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.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Life of the Mind
The Life of the Mind
West Africa presents daily insanity. From leaky buses to impossibly slow food to breaking out of your host family’s house to catch a PC bus on time, there are often exchanges that actively test one’s ability to adapt, observe and laugh. However, I have written at length on these high octane adventures and it would be improper if I did not address the long moments of quiet tedium that Peace Corps presents. For these are the things that make the job what it is, a marathon testament to the fortitude of the individual. They are ubiquitous; one finds them in food preparation, laundry, rainy days and especially travel. A quick jaunt to my post takes eleven hours from Cotonou the capital; quite a trek considering the paltry 240 miles between them. Simply put, they become as regular as having to put on a sweatshirt on those brisk nights it gets down to 81* (really, it’s the nippy windchill that gets you).
The first school of thought is that these times are a problem to be dealt with, indeed a void that demands to be filled. Novels, MP3 players, magazines, and an occasional peck of the flask can all clutter these wastelands, distracting from the emptiness. To some extent this is welcome; during an eight hour bus ride, distractions and activities help keep the length from overwhelming one’s sense of humor. But to say that the quiet times are not useful is to misrepresent a vital part of service here.
Their essential role is providing space for the contemplation that could potentially return us to the United States as better individuals. The most obvious subject for thought is oneself. In my opinion, any healthy person with this much downtime has to accept who they are as a person or change so that they can accept themselves. All too often, the only person around is yourself, so you might as well be friends. A similar opportunity is present with relationships with the people close to you. Problems, insecurities or miscommunications can be chopped apart and examined. Of course, undue brooding serves no-one but the beauty is that these issues flit into consciousness in-between subjects such as the different morality schemes present in Batman, the relationship between French internal tariffs circa 1710 and present-day Benin or the secret recipe that ensures every Beninoise tastes differently (likely creative quality control standards). When you combine this reflection with the natural sense of accomplishment that living as a member of the Peace Corps elite brings, some really remarkable things can happen.
West Africa presents daily insanity. From leaky buses to impossibly slow food to breaking out of your host family’s house to catch a PC bus on time, there are often exchanges that actively test one’s ability to adapt, observe and laugh. However, I have written at length on these high octane adventures and it would be improper if I did not address the long moments of quiet tedium that Peace Corps presents. For these are the things that make the job what it is, a marathon testament to the fortitude of the individual. They are ubiquitous; one finds them in food preparation, laundry, rainy days and especially travel. A quick jaunt to my post takes eleven hours from Cotonou the capital; quite a trek considering the paltry 240 miles between them. Simply put, they become as regular as having to put on a sweatshirt on those brisk nights it gets down to 81* (really, it’s the nippy windchill that gets you).
The first school of thought is that these times are a problem to be dealt with, indeed a void that demands to be filled. Novels, MP3 players, magazines, and an occasional peck of the flask can all clutter these wastelands, distracting from the emptiness. To some extent this is welcome; during an eight hour bus ride, distractions and activities help keep the length from overwhelming one’s sense of humor. But to say that the quiet times are not useful is to misrepresent a vital part of service here.
Their essential role is providing space for the contemplation that could potentially return us to the United States as better individuals. The most obvious subject for thought is oneself. In my opinion, any healthy person with this much downtime has to accept who they are as a person or change so that they can accept themselves. All too often, the only person around is yourself, so you might as well be friends. A similar opportunity is present with relationships with the people close to you. Problems, insecurities or miscommunications can be chopped apart and examined. Of course, undue brooding serves no-one but the beauty is that these issues flit into consciousness in-between subjects such as the different morality schemes present in Batman, the relationship between French internal tariffs circa 1710 and present-day Benin or the secret recipe that ensures every Beninoise tastes differently (likely creative quality control standards). When you combine this reflection with the natural sense of accomplishment that living as a member of the Peace Corps elite brings, some really remarkable things can happen.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Dead Yovo
In West Africa, clothing is much like used video game consoles in the United States; you might not play it anymore, but it’ll go to somebody down the totem pole or just collect dust. It is inconceivable that someone would willingly sell their old clothing, thus the legend of Dead Yovo was born as a child of western clothing being shipped and dumped upon the population of West Africa. Now most western clothes are made in Nigeria in direct contravention of any and all copyright protection, but the name sort of stuck. My adventure in Pehanko’s marche was a great example of the delicious wares that can be had there.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Bedrock
In this life, there come times when you think you really need things to happen in a certain way. Trains need to run on time, people need to call you back, checks need to be delivered and it sure as hell needs to not rain when you’re trying to get somewhere. Even jaded, experienced Vols have things they do not expect to have to deal with. Things you told yourself would never happen occur. Stable earth falls away, but you realize you’re still standing. I have learned as long as you have faith in your own abilities, your tools and your friends, pushing through stays a question of when and not if.
I was in one of those situations that are so ridiculous that I expected Ashton Kutcher to run in at any moment and tell me I was being “punked” (fooled with). It was so bad that Becca felt sincerely bad for the jam I was in. This has never happened before. Of the actual situation, let’s just say when it came to work partner roulette, this Starsky didn’t quite get his Hutch.
How I got through it is counting those things that I trust. First is always the Ka-Bar. I’m getting pretty proficient at butchering with it and it’s always in the pack when I leave Porto-Novo. As a tool, its useful sure, but just the thought of its cool weight in my hand calms me. I may be completely SOL occasionally, but I also have a knife I can skin enough animals to build a raft to float down the Oueme River to the sea with (direct quote).
The second was my friends, who I can call whenever I need to. They’ll know what’s going on and give me balance for whether it’s a real problem or not. Without the other stagiers this would be a well-nigh impossible task. They help each of us unlock our potential, smoothing out the worst so that we can get into gear and fix the holes that we find ourselves in.
And finally, I had to trust myself. I figured it out and I have a plan. The man who sent me said we should not ask for easier times, but to be stronger men. We’ll see if he had something there.
-Dave out.
I was in one of those situations that are so ridiculous that I expected Ashton Kutcher to run in at any moment and tell me I was being “punked” (fooled with). It was so bad that Becca felt sincerely bad for the jam I was in. This has never happened before. Of the actual situation, let’s just say when it came to work partner roulette, this Starsky didn’t quite get his Hutch.
