in Cotonou as well as enough food to stay away from my house for two and a half weeks if I got sick (I prefer to cook myself when possible) but back up the hill we went. Eventually we came across a few huts clumped together off the side of the road. Around the corner of one of them was a chicken coop made of bricks, a 'leaning v' chair (the most comfortable in Benin) and an old, old man doing snuff on the ground next to a decrepit wood toolbox full of greasy, well-worn tools. This was the tire guy thank goodness. As I slept in the v chair snuff-nose went to task taking off the tire and my zemi took over somewhere without a word. After a while the zemi returned, took the wheel the old man removed, and, again without a word, took off. I fell back asleep, safe in the fact that at least the rest of his moto is here and so is my stuff – he had to come back.

Sure enough, within and hour someone from the next town up came. “Zemidjanman said to take you to Bohicon taxi gare,” he said to me. “Did zemidjanman already pay you?” I asked. He nodded and I shrugged and climbed on. On my way again. Through the town of Lanta I saw my zemi at a vulcanisateur – the guy who fills the air in your tire and specifically looks for holes to repair – and waved, he looked thrilled to have followed through on his part of the commitment – at least they are, for the most part, a very trustworthy people. Not soon after crossing Lanta the rain started to sprinkle down a little. “Go faster,” I responded when the new driver told me the rain would be coming. I wasn't going to get stuck waiting for hours while the rain poured on in the middle of my 40km trip!! As he stopped for lack of gas I began to realize this was not just a possibility anymore; it was probable. Luckily we found a gas 'station' nearby, but not soon enough as we were forced off the road again in the face of drenching rain. Taking shelter under store front with at least four other drivers and a few assorted passerby we waiting for the rain to get worse before it got better. I just prayed my computer wasn't damaged from the rain.
Twenty to thirty minutes later, I really don't know – have you ever stood with strangers waiting for rain to stop? - I decided the rain looked lighter so we should try and make a run for it to the taxi station. Wading through the muddy flood, water laden with floating garbage halfway up my calves, we got lead the moto and my large bags back up to the highway and then were off. I was wrong, the rain was not letting up, and in fact seemed to worsen as we flew along through the potholes and debris on the road. Ultimately, however, wet, cold and possibly computerless and molding, I made it to the taxi station and was immediately unburdened and designated to a taxi awaiting only one more person before we could depart for Ketou. One more person? I could do that, I could wait, I needed to find phone credit anyway so that I could get directions from Ryan (the volunteer) on how to get to his house.

Credit, I found, was too far away and therefore out of my reach if I wanted to get going in this almost-ready-to-depart car. I returned to the taxi to get something to eat out of my bag to eat (it had been almost three hours since I left my house, only 45km away). I looked into the trunk, my eyes bulged, double-blinked, and my heart sank and thudded into my stomach as wrecking ball through a concrete wall – my stuff was gone.. nothing was in the trunk. My computer, my clothes, my food, my work, were gone. Flabbergasted, I looked up and franticly around me. Where could it have gone? I didn't see anyone running away, encumbered by my massive luggage. Where could it have gone? How could I have been so stupid? This was the stuff the stupid guide books talk about. But it was me, stupid, not the books. They were right. I stopped the panic a moment. Look for someone may have seen what happened. This is Benin – vigilantism persists throughout, they wouldn't stand for theft, even from a white person. There were four people sitting calm as grandmas on the concrete stoop next to the car. I gazed up, a questioning and fearful look in my eye, pointing to the trunk. Before I could utter the beginnings of a query, they burst into laughter and pointed behind me. There was the chauffeur, in a new taxi, with all my luggage in piled into the back with everyone else's belongings. Relief, and then humiliation, washed over me in a deluge as the four spectators went on laughing and mocking. I deserved it, I suppose, I wasn't paying attention, and I guess it was pretty funny, if it wasn't my world on the line.

