As some of you may have noticed, I have not posted but once since leaving Porto-Novo. In the spirit of honesty that can only come from a disinterested interest in posterity’s sake; that post was written in Porto Novo as well. Charitably, I could say that I did not wish to try and describe the experience of living at post for the first three months before it was completed. Truthfully, I preferred to use my laptop battery for watching episodes of ‘The Office’ (up to season 6!) and I find traditional ink too constraining for the witty drivel that now graces your computer screens. Let us acknowledge that I have been remiss and pledge to do better in the future.
I shall delve back into my ocean of scribblings for a number of ‘snapshot’ pieces about life in the big nowhere, but first I’d like to offer the big picture. Pretend you’re getting into a car with 14 of your closest friends. You’re struck by that cozy feeling that only comes from nuzzling so tight against the pregnant mama such as to protect you better than any airbag/seatbelt combo known to man*. The driver manhandles the stick between the legs of the young man straddling the transmission and off the sedan goes. For a moment you forget the whizzing savannah or the fact that you’ve inadvertently gotten to second base with the co-worker on your left. You see a smattering of drops on the half-open window and your heart dribbles down into the pit of your stomach. Oh, not rain. The red earth will quickly turn to mush and at the next town the villagers will force you to halt for fear of destroying the roads more than normal. But one sniff and most everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Salvation is delivered in a mist of ammonia in the air. Small consolation for those moistened by the goat’s piss tinkling down the roof of the car, but no-one wants the trip to be longer than it has to be. In fact, the driver will search both sides of the road (left always preferred) for the route that is least likely to destroy (more?) his wounded suspension. Still, it’s the thought that counts. It is 92 kilometers (57.17 miles) from Pehanko to Natitingou or four hours with your closest friends in the world.
The first thing one needs to know about a place is what it takes to get there. As you can see, a strong stomach, stronger bladder and an undying desire to be held and rocked by complete strangers for hours at a time are essential. The second is what the differences between being here and there are. Here in this case is Pehanko, the capital of Pehanko county, population ~25,000. Average age is conservatively estimated to be 18. The commune head offers grid electricity (since 2008) and intermittent cell service (since 2007). Internet connectivity is expected in 2??2, and the algorithm for deducing the question marks can be found by counting the confused expressions made by Nicholas Cage in National Treasure 3 then divided by the number of good movies he has starred in**. The indefinable result does not bode well for Pehanko joining the information age. I have found one working faucet in the town.
*(Excluding Volvo and Toyota models prior to 2006)
** (other than The Rock)***
***(And maybe Gone in 60 Seconds)
The Mayor’s office is the head of all governance in the region and in charge of confusing everyone with what the city’s logo is supposed to represent. (Honestly, it’s like a giraffe and a lion made the most god-forsaken love child ever and someone painted the progeny on every official sign in town.) They also have the second prettiest park in the commune outside their offices. They do run the local Maison des Jeunes (sort of a town-hall) that shows football (soccer) games on Saturdays, which are always a nice break from the grind. Also, since we’re watching Barclay’s Premier league, I am the only member of the audience to understand the commentary. Unrelated- local soccer games are merely a 90 minute competition to see who can kick the ball the furthest across the pitch, which could double as a backdrop for northern France circa 1917. Also, apparently the last time the local taxi-moto union played a player smuggled a tire-iron onto the field. It might be football…but it’s still West Africa.
It’s the kind of dusty town you could get lost in, but quickly find yourself by the children singing the foreigner song (Batoure BEEP-BEEP, Batoure KayKayWa). It’s a little like a three person game of Marco Polo that my two co-workers and I are constantly playing with the children of the city. It is much easier to find one another when the street urchins are creating a musical RADAR network at all times. Honestly though, this song gives me the warm fuzzies because the translation is: Foreigners go so fast (in their cars) that they have to beep their horns. Peace Corps has not yet responded to my request for a personal vehicle (preferably with all-wheel drive) in-order to better meet the vocal expectations of my community, but I expect my 21 speed to be replaced any day now.
The marche or market is fairly large and developed, a swollen recipient of European largess in the last few years. One can find tomatoes, spaghetti, onions and the same three types of soap from any of the 125 or so Mamas who take residence in little hangars made of woodscrap and corrugated tin. New arrivals include Chinese goods, ranging from shockingly dangerous pharmaceuticals to colorfully embroidered lead-acid batteries (life expectancy 6 hours). There are a few ‘boutiques,’ consisting of a single room and an expanded product selection, and these are new arrivals as well. Some are incredibly profitable; one is the only place in the commune where one can find eggs twice in one month. Since my discovery, they’ve expanded their wares twice (to the ceiling) and are planning to buy another store and name it after me.
But…maybe the most important thing about Pehanko is that I don’t actually live there.