How I got through it is counting those things that I trust. First is always the Ka-Bar. I’m getting pretty proficient at butchering with it and it’s always in the pack when I leave Porto-Novo. As a tool, its useful sure, but just the thought of its cool weight in my hand calms me. I may be completely SOL occasionally, but I also have a knife I can skin enough animals to build a raft to float down the Oueme River to the sea with (direct quote).
The second was my friends, who I can call whenever I need to. They’ll know what’s going on and give me balance for whether it’s a real problem or not. Without the other stagiers this would be a well-nigh impossible task. They help each of us unlock our potential, smoothing out the worst so that we can get into gear and fix the holes that we find ourselves in.
And finally, I had to trust myself. I figured it out and I have a plan. The man who sent me said we should not ask for easier times, but to be stronger men. We’ll see if he had something there.
-Dave out.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The First 48, a few months late…
I’m rereading my journal to get in the reflective spirit, and I thought I’d tell the tale of my first two days of Peace Corps (starting with Philadelphia and ending with going to bed in Cotonou).
First, you have to start things off on the right foot. The stagiers have to trust each other from the beginning or everything is going to get harder than it needs to be. Therefore, the first thing PSL 23 ever heard as a coherent unit was that Dave Skorski from Hershey, PA was terrified of having his penis stolen on the streets of Cotonou by a Vouduin (Voodoo) witch-woman. Nervous people laugh. People who laugh together are friends. Friends support each other. Supported people don’t ET.
Next, when shipping out with your stage class for Peace Corps, the most important thing is that there is no chaperone. When you leave the hotel, there are the peer leaders that were chosen the previous day to make sure that their spheres of responsibility are taken care of. The idea is one leader keeps wraps on 9 other stagiers and stops anyone from getting left behind. I was one of the leaders in charge of the airport scene, where there were some worries about over-packing that took two languages and the combined work of 5 stagiers to sort out. My unique style of management was readily apparent to the other stagiers, who claim that the combination of my tendency to run my hands through my hair when stressed and my garden hat produced the best Ranger Rick impression they’d ever seen.
The third is that you will speak words that you will not remember understand or remember hours later. When under incredible stress, such as leaving your homeland for years, you blather about nothing just to have something in common to talk about. I talked with the stagier next to me for nearly three hours and neither of us remembers any of the conversation.
As a side note, I would like to educate those of you who are considering a flight through De Gaulle Airport on improper security line procedure as the result of keeping a culturally appropriate drinking schedule. The French will have no equal when it comes to airport security. So, if you discover that you’ve placed your bottle of red wine from the flight in your pants pocket either chug it in-front of the security personnel or at least swig it before and then hand them the bottle. Trashing is unwise as France has killed for lesser slights to her honor. DO NOT mainline red wine and then put the bottle back in your pants to be forgotten and then found by security after your third failure to pass through the metal detector. They will laugh so hard that a different security team from the other line will have to be brought over to pat you down.
The last thing I want to impart is how utterly vital the established volunteers are. I might have learned more about being a volunteer in a few hours at the hotel bar in Cotonou after being awake for nearly 40 hours than in all my experiences since. I would probably not have written “I’m going to like it here” as the last line of my journal entry that night without being accepted by them. This does not always happen, and I am grateful to the members of PSL 22 and 21 who were so open. I believe the same will be true for 24.
First, you have to start things off on the right foot. The stagiers have to trust each other from the beginning or everything is going to get harder than it needs to be. Therefore, the first thing PSL 23 ever heard as a coherent unit was that Dave Skorski from Hershey, PA was terrified of having his penis stolen on the streets of Cotonou by a Vouduin (Voodoo) witch-woman. Nervous people laugh. People who laugh together are friends. Friends support each other. Supported people don’t ET.
Next, when shipping out with your stage class for Peace Corps, the most important thing is that there is no chaperone. When you leave the hotel, there are the peer leaders that were chosen the previous day to make sure that their spheres of responsibility are taken care of. The idea is one leader keeps wraps on 9 other stagiers and stops anyone from getting left behind. I was one of the leaders in charge of the airport scene, where there were some worries about over-packing that took two languages and the combined work of 5 stagiers to sort out. My unique style of management was readily apparent to the other stagiers, who claim that the combination of my tendency to run my hands through my hair when stressed and my garden hat produced the best Ranger Rick impression they’d ever seen.
The third is that you will speak words that you will not remember understand or remember hours later. When under incredible stress, such as leaving your homeland for years, you blather about nothing just to have something in common to talk about. I talked with the stagier next to me for nearly three hours and neither of us remembers any of the conversation.
As a side note, I would like to educate those of you who are considering a flight through De Gaulle Airport on improper security line procedure as the result of keeping a culturally appropriate drinking schedule. The French will have no equal when it comes to airport security. So, if you discover that you’ve placed your bottle of red wine from the flight in your pants pocket either chug it in-front of the security personnel or at least swig it before and then hand them the bottle. Trashing is unwise as France has killed for lesser slights to her honor. DO NOT mainline red wine and then put the bottle back in your pants to be forgotten and then found by security after your third failure to pass through the metal detector. They will laugh so hard that a different security team from the other line will have to be brought over to pat you down.
The last thing I want to impart is how utterly vital the established volunteers are. I might have learned more about being a volunteer in a few hours at the hotel bar in Cotonou after being awake for nearly 40 hours than in all my experiences since. I would probably not have written “I’m going to like it here” as the last line of my journal entry that night without being accepted by them. This does not always happen, and I am grateful to the members of PSL 22 and 21 who were so open. I believe the same will be true for 24.
Dr. Feelgood or How I Learned to Stop Shaving and Love the Joetee.
If you didn't like Animal House, you might want to skip this post.
Since the beginning of the School year is about to roll around, I thought I would try and angle this one to the Gators and Cougars who served time with me. Really, the remarkable thing is how little life has changed since undergrad. Thus, I have decided to set this up as a similarities/differences type post.
Difference, I have grown a goatee. Pictures are available here and on Facebook. As many Gainesvillians may suspect, this has both brought my snark and pants-length to alarming levels (of high and low respectively). I think one of the reactions to living here is growing facial hair. Almost all of the guys have something that they’re cultivating, from wild-man beards to soul patches. As any beer-swilling, long-distance running, pale man will tell you; it brings the ladies.