Stuff sufficiently placed in vehicle, hip plastered to the side of said vehicle in a sentry-style watch position and the final person arrived, we were ready to go. Except the final person wasn't just a final person. It was five people. Admittedly, two were tiny bundles of person potential, but they were human and therefore counted as two, while the other three were about the age of 5 and therefore considered, by me, to be people that should have been counted when filling the spaces in the vehicle. The my extreme chagrin, the chauffeur did not agree with me and placed four people, plus one baby in the third row of the vehicle, four people, plus three babies in the middle row, and four people in the front (yes, a 12 year old girl was sitting, so inappropriately, on the stick shift). This was not as terrible as the ride down from Djougou, but almost even more infuriating because it's not what you would expect from the south of Benin. To add insult to injury, when I made a claim that this was inappropriate and, technically illegal (yes, Porto Novo, the political capital of Benin has declared it illegal to have more than three people in the back of a vehicle – though, inanely did not chose to extend that safety rule of 2 people to the front of a vehicle), I was met with the infuriating response, “but this is Africa – it's like this in Africa.” Somehow I can never accept that there are 50% of the population that complains of their situation, stating with an accusatory tone that there is money in America, but not here, then the other 50% (or perhaps one and the same all 100%) claiming that I should accept the ridiculous status quo that is “Africa” and stop trying to change the inadequacies that so frequently impede their “desired” progression into a viable economy and society of the 21st century.

I cried out, with an exaggerated conviction, “this is not acceptable,” but climbed obediently into the vehicle anyway. The chauffeur wasn't going to take a pay cut just because of me, and I needed to get out of there. Sadly, this is my battle. Defeating morals daily.

After only about an hour on the road, the car slowly filling with the exhaust fumes and the rain forcing the windows shut (the Beninese, and I suspect many Africans in general, HATE rain more than suffocation or gas poisoning), we stopped to let people out. Good. I stepped out to buy phone credit and returned to an all-but empty vehicle. We were waiting until the Muslims in the car were done praying. It was prayer-time and we weren't leaving this town of Cove until they were done. Great.. another business impediment – no working, traveling, anything, while it's prayer time, which happens five times a day. So we sat around, then set off driving through the town, up and down impassable routes, turning around and retracing our steps repeatedly, until we found a house to drop off the woman and her four children. At one point during out whirlwind journey I had to use the facilities. I asked the driver and immediately he perked up; he knew exactly where to take me. Thinking he knew someone in the neighborhood who would allow me to use their latrine I allowed myself to be led by the hand in a determinate walk away from the car, across the street, up to a huge tree, around the tree (is someone's front door here?) and came to rest at the back of the tree. I could see the car and people walking down the street, clear as day, from my very un-private tree spot. Driver, however, was satisfied and walked away, leaving me there to contemplate dropping my pants essentially on the side of the busy road. Sensing no alternative and the impending departure of my taxi, I hesitated only a moment more before quickly drop, squat, and releasing, staying my hand's automatic response to wave at people who saw me as they walked by. That was fun. Really cool tree, too.

Luckily, after our trip through wonderland, the Muslims were done praying and we were setting off once again. Thankful for the room, I stretched out in my seat and took in the final hour leg of the trip. That is, until the rains really began. Without trim in the door and a poor, bent frame I started to receive a small waterfall on my head and down my back. Wet again, I moved into the center of the car, next to another passenger, and lost my roomy comfort and felt the wet cold the rest of the trip, even the windows up couldn't prevent the rain coming in. What a trip.
Finally, at around 4pm, almost six hours after I left my house, I made it to Ketou. Just another trip in Benin. Why was I so surprised?

Luckily, Ketou is a nice, quiet town, with plenty of mosques and entertaining attractions. One attraction, in particular, is a huge pile of trash. Literally, trash.

The story goes that when Abomey (then the capital of Dahomey – Benin's predecessor) was warring with Ketou, then a part of Nigeria, the people of Ketou asked a local fetisher to help protect them from the invaders. The festisher gave them a fetish to guard the town, and the instruction to put everything they own on top of it to keep it safe from destruction. Well, everything they “owned” was their refuse, and so they dug up a hole, buried the fetish, then covered it with waste. Though, ultimately, Ketou became a part of Dahomey, then Benin, the fetish tradition continued and years of waste piled high upon the burial site of the fetish no one in existence today has seen. Some even speculate (foreigners) if a fetish truly exists beneath the pile of filth. Then, they climb it. Yes, many volunteers have made the trek up the trash pile, some even doing so barefooted. Many a staff infection has been developed that way, and yet I chose to hike the pile as well, with shoes on.

