They just wanna dance or Dave goes to Bariba Woodstock

I spent the past few weeks at the Gaanhi festival in Nikki, which celebrates the peace between the Kings of Nikki and Djugou. It features lots of horses, horns, jewelry and lots of thrift store clothing. I had a remarkable time when I was able to let loose and enjoy myself with the kids. I met this one guy who was really remarkable in that he was a one man band. He had jangles on his knees and elbows and was wearing a hat made almost entirely of horse hair. Obviously as soon as I met him I had to dance with him. Photos are included.

Cat Conversations 11:53 PM Tuesday

Me- Eat the fish already!
Cat- I’m not sure what this is.
Me- Cat’s everywhere like this stuff!
Cat- I’m a semi-arid kind of guy.
Me- Fine. Sip the milk then. Just be quiet.
Cat- You know what I could go for? One of those little chicks that just hatched. The mama has a dozen little nuggets chirping around out there, you think she’ll notice one or two?
Me- It’s late and I’ve already written you off for dead once today.
Cat- Whatever. Forget the 12 piece meal. What I need are some ladies. Lemme out.
Me- There are no other cats other than you in Beket. If there were you would be homeless.
Cat- As your roommate, I feel disrespected by that last comment.
Me- Look, I’m sorr-
Cat- You can make it up to me by booting-calling that tall one’s kitten-cat.
Me- Scout? I’m not sure she’s into villageois.
Cat- Whatever, she’s top-shelf and I’ll throw on some charm.
Me- First time for everything.
Cat- Hey, now.
Me- Seriously, she’s store-bought. Soft fur, dainty meow, collar…
Cat- Annnd?
Me- You aren’t exactly John Stamos.
Cat- Hey, this coat brings the bushrat, my friend.
Me- Those stripes look like Green Day met a bad Stallone movie.
Cat- The guy-liner look is coming back.
Me- Suuure it is.
Cat- Anyway, what about the other one, with half an ear?
Me- Petite Chat?
Cat- Yea. I’m totally in her strike-zone.
Me- That may be. Still, I don’t think you respect her special needs.
Cat- Oh, I respect them. A lot.
Me- I don’t like that tone.
Cat- You know what they say about epileptics in the sac-
Me- You know what a gelding is?
Cat- Wait…That’s with the boy horse…
Me-Yep.
Cat-You’d never.
Me- Listen you, I just had a conversation with a five month old cat referencing John Stamos. I’m capable of anything.
Cat- Meow?

142 Days Difference

When comparing service in the Peace Corps to other experiences, it is often hard to quantify one’s arguments. How hard is something? My somewhat hard could be another’s very hard or even perhaps not very hard at all. In short, how many increments of stress are we as volunteers exposed to here greater here than would be the case somewhere else?
In this case, history has given us a little help. When French Soldiers were discharged from the Army, the checklist determining whether they would be Honorably Discharged included the question: Has the soldier been confined to prison status for more than eight days during his service? Eight days in prison was standard for a moderately serious mess up, such as insubordination, a minor AWOL (not desertion) or getting involved with some scrabble with the local civilians that turned into a PR mess for the Captain. However, after the question mark was a small phrase in parenthesis “(Legionnaire: Cent-cinquante jours)”. Thus a Legionnaire could lose his cool exactly 18.75 times as often as an equivalent soldier in the regular army. Granted, Legionnaires served a little longer in 5 year enlistment terms while French Conscripts for the regular army were only held for 2 years (3 years in the lead-up to the World Wars). Even if we allow for this, the gap is significant- for the half a penalty that the French Army Private was allowed per year, his legionnaire brother was allowed 3.75 for a ratio of 1:7.5 over a period of 2 years.
Now that I’ve thoroughly bored you with statistics, we come to the big question- how is this relevant to Dave and his Peace Corps service? During the 150 year existence of French Empire in Africa, French Regular Army units were principally deployed in the European Theater, while Legionnaires were almost exclusively engaged in Africa. You do the math.

Cat People

For as long as I have been alive, I have been a dog person. I was barely more than a year old when we got my first dog, my first memory was her chewing on my ears when I was wrapped in a particularly thick blanket against the cold Virginia winter. Dogs have protected me, kept me company, warned me about visitors, slept on my bed and eaten my pizza crusts more than I could write in five books. Indeed, of the photos I brought from the United States, nearly 25% are of dogs ALONE. Simply, it is impossible for me to create an image of who I would be without the influence of man’s best friend.
However, I am a realist. Idealists, despite all the talk about star-eyed hippies in the Peace Corps, don’t last very long. I understand I have nowhere near the space or budget to feed a dog in my current lodgings. Distances are such that I leave my post for weeks at a time for training, vacation and medical attention. Additionally, due to my vermin problem (specifics are classified pending my return to the United States) a cat is an eminently practicable solution. The catch is that the solution is to trade ten vermin problems for one, even if he is a little bit more sociable.
Of course, I can’t let him outside my walled concession because he would likely be eaten, run over by an errant zemijan or harassed by kids. This leaves him feeling a little cooped up now and then. For instance, he was feeling so sprightly after I fed him milk the other day he decided to wash it down with a whole bag of tomatoes while I was having a vitally important conversation about work opportunities with my boss from my NGO. Angry as I was, I have learned (as most new volunteers have at this point) that actually beating your cat is a poor return on your $1 investment.
Thus, one has to come up with alternative punishments. The first was actually bathing the little guy, and that came about after he swam into my wastewater, gracing my apartment with the molding refuse odor that I try so hard not to let it achieve.* I smeared shampoo on him, dunked him in the water and noticed that he didn’t seem to meow as much while he was wet. I squirreled this fact away, and the next time he stole one of my packets of peanut butter, I was ready. I threw him into my shower water and I was under the impression he was most distressed. Actually, he was just vengeful. Not an hour later I both started and finished a shower scented with cat pee bath salts. Since then, we’ve reached equilibrium where I just wet his feet if he makes me angry. Keeping his genitalia out of the water makes it more likely I smell better after my showers than before.
The worst part about this whole process is that we do it en masse. I am extremely jealous that Molly’s store-bought princess got the first confirmed rat kill out of the three of the Pehanko volunteers. Also, I find it hilarious that Sara’s petit chat is such a fraidy-cat he runs away from the other much smaller kittens. If you add our cat conversations to the amount of medication we take and multiply by the frequency we discuss incontinence, you would estimate the average age of a Volunteer serving in Peace Corps Benin was a sprightly 87.

Christmas in a Very Warm Place

Benin does beach is comfortably unsettling in a homey type of way. It smells like salt air, is gritty with sand and shell and has as wide of a blue expanse as you can handle. It is deceptive in its beauty; for like many things African she would like nothing more than to kill you. You know this from the way the tide nearly pulls your feet out from under you, how the sun reflects off your white skin and the multitude of ways the ocean protects the mosquito from the perils of the dry season. That being said, Grand Popo is one of the most touristy spots in all of Benin, the type of place where you can get real ketchup with your French fries without too much trouble. Not quite Beninese Disneyland, but pretty close.
I danced around a fire with a santa hat on. Some of the second-years gave speeches. We had a good time and made a Christmas out of it.
Bah Humbug.

Off the Map

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.