Similarity, I ride backseat on motos (called zemis) to go everywhere. Despite the lack of rules of the road, road-signs, or occasionally even road itself, I find myself much more comfortable on these in Benin than I was in Gainesville. Why? Possibly it’s the frequency of use, or the better helmets or even the fact that nearly everyone driving these things in Benin isn’t a trashed coed.
Difference, In Gainesville, the seasons were set by games; namely football, trivia and video. In Benin it goes from hot & humid to not peeing for days on end despite passing over a gallon of water a day through one’s kidneys (especially true up north).
Similarity, drinking schedule revolves around which cool Vols are in town. Back in Gainesville it was always a party when people came back from the real world to debauch. BUT….
Difference, you can’t go to Hooters with VIPs for wings. (I’m currently working with SED on this).
Similarity, I spend a huge chunk of time in lecture. Seriously, it’s 6 days a week from 8AM – 4 PM with ~2 hours of breaks in there. The French instruction is much better here though.
Difference, having extra guys at parties is no longer a bad thing. It’s almost impossible. With 14 men to 44 women, things actually get a little bro-starved from time to time. Also- If you’re really counting its 12 (unmarried) men to 42 (unmarried) women, with a good number of guys in (semi) serious relationships. Of course, several ladies are as well, but the point is the math gets skewed really fast. I’ll put it this way; even if McShera was here, we’d be too lost in the X chromosomes to be able to find each other for a drunken showdown/test of masculinity.
Similarity, drunk food is still fried starchy goodness. While we may not have the golden arches, we do have a fried yams and gateau (think hushpuppies) lady outside the TEFL house who makes literally pounds of petit monaie (change) every Saturday.
Difference, as couches barely exist in Benin this makes couch surfing impossible. Fortunately…
Similarity, twin mattresses on the floor can still fit ~3.4 people (this appears to be a universal constant). Also…
Similarity, you learn to sleep on hard surfaces between classes (think Lib West).
Similarity, beer is (relatively) inexpensive as long as you aren’t choosy about taste.
Difference, if you tried to make hunch-punch with the local moonshine (called sodabie) you will spend more on mixers than you will on alcohol. (Also, it tastes terrible due to impurities, even mixed). I’m not a huge fan. Thus…
Similarity, gentlemen carry around their own (Coca-Cola) bottles half-full of European Vodka for private consumption. It’s not Smirnoff, but it’s not bad either.
Since the beginning of the School year is about to roll around, I thought I would try and angle this one to the Gators and Cougars who served time with me. Really, the remarkable thing is how little life has changed since undergrad. Thus, I have decided to set this up as a similarities/differences type post.
Difference, I have grown a goatee. Pictures are available here and on Facebook. As many Gainesvillians may suspect, this has both brought my snark and pants-length to alarming levels (of high and low respectively). I think one of the reactions to living here is growing facial hair. Almost all of the guys have something that they’re cultivating, from wild-man beards to soul patches. As any beer-swilling, long-distance running, pale man will tell you; it brings the ladies.
Similarity, I ride backseat on motos (called zemis) to go everywhere. Despite the lack of rules of the road, road-signs, or occasionally even road itself, I find myself much more comfortable on these in Benin than I was in Gainesville. Why? Possibly it’s the frequency of use, or the better helmets or even the fact that nearly everyone driving these things in Benin isn’t a trashed coed.
Difference, In Gainesville, the seasons were set by games; namely football, trivia and video. In Benin it goes from hot & humid to not peeing for days on end despite passing over a gallon of water a day through one’s kidneys (especially true up north).
Similarity, drinking schedule revolves around which cool Vols are in town. Back in Gainesville it was always a party when people came back from the real world to debauch. BUT….
Difference, you can’t go to Hooters with VIPs for wings. (I’m currently working with SED on this).
Similarity, I spend a huge chunk of time in lecture. Seriously, it’s 6 days a week from 8AM – 4 PM with ~2 hours of breaks in there. The French instruction is much better here though.
Difference, having extra guys at parties is no longer a bad thing. It’s almost impossible. With 14 men to 44 women, things actually get a little bro-starved from time to time. Also- If you’re really counting its 12 (unmarried) men to 42 (unmarried) women, with a good number of guys in (semi) serious relationships. Of course, several ladies are as well, but the point is the math gets skewed really fast. I’ll put it this way; even if McShera was here, we’d be too lost in the X chromosomes to be able to find each other for a drunken showdown/test of masculinity.
Similarity, drunk food is still fried starchy goodness. While we may not have the golden arches, we do have a fried yams and gateau (think hushpuppies) lady outside the TEFL house who makes literally pounds of petit monaie (change) every Saturday.
Difference, as couches barely exist in Benin this makes couch surfing impossible. Fortunately…
Similarity, twin mattresses on the floor can still fit ~3.4 people (this appears to be a universal constant). Also…
Similarity, you learn to sleep on hard surfaces between classes (think Lib West).
Similarity, beer is (relatively) inexpensive as long as you aren’t choosy about taste.
Difference, if you tried to make hunch-punch with the local moonshine (called sodabie) you will spend more on mixers than you will on alcohol. (Also, it tastes terrible due to impurities, even mixed). I’m not a huge fan. Thus…
Similarity, gentlemen carry around their own (Coca-Cola) bottles half-full of European Vodka for private consumption. It’s not Smirnoff, but it’s not bad either.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A day in the life...
This is an approximation of a day in Benin. However, everything in this list is true, and occurred over the course of about a week.
4:17 AM- Wake up to impromptu dance party across the street with boombox.
5:05 AM- Wake up to first rooster crow. Roll over.
6:30 AM - Wake up to alarm. Contemplate skipping shower for the first time ever in Africa.
6:40 AM- Get out of bed. Find clothes to wear, pack backback, waste time before shower.
6:55 AM- Inexplicably find myself infront of shower with shower shoes and soap.
6:56 AM- Stare at water.
6:58 AM- Pep talk.
6:59 AM- Enter shower, constantly moving to delay hypothermia.
7:02:30 AM- Shower begins to feel warm.
7:03 AM- Shower over. Search for the dry(er) towel commences.