The way up was disgusting. There were peanut shells, bags of white goo that I can only hope to call yogurt someone didn't want to finish, small piles of animal or human feces, and other things. It is a vertical landfill in the town's backyard. But I made it; with the help of two young, barefooted (one boy pantless) children, who walked ahead of me to point the path so I didn't have to use my hands to climb up. Ugh! Making the top was actually fairly easy. I was pretty impressed with the view as well. Ketou really is a beautiful little town, too bad the best view of it is from a giant pile of waste. I had accomplished another one of Benin's big tourist attractions and that felt good. Now I had to get down. Now, that, was truly disgusting.

It was bad enough when I had to go up and up, but now I had to go down, which included a lot more slipping, sliding and downward glances at things I had missed on the way up. I won't mention the things I saw on the way down, but the pigs that got in my way and almost tripped me, didn't help matters when I tried to avoid looking where I was walking. Successfully at the bottom of the hill I made good work of scrubbing my feet clean. No staff infections for me.

Hope you enjoyed this one.

VOODOO PROTECTION CEREMONY

Monday morning. Boring, right? Not in Africa. This is probably the LEAST boring of all the days I have spent here so far. It was a Monday.
Only about 1/3 of the original machete remained of the one the little girl, who was all but naked save a few strands of beads around her waist, was using as a walking stick while we waited to hear if Paul and Anastasia could do the ceremony, too. The village men came back with an affirmative, pending the mandatory increase in monetary compensation, of course. To this completely expected response we agreed; only 10.000F to add on two more people – we were getting the Bob's Bargain Bin of voodoo ceremonies. As we sat around pawning Liz off to the village women, she's a village favorite everywhere we go, the men discussed the second and third requirements of our ceremony; no shoes, no shirt, yes entry. Aaron, Sourou (our friend and go-to guy for anything), and Paul took off their shoes and, for the most part, shirts without missing a beat. Anastasia and I were still somewhat agog. How can we mock the absence of shirts without actually removing shirt? Wasn't it enough that my feet were going to be full flush against the snake skin “welcome mat”? Evidently, no.

Aaron, Paul and Sourou, seated comfortably on the bench with their feet on the snake skin, knees exposed and chests bared, looked a far sight more prepared for the intimacy of our ceremony as Anastasia and I; purses on our laps, hair sweating down our backs, pants/shirts covering until our shins and shirts as firmly attached to our backs as a tattered, thin, worn-out-from-a-year-of-hand-washing-or-more can be. I was hoping it would go unnoticed. For a while it did, as the very young, very handsome (a bit God-like himself) chief began pounding on his drum and chantsinging, his sleepy pillowcase hat splattered with blood stains from the past ceremonies nodding in rhythm, while ringing a bell on the wall to implore the gods to let us start the ceremony (the “pay attention to us” song).

After about 15-20 minutes of that we started the drinking (all time estimates are made very poorly and with minimal accuracy so don't plan a surgery on it). A giant, smelly, molding horn of

Glorious God of All Things Dead and Rotting was procured from one of the seedier corners of our 10x10 mud hut (all space and area estimates are completely bogus so don't base a blueprint on them). Each one one of us got up, took possession of the stinking horn, gargled a shot of sodabi (the poison you all recall), swallow some, but not all of it, spit the remainder back up onto the horn with superior accuracy (lest you spray all over), suck that already-been-drank puddle back up again and finely mist both the fetish on the wall and on the table with your impressive aim and pressure control, like a fine car wash for the Gods. Each one of us did this a few times, except for me; they took the horn away after I first drank all the sodabi and secondly just hocked a loogie (loogey?) on the wall fetish, finishing up that wreck of desecration by drooling all over the table fetish. I was glad to sit down, however, as there was some weird “left foot goes 'here'” ritual I wasn't picking up on during the horn-spitting contest and I ended up kicking over the lid to the sacred water jug on the ground under the table fetish. I heard there was a huge bug crawling around on the horn anyway; I didn't see it, but Aaron and Anastasia said they did before they had to drink off it – lucky I got to get away from it when I did.