7:05 AM- Knock toothbrush on sink three times to ensure grub-free brushing. Go to filter to wet brush instead of sink (sometimes).
7:10 AM- Begin getting dressed. Put ‘Catholic Dogtags’ on.
Start putting essential implements in pants-
L Pocket- Phone and wallet*
5+ day supply of Anti-Malarials kept in Wallet*
R Pocket- Keys, Folding Knife and petit monaie in plastic baggie (change is very important here)*
R Belt- Leatherman*
Shirt Pocket-extra medicine for the day if needed (pepto/advil/ect)
L Belt- Normally empty, Ka Bar or Mag-Lite as circumstances demand
Cargo pockets (TRAVEL ONLY)- Left: Gator Hat, Map Right: Aviators, food
*Unless I’m within sight of my house, I am never without these implements
7:18 AM- Realize how late it is. Grab helmet (bike or zem), check water bottles and lock bedroom door.
7:20 AM- Begin eating breakfast. Normally I eat powdered milk and bread with a nutella-like spread. Occasionally I have two eggs. Take doxycycline for Malaria.
7:35 AM- Check bike visually and manually for damage/wear. Put bike helmet on. Say goodbye to family.
7:53 AM- First religious experience of the day ends with arrival at CEG Davie for classes.
7:55 AM- Begin conversing with PCTs. Evaluate own level of sweat/mud/disheveledness, then others.
7:58ish AM- Trainer temporarily interrupts the ‘violently efficient’ Peace Corp Rumormill by clapping at PCTs to go to language class.
8:00 – 10:00 AM- Juiciest bits of gossip discussed in French or local language.
10:07 AM- Order baguette with avocado and tuna from sandwich lady. Regret not knowing the fon (local language) words for fish, no or avocado.
10:08 AM- Silently ponder the cesspool surrounding baguette stand.
10:09 AM- Eat while walking back to class in spite of Beninese traditions reserving this act only for children and fools.
10:15-12:30 PM- BOOBIES!... Er…Technical session regarding post-birth nutritional practices. Make foolishly child-like doodles and take notes on the side.
12:33 PM- Run hand through beard while muttering to never ever pay the 500F to the lady in the courtyard for her overpriced wares. Unless you have a 5000F bill that no one will break >:-[
12:40 PM- Arrive at Beans’N’Rice Shack frequented by TEFLers.
12:42- 1:07 PM Teach Madam Beans’N’Rice’s children to call the TEFLers humorous nicknames. Rhyme well to ensure longevity.
1:07 PM Flee irate TEFLers.
1:10 PM Return to CEG Davie for chatting before bus trip to secure, undisclosed location.
1:20 PM Begin loading bus to overcapacity. (Buses here are poorly maintained versions of the 5 row Churchvans that stopped being sold in the US because of rollover risk.) As a rule of thumb they are >25% overloaded. For a bus that can uncomfortably fit 15 we have ridden with 24.
1:21 PM Celebrate the fact that everyone fits.
1:21:15 Realize the bus is missing 5 people.
1:33 PM Last straggler arrives. Bus Departs.
1:35 PM Become aware of the nagging suspicion that the exhaust is venting directly into the cabin.
1:43 PM Realize not stealing the airsick bag from Air France was the worst mistake made since leaving the United States. Begin to search for alternatives.
1:50 PM Hypothetical evaluation of which stagier will forgive you for barfing on them.
1:55 PM Bus Arrives at Baby Weighing.
1:55:30 Feel immensely better in fresh air. It appears sickness has passed.
1:55:45 PM Vomit extensively in-front of administration, village elders, pregnant mothers and babies. All become rapidly and deeply concerned that the yovo boy is going to die.
1:56 PM Swear you’re feeling better. Be interrupted by dry heave.
2:03 PM Community gives an collection to buy Coca-Cola for infirm stagier.
2:07 PM Stagier feels much better, returns to baby weighing.
2:09 PM Mother looks oddly at stagier as he takes her first born for evaluation. He chooses to believe she is not debating which is more likely to spit up food on the other.
3:15 PM Baby Weighing over, Dance Party commences.
3:22 PM Brave (uninformed) stagiers play hand slapping games with local children while waiting for bus. (This is a country without the idea of TP usage. Think about that.) This stagier watches fecal matter/worms/amoebas pass back and forth.
3:45 PM Return to CEG Davie.
4:15 PM Dismissal, visit hardware store to buy un Coup-Coup (Machete) and Handsaw for a good price.
4:25 PM First Beninoise of the day at bar close to Davie (Beninoise = ~$1 for 60cl of generic light beer taste).
4:34 PM Curse Peace Corps Togo for having an ex-German colony (and thus better beer).
4:40 PM Realize beer is too expensive (1 bottle = 1/3 per diem). Supplement with smuggled vodka.
6:17 PM Debate relative practicality of taking zem with Coup-Coup in hand.
6:19 PM Resist urge to do Jack Sparrow impression while flying through the streets of Porto-Novo.
6:24 PM Arrive at second bar. Meet new PCVs who are posted near you. Allow them to buy you beer.
7:15 PM Explain to Maman that you’ll be a little late tonight.
8:27 PM Take zem home.
8:35 PM Feign sobriety, reassure Maman you didn’t drink too much.
8:36 PM Prove this by helping prepare dinner with the dullest knives ever. Be sassed by host sister.
9:03 PM Eat dinner. Be amazed by undamaged hands.
9:35 PM Brush teeth. Realize you forgot to knock the toothbrush. Continue.
9:41 PM Go to bed.
9:42:55 PM Think about cool things to cut with le coup coup.
9:43 PM Send panicked text message to vols asking if they have seen le coup coup.
9:47 PM Pass out.
4:17 AM- Wake up to impromptu dance party across the street with boombox.
5:05 AM- Wake up to first rooster crow. Roll over.
6:30 AM - Wake up to alarm. Contemplate skipping shower for the first time ever in Africa.
6:40 AM- Get out of bed. Find clothes to wear, pack backback, waste time before shower.
6:55 AM- Inexplicably find myself infront of shower with shower shoes and soap.
6:56 AM- Stare at water.
6:58 AM- Pep talk.
6:59 AM- Enter shower, constantly moving to delay hypothermia.
7:02:30 AM- Shower begins to feel warm.
7:03 AM- Shower over. Search for the dry(er) towel commences.
7:05 AM- Knock toothbrush on sink three times to ensure grub-free brushing. Go to filter to wet brush instead of sink (sometimes).
7:10 AM- Begin getting dressed. Put ‘Catholic Dogtags’ on.
Start putting essential implements in pants-
L Pocket- Phone and wallet*
5+ day supply of Anti-Malarials kept in Wallet*
R Pocket- Keys, Folding Knife and petit monaie in plastic baggie (change is very important here)*
R Belt- Leatherman*
Shirt Pocket-extra medicine for the day if needed (pepto/advil/ect)
L Belt- Normally empty, Ka Bar or Mag-Lite as circumstances demand
Cargo pockets (TRAVEL ONLY)- Left: Gator Hat, Map Right: Aviators, food
*Unless I’m within sight of my house, I am never without these implements
7:18 AM- Realize how late it is. Grab helmet (bike or zem), check water bottles and lock bedroom door.
7:20 AM- Begin eating breakfast. Normally I eat powdered milk and bread with a nutella-like spread. Occasionally I have two eggs. Take doxycycline for Malaria.
7:35 AM- Check bike visually and manually for damage/wear. Put bike helmet on. Say goodbye to family.
7:53 AM- First religious experience of the day ends with arrival at CEG Davie for classes.
7:55 AM- Begin conversing with PCTs. Evaluate own level of sweat/mud/disheveledness, then others.
7:58ish AM- Trainer temporarily interrupts the ‘violently efficient’ Peace Corp Rumormill by clapping at PCTs to go to language class.
8:00 – 10:00 AM- Juiciest bits of gossip discussed in French or local language.
10:07 AM- Order baguette with avocado and tuna from sandwich lady. Regret not knowing the fon (local language) words for fish, no or avocado.
10:08 AM- Silently ponder the cesspool surrounding baguette stand.
10:09 AM- Eat while walking back to class in spite of Beninese traditions reserving this act only for children and fools.
10:15-12:30 PM- BOOBIES!... Er…Technical session regarding post-birth nutritional practices. Make foolishly child-like doodles and take notes on the side.
12:33 PM- Run hand through beard while muttering to never ever pay the 500F to the lady in the courtyard for her overpriced wares. Unless you have a 5000F bill that no one will break >:-[
12:40 PM- Arrive at Beans’N’Rice Shack frequented by TEFLers.
12:42- 1:07 PM Teach Madam Beans’N’Rice’s children to call the TEFLers humorous nicknames. Rhyme well to ensure longevity.
1:07 PM Flee irate TEFLers.
1:10 PM Return to CEG Davie for chatting before bus trip to secure, undisclosed location.
1:20 PM Begin loading bus to overcapacity. (Buses here are poorly maintained versions of the 5 row Churchvans that stopped being sold in the US because of rollover risk.) As a rule of thumb they are >25% overloaded. For a bus that can uncomfortably fit 15 we have ridden with 24.
1:21 PM Celebrate the fact that everyone fits.
1:21:15 Realize the bus is missing 5 people.
1:33 PM Last straggler arrives. Bus Departs.
1:35 PM Become aware of the nagging suspicion that the exhaust is venting directly into the cabin.
1:43 PM Realize not stealing the airsick bag from Air France was the worst mistake made since leaving the United States. Begin to search for alternatives.
1:50 PM Hypothetical evaluation of which stagier will forgive you for barfing on them.
1:55 PM Bus Arrives at Baby Weighing.
1:55:30 Feel immensely better in fresh air. It appears sickness has passed.
1:55:45 PM Vomit extensively in-front of administration, village elders, pregnant mothers and babies. All become rapidly and deeply concerned that the yovo boy is going to die.
1:56 PM Swear you’re feeling better. Be interrupted by dry heave.
2:03 PM Community gives an collection to buy Coca-Cola for infirm stagier.
2:07 PM Stagier feels much better, returns to baby weighing.
2:09 PM Mother looks oddly at stagier as he takes her first born for evaluation. He chooses to believe she is not debating which is more likely to spit up food on the other.
3:15 PM Baby Weighing over, Dance Party commences.
3:22 PM Brave (uninformed) stagiers play hand slapping games with local children while waiting for bus. (This is a country without the idea of TP usage. Think about that.) This stagier watches fecal matter/worms/amoebas pass back and forth.
3:45 PM Return to CEG Davie.
4:15 PM Dismissal, visit hardware store to buy un Coup-Coup (Machete) and Handsaw for a good price.
4:25 PM First Beninoise of the day at bar close to Davie (Beninoise = ~$1 for 60cl of generic light beer taste).
4:34 PM Curse Peace Corps Togo for having an ex-German colony (and thus better beer).
4:40 PM Realize beer is too expensive (1 bottle = 1/3 per diem). Supplement with smuggled vodka.
6:17 PM Debate relative practicality of taking zem with Coup-Coup in hand.
6:19 PM Resist urge to do Jack Sparrow impression while flying through the streets of Porto-Novo.
6:24 PM Arrive at second bar. Meet new PCVs who are posted near you. Allow them to buy you beer.
7:15 PM Explain to Maman that you’ll be a little late tonight.
8:27 PM Take zem home.
8:35 PM Feign sobriety, reassure Maman you didn’t drink too much.
8:36 PM Prove this by helping prepare dinner with the dullest knives ever. Be sassed by host sister.
9:03 PM Eat dinner. Be amazed by undamaged hands.
9:35 PM Brush teeth. Realize you forgot to knock the toothbrush. Continue.
9:41 PM Go to bed.
9:42:55 PM Think about cool things to cut with le coup coup.
9:43 PM Send panicked text message to vols asking if they have seen le coup coup.
9:47 PM Pass out.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
On The Joys of Rural Zemming
I have recently returned from my technical visit to the wilds of southern Benin, and these next few posts are a recap of that experience and the amusing things that happened to me.