Next I felt something warm by my elbow (Liz had been sitting next to me, but was gone by this point to enjoy the company of the women outside the hut) and it turned out to be a hot plate full of burning embers. The chief's less-attractive and much-creepier assistant (like a voodoo assistant? Really?) took the plate and started turning the embers over with his fingers to expose their red-hot underbellies. Then he placed three wooden spool-looking things on the plate, into the burning coals. Placing another plate on top, as a lid, then spitting on the plate (they had already spit on the coals before placing the top plate) he took a big leaf, spit on it (getting the theme?), then poured sodabi on it and told Aaron to rub it around in circles on top of the plate. As we each took turns rubbing the leaf around the plate we said (secretly thought) from what we wished to be protected. When I had finished (I was the last on the bench) the chief took the plates, removed the top one and showed us all how the spools didn't burn, didn't even have any dark marks from the embers smudging, because they were protected. Protected, he would prove, even when he drowned them in sodabi, took a swig, then lit them on fire. Flambé protection spools. Protected.

Not protected in the room was ME! We had to take another round of sodabi shots in celebration of breathing I guess. This time even the old, fat buddha-looking fetish in the corner got a shot; after being doused in talcum powder and blue hair product. After the drink it was time for a cigarette break and one was duly lit and placed in the fetish's gaping mouth to burn out. While crazy singing, drinking and smoking was going on (give some sodabi to the fetishes all around the hut, blow some smoke in their auras) the next shot of sodabi, talcum powder, blue dye and ladies' perfume was made. This was accompanied by a talcum-and-dye-covered cola nut the crazy guy put on the ground to get the 'royal' treatment. Luckily, we only had to watch as the Chief and Co. shared the shot and crazy nut fat dude knocked people over so he could get down on the ground and eat the cola nut with hands behind his back. By this point everyone was sweating (even those of use who weren't dancing and singing the songs – yea, the four of us). Someone behind me teabagged my neck in all the excitement. All gross things.

Hot Chief got even hotter during the next segment (I'll get more “professional” about this story-telling when I get paid to, right now it's straight talkin'). Right before it, however, he played a little game with seashells. I lated asked another voodoo friend of mine what it meant and was informed that the chief was asking for permission to perform the ceremony. If both seashells end “face down” it's a 'no,' if both end up that's a 'roll again,' what he's looking for is a one-up, one-down. The trick is to keep rolling until you get a 'yes' (whether or not you get 'no' first, as I learned from watching my friend do his chicken-burying ceremony). Then, satisfied with his shells, Chief took a dulled, broken machete, not unlike the very one the little girl had; foreshadow? Placing it in his right hand, he took a thick piece of wood with his left, never missing a beat of the terrible, terrible song. Dancing around, singing, we're all happy and he takes the machete, puts it up against his chest vertically and POUNDS the wood into it. He does it over and over again. I'm pretty sure my face was a complete blank as I stared in confusion and mysticism. The blade was pounding three times into both sides of his chest, then three times along his stomach. Hoping it was as dull a blade as it appeared, I didn't realize how hard he must have hit it until I saw the streaks of blood forming. Freaky! Sodabi, of course, was then used, but this time as an antiseptic treatment as he doused his chest in it and then rubbed it all over his muscle and into the open wounds like some glistening, alcoholic god of S&M.
More drinking, smoking and singing ensued, but then the time for sacrifices came. First a sheep (mouton), then a chicken came sqwaking into the room. The men were given idols to hold and I guess were meant to ponder over the idol's strength as the girls just got to watch (we were left out of a lot and I still wonder if it was due to our clothedness). After a significant period of pondering the idols were laid down on the banana leaves in front of the alter and the chicken was brought forth (you have to say “brought forth” when telling a story about a sacrifice). The assistant skillfully held the wings back, exposing the neck, while Aaron and Paul held each leg in support or connection or something else girls couldn't do. Once the head was off (with minimal sawing – very sharp tool) the exposed throat was trumped around, dripping blood on all the idols and festishes and a few yovo toes before finally, being taken outside.