It was a dark and stormy night in Porto-Novo…
Isn’t that kind of sultry and beguiling? Actually, stormy would have been an improvement. Instead there were just a boatload of cloudy/humid days in a row (including the oh-so-important laundry day, Sunday) and most of the volunteers were darn near out of clothes. Compounding the problem was the fact that packing for Technical visits by their nature demand dry clothing, it was clear that we had quite a pickle. As a result, I had to Trek it up. While I had previously been promoting a much more debonair image of myself then my outfit on the departure date would suggest; it was probably time to stop lying anyway. So there I was, walking to Songhai, in a steady rain, anticipating only the other 5 stagiers to go to the given corner of Atlantique Department that the Administration had chosen for us. I was met by the near-entirety of PSL 23, all huddled amongst the motorcycles, waiting for their bush taxis to take them to parts unknown. After a two hour car ride reminiscent of a Jersey Shore hot tub party, it came time to bid adieu to civilization.
When one is going to use a rural zem, preparation is important. Helmets are a must as always, and closed toe shoes are typically preferred. Pants are optional, yet strongly encouraged. Its important to remember all of these things in addition to my already fashionable attire, which resulted in me looking much like a nerdy Evil Kenevil wannabe who had watched Top Gun too many times. (As though such a thing were possible) Still, the aviators serve a purpose. When one is flying down hills straight out of Apocalypse Now the experience is much improved by being able to feel the wind and smell the country (both of which are impaired by the visor of the helmet). Corneal scratches however, are a memory I would prefer to miss, thus necessitating the mirrored lenses of ballistics glass that cover nearly 80% of the face and make you look like you just stepped out of a Delorean.
Preparation aside, the ride itself was very beautiful and while cresting one of the ridges I was quite envious of the southern volunteers. Then as we descended into the valley I contributed to the Greater Toffo Area Department of Transportation’s road maintenance program by clearing bush away from the trail with my face, knees and elbows and decided the South just isn’t for everyone.
It was a dark and stormy night in Porto-Novo…
Isn’t that kind of sultry and beguiling? Actually, stormy would have been an improvement. Instead there were just a boatload of cloudy/humid days in a row (including the oh-so-important laundry day, Sunday) and most of the volunteers were darn near out of clothes. Compounding the problem was the fact that packing for Technical visits by their nature demand dry clothing, it was clear that we had quite a pickle. As a result, I had to Trek it up. While I had previously been promoting a much more debonair image of myself then my outfit on the departure date would suggest; it was probably time to stop lying anyway. So there I was, walking to Songhai, in a steady rain, anticipating only the other 5 stagiers to go to the given corner of Atlantique Department that the Administration had chosen for us. I was met by the near-entirety of PSL 23, all huddled amongst the motorcycles, waiting for their bush taxis to take them to parts unknown. After a two hour car ride reminiscent of a Jersey Shore hot tub party, it came time to bid adieu to civilization.
When one is going to use a rural zem, preparation is important. Helmets are a must as always, and closed toe shoes are typically preferred. Pants are optional, yet strongly encouraged. Its important to remember all of these things in addition to my already fashionable attire, which resulted in me looking much like a nerdy Evil Kenevil wannabe who had watched Top Gun too many times. (As though such a thing were possible) Still, the aviators serve a purpose. When one is flying down hills straight out of Apocalypse Now the experience is much improved by being able to feel the wind and smell the country (both of which are impaired by the visor of the helmet). Corneal scratches however, are a memory I would prefer to miss, thus necessitating the mirrored lenses of ballistics glass that cover nearly 80% of the face and make you look like you just stepped out of a Delorean.
Preparation aside, the ride itself was very beautiful and while cresting one of the ridges I was quite envious of the southern volunteers. Then as we descended into the valley I contributed to the Greater Toffo Area Department of Transportation’s road maintenance program by clearing bush away from the trail with my face, knees and elbows and decided the South just isn’t for everyone.
Fete-ing In Porto-Novo
Well, it’s official. I’m posted to Pehonko, about 90 klicks east of Natitingou in the north west region of Benin. It’s important to note that the Northwest is not the Northeast. In general it’s the friendliest and most hospitable region of Benin. That being said, it’s also going to be an oven, easily rounding out at a dry 110+ during the hot season.
First things first. Geography lesson. Pretend Benin is a head of broccoli. First thing, cut the bloom on top of the stalk in half (but leave the stem intact). The right side of the is Alibori and Borgou and those kids report to Parakou. The left side is Atakora (me) and Donga; and our home base is to Natitingou (by all accounts the homiest workstation in Benin). Go lower to the stem and you’ve got the Collines (which are a series of hills and mark the boundary between north and south, and below that you’ve got the south. I think the west side of the Collines are with us in Natty (the shorthand for Natitingou).
The good news is I got exactly what I wanted, an established post where I can get right to work without having to construct a mold for what exactly a PCV can and cannot do. These sort of things include “no, I am not a doctor; no, I do not have huge amounts of grant money to spend freely” and the like. These misperceptions can take up a substantial portion of a PCV’s first year. Those who know me well are quite aware that I like my results and I enjoy getting into the thick of things fast.
The house has electricity and a well a few feet from my front door. Much of the work that the previous vol did was associated with an NGO and appears to be centered around peads (kids) and maternal health, though there was some work with women’s groups as well. She left me a complete dossier and I’m quite excited to get started.
The great news is that I’ve got some heavy hitters in my corner, including the rest of PC Benin’s Pennsylvania boys (all south-central to boot). Actually, all of the new RCH men are up north with me as well, with posts ranging from nearly Nigeria to the Parakou region. I think I’m the only one who is in Atakora region though, though I have a few of the RCH ladies with me as well. I will have not one, but three nearby vols, with each of the specialties represented (though I have yet to meet the SED or TEFL vols yet).
So now that we have all the serious stuff out of the way, here’s what happened at my Maman’s party last week.
Lest I had forgotten that Mama had a party that day, the workman hauling lumber up the side of the building right outside my door (my apartment being on the roof of the house) enabled me to quickly reprise the situation. Stumbling outside in gym shorts and flip flops, I meet the Beninese roadie, appraise what he’s doing (using metal wire to lift tree branches to form a nice patio) and based on my extensive knowledge of economics, decide to double our productivity by hauling the wood up while he tied wire around the next bundle of wood on the ground floor. Unfortunately, my fellow laborer possessed an equal mind for efficiency and had doubled the load in anticipation of both of us lifting the weight. Our theoretical discussion became an issue of practical importance after I had lifted it approximately halfway up the three stories to the roof. At this point I was nearly at the point where I could grab the top with my hand and was experimenting with different policy options to bring that about. However, without gloves or sense this was proving difficult. Fortunately, my compatriot’s MBA in International Finance allowed him to notice the erratically swinging wood was well above where he had placed it and that he had better get to the roof before the damned yovo fool knocked out one of Mama’s windows or perhaps even Mama herself (who was watching from the second story). While I felt as though a Nobel-worthy exercise was taking place, he expressed faith in my formulas by both dropping what he was holding and moving faster than any Beninese person I have yet seen. Thus reunited, we solved our common misunderstanding and were able to successfully repeat our rooftop development strategy as needed.
Later, the party got started and Maman’s basketball team from her college days decided to introduce me to the Beninese art of dancing. They did this subtly, by forming a conga line directly towards me and then arranging for the entire party to implore me to dance. Always being one to bein integre, I jumped in the conga line and picked up a white kerchief like the rest of the dancers. It took about thirty seconds to realize that only women were dancing and only single ones had the white kerchiefs. It took only took three to realize I was likely engaging in blatantly false advertising regarding the state of my hymen and that could be the source of some of the crowd’s amusement. Still, I perservered and danced with the ladies of Porto-Novo for a good half hour until I was rescued by Willy and Bill (my host cousin and brother) who were manning the bar. My fellow housemates were skimming off of every drink they made and provided a huge source of amusement the rest of the night.
I went to bed utterly shattered and then started the week for Monday morning.
First things first. Geography lesson. Pretend Benin is a head of broccoli. First thing, cut the bloom on top of the stalk in half (but leave the stem intact). The right side of the is Alibori and Borgou and those kids report to Parakou. The left side is Atakora (me) and Donga; and our home base is to Natitingou (by all accounts the homiest workstation in Benin). Go lower to the stem and you’ve got the Collines (which are a series of hills and mark the boundary between north and south, and below that you’ve got the south. I think the west side of the Collines are with us in Natty (the shorthand for Natitingou).
The good news is I got exactly what I wanted, an established post where I can get right to work without having to construct a mold for what exactly a PCV can and cannot do. These sort of things include “no, I am not a doctor; no, I do not have huge amounts of grant money to spend freely” and the like. These misperceptions can take up a substantial portion of a PCV’s first year. Those who know me well are quite aware that I like my results and I enjoy getting into the thick of things fast.
The house has electricity and a well a few feet from my front door. Much of the work that the previous vol did was associated with an NGO and appears to be centered around peads (kids) and maternal health, though there was some work with women’s groups as well. She left me a complete dossier and I’m quite excited to get started.
The great news is that I’ve got some heavy hitters in my corner, including the rest of PC Benin’s Pennsylvania boys (all south-central to boot). Actually, all of the new RCH men are up north with me as well, with posts ranging from nearly Nigeria to the Parakou region. I think I’m the only one who is in Atakora region though, though I have a few of the RCH ladies with me as well. I will have not one, but three nearby vols, with each of the specialties represented (though I have yet to meet the SED or TEFL vols yet).
So now that we have all the serious stuff out of the way, here’s what happened at my Maman’s party last week.
Lest I had forgotten that Mama had a party that day, the workman hauling lumber up the side of the building right outside my door (my apartment being on the roof of the house) enabled me to quickly reprise the situation. Stumbling outside in gym shorts and flip flops, I meet the Beninese roadie, appraise what he’s doing (using metal wire to lift tree branches to form a nice patio) and based on my extensive knowledge of economics, decide to double our productivity by hauling the wood up while he tied wire around the next bundle of wood on the ground floor. Unfortunately, my fellow laborer possessed an equal mind for efficiency and had doubled the load in anticipation of both of us lifting the weight. Our theoretical discussion became an issue of practical importance after I had lifted it approximately halfway up the three stories to the roof. At this point I was nearly at the point where I could grab the top with my hand and was experimenting with different policy options to bring that about. However, without gloves or sense this was proving difficult. Fortunately, my compatriot’s MBA in International Finance allowed him to notice the erratically swinging wood was well above where he had placed it and that he had better get to the roof before the damned yovo fool knocked out one of Mama’s windows or perhaps even Mama herself (who was watching from the second story). While I felt as though a Nobel-worthy exercise was taking place, he expressed faith in my formulas by both dropping what he was holding and moving faster than any Beninese person I have yet seen. Thus reunited, we solved our common misunderstanding and were able to successfully repeat our rooftop development strategy as needed.
Later, the party got started and Maman’s basketball team from her college days decided to introduce me to the Beninese art of dancing. They did this subtly, by forming a conga line directly towards me and then arranging for the entire party to implore me to dance. Always being one to bein integre, I jumped in the conga line and picked up a white kerchief like the rest of the dancers. It took about thirty seconds to realize that only women were dancing and only single ones had the white kerchiefs. It took only took three to realize I was likely engaging in blatantly false advertising regarding the state of my hymen and that could be the source of some of the crowd’s amusement. Still, I perservered and danced with the ladies of Porto-Novo for a good half hour until I was rescued by Willy and Bill (my host cousin and brother) who were manning the bar. My fellow housemates were skimming off of every drink they made and provided a huge source of amusement the rest of the night.
I went to bed utterly shattered and then started the week for Monday morning.
Fete-ing In Porto-Novo
Well, it’s official. I’m posted to Pehonko, about 90 klicks east of Natitingou in the north west region of Benin. It’s important to note that the Northwest is not the Northeast. In general it’s the friendliest and most hospitable region of Benin. That being said, it’s also going to be an oven, easily rounding out at a dry 110+ during the hot season.
First things first. Geography lesson. Pretend Benin is a head of broccoli. First thing, cut the bloom on top of the stalk in half (but leave the stem intact). The right side of the is Alibori and Borgou and those kids report to Parakou. The left side is Atakora (me) and Donga; and our home base is to Natitingou (by all accounts the homiest workstation in Benin). Go lower to the stem and you’ve got the Collines (which are a series of hills and mark the boundary between north and south, and below that you’ve got the south. I think the west side of the Collines are with us in Natty (the shorthand for Natitingou).