The mouton, heretofore resting quietly (or petrified into immobile silence attributed to some sort of intellectual sophistication that allowed him knowledge-of-self capabilities), was also brought forth and began munching on the banana leaf alter (“He's a nervous eater,” Anastasia explains). Each of us took a turn whispering our protection desires into the condemned animal's ears (including a few apologies and demands for forgiveness) afterwards he was unceremoniously (what gives?) flipped onto his back, again with Paul and Aaron holding back legs, and his throat was cut so that he could carry our desires straight to the god. Two men were required to hoist the beast up and spread the blood around all over the place – very graphic. I stopped looking in real life because it was so much cooler through the pixels in my camera. It looked fake, like a Tarantino film or something starring Bruce Campbell. After everything was sufficiently drenched in bloody (including a bowl filled with it) and all of the idols had been rubbed into the sheep's gaping throat (I could see the muscles!!) he was thrown outside to finish dying in a writhing heap on the African dirt. It was sort of upsetting, but the Thunder God, Messenger to Big God, must have been very pleased to see all this stuff done for his altar.
I watched a man go out to start cutting off the sheep's horns while he was still alive! I guess I'd had a lot of sodabi by this point because it took me some time to realize this was Hot Chief – the bloody barbarian! The testicles, too, were cut off and placed like fur-covered Christmas bulbs at the altar. As the Chief splattered blood from the bowl around the walls with a feather, assistant totally grossed me out (yes, there is more!) by taking a blood + sodabi shot, followed by the Chief who did the same. The antlers finally came in and the men all held it (women weren't invited) while placing it on the altar, saying some chants, then patting it down as it rested on top of the table fetish with a bowl full of past antlers. Anastasia and I sneaked popcorn and gum while they weren't looking and between sodabi shots – the only thing that kept me from getting sick, I swear.

Meanwhile, the chief had prepared for each of us a special concoction of talcum powder, palm oil, cola nut chunks and peppercorn, which we licked off our left hands (he put at least two tablespoons of this crap there), chewed, then swallowed down with sodabi. You know it's nasty when you have sodabi as your chaser. There was powder all over my face, then I choked as the talcum turned into a giant peppery cotton ball in my throat and the cola nut stayed cracked in my teeth. Time again for smoking. A madhouse of smoke. Chief hunkered down over a bowl of blood-covered rocks, tiny cloth sacks and our spools from before. He spoke in a language I didn't recognize, praying over his artifacts as he filled his sacks with rocks.

Each of us, Aaron, Paul, Anastasia and myself, held out our left palms again to receive our amulets. They came with instructions: never be without your spool, drink with it in your beverage, keep it in your pocket, it is your protection. If you are sick or traveling, eat a rock from the sack. When you run out mail-order some more. Seriously, Chief said he would do a satellite ceremony and he'll send us more rocks. I don't know how since I have no address and no number for him. My hand was bloody from the wet talismans, but I accepted and put them away in a plastic, germ-breedingground of a bag as the Chief came around to smear a line of blood and flour across our left cheeks with a feather and tie cloth 'protection' belts around our waists. If anyone sees the belt or it falls to the ground we lose its protection. We were told to wear it for a year, when we are scheduled to come back for our next annual protection ceremony (postcard reminder in the mail).

I noticed the sheep's heart had somehow made it to the altar right as the assistant was beginning to chop it up into little morsels and place them around on the different idols. He kindly pretended to eat it for me – Photo Op! Finally, after about five hours of bench-sitting we were alllowed out into the fresh air. 'What about the circumcision?” Paul jokes. “Oh, yeah. After,” Sourou replied, serious. He thought Paul said “cicatrice,” which means “stitches.” Lucky for the boys, that was not the case.

I don't know how I ever lasted through that – five hours of crazy singing, boozing, superstition, smoking and death. Sodabi and blood. That was the ceremony in a talcum-covered cola nutshell.