The good news is I got exactly what I wanted, an established post where I can get right to work without having to construct a mold for what exactly a PCV can and cannot do. These sort of things include “no, I am not a doctor; no, I do not have huge amounts of grant money to spend freely” and the like. These misperceptions can take up a substantial portion of a PCV’s first year. Those who know me well are quite aware that I like my results and I enjoy getting into the thick of things fast.
The house has electricity and a well a few feet from my front door. Much of the work that the previous vol did was associated with an NGO and appears to be centered around peads (kids) and maternal health, though there was some work with women’s groups as well. She left me a complete dossier and I’m quite excited to get started.
The great news is that I’ve got some heavy hitters in my corner, including the rest of PC Benin’s Pennsylvania boys (all south-central to boot). Actually, all of the new RCH men are up north with me as well, with posts ranging from nearly Nigeria to the Parakou region. I think I’m the only one who is in Atakora region though, though I have a few of the RCH ladies with me as well. I will have not one, but three nearby vols, with each of the specialties represented (though I have yet to meet the SED or TEFL vols yet).
So now that we have all the serious stuff out of the way, here’s what happened at my Maman’s party last week.
Lest I had forgotten that Mama had a party that day, the workman hauling lumber up the side of the building right outside my door (my apartment being on the roof of the house) enabled me to quickly reprise the situation. Stumbling outside in gym shorts and flip flops, I meet the Beninese roadie, appraise what he’s doing (using metal wire to lift tree branches to form a nice patio) and based on my extensive knowledge of economics, decide to double our productivity by hauling the wood up while he tied wire around the next bundle of wood on the ground floor. Unfortunately, my fellow laborer possessed an equal mind for efficiency and had doubled the load in anticipation of both of us lifting the weight. Our theoretical discussion became an issue of practical importance after I had lifted it approximately halfway up the three stories to the roof. At this point I was nearly at the point where I could grab the top with my hand and was experimenting with different policy options to bring that about. However, without gloves or sense this was proving difficult. Fortunately, my compatriot’s MBA in International Finance allowed him to notice the erratically swinging wood was well above where he had placed it and that he had better get to the roof before the damned yovo fool knocked out one of Mama’s windows or perhaps even Mama herself (who was watching from the second story). While I felt as though a Nobel-worthy exercise was taking place, he expressed faith in my formulas by both dropping what he was holding and moving faster than any Beninese person I have yet seen. Thus reunited, we solved our common misunderstanding and were able to successfully repeat our rooftop development strategy as needed.
Later, the party got started and Maman’s basketball team from her college days decided to introduce me to the Beninese art of dancing. They did this subtly, by forming a conga line directly towards me and then arranging for the entire party to implore me to dance. Always being one to bein integre, I jumped in the conga line and picked up a white kerchief like the rest of the dancers. It took about thirty seconds to realize that only women were dancing and only single ones had the white kerchiefs. It took only took three to realize I was likely engaging in blatantly false advertising regarding the state of my hymen and that could be the source of some of the crowd’s amusement. Still, I perservered and danced with the ladies of Porto-Novo for a good half hour until I was rescued by Willy and Bill (my host cousin and brother) who were manning the bar. Willy was skimming off of every drink he made and provided a huge source of amusement the rest of the night.
I went to bed utterly shattered and then started the week for Monday morning.
First things first. Geography lesson. Pretend Benin is a head of broccoli. First thing, cut the bloom on top of the stalk in half (but leave the stem intact). The right side of the is Alibori and Borgou and those kids report to Parakou. The left side is Atakora (me) and Donga; and our home base is to Natitingou (by all accounts the homiest workstation in Benin). Go lower to the stem and you’ve got the Collines (which are a series of hills and mark the boundary between north and south, and below that you’ve got the south. I think the west side of the Collines are with us in Natty (the shorthand for Natitingou).
The good news is I got exactly what I wanted, an established post where I can get right to work without having to construct a mold for what exactly a PCV can and cannot do. These sort of things include “no, I am not a doctor; no, I do not have huge amounts of grant money to spend freely” and the like. These misperceptions can take up a substantial portion of a PCV’s first year. Those who know me well are quite aware that I like my results and I enjoy getting into the thick of things fast.
The house has electricity and a well a few feet from my front door. Much of the work that the previous vol did was associated with an NGO and appears to be centered around peads (kids) and maternal health, though there was some work with women’s groups as well. She left me a complete dossier and I’m quite excited to get started.
The great news is that I’ve got some heavy hitters in my corner, including the rest of PC Benin’s Pennsylvania boys (all south-central to boot). Actually, all of the new RCH men are up north with me as well, with posts ranging from nearly Nigeria to the Parakou region. I think I’m the only one who is in Atakora region though, though I have a few of the RCH ladies with me as well. I will have not one, but three nearby vols, with each of the specialties represented (though I have yet to meet the SED or TEFL vols yet).
So now that we have all the serious stuff out of the way, here’s what happened at my Maman’s party last week.
Lest I had forgotten that Mama had a party that day, the workman hauling lumber up the side of the building right outside my door (my apartment being on the roof of the house) enabled me to quickly reprise the situation. Stumbling outside in gym shorts and flip flops, I meet the Beninese roadie, appraise what he’s doing (using metal wire to lift tree branches to form a nice patio) and based on my extensive knowledge of economics, decide to double our productivity by hauling the wood up while he tied wire around the next bundle of wood on the ground floor. Unfortunately, my fellow laborer possessed an equal mind for efficiency and had doubled the load in anticipation of both of us lifting the weight. Our theoretical discussion became an issue of practical importance after I had lifted it approximately halfway up the three stories to the roof. At this point I was nearly at the point where I could grab the top with my hand and was experimenting with different policy options to bring that about. However, without gloves or sense this was proving difficult. Fortunately, my compatriot’s MBA in International Finance allowed him to notice the erratically swinging wood was well above where he had placed it and that he had better get to the roof before the damned yovo fool knocked out one of Mama’s windows or perhaps even Mama herself (who was watching from the second story). While I felt as though a Nobel-worthy exercise was taking place, he expressed faith in my formulas by both dropping what he was holding and moving faster than any Beninese person I have yet seen. Thus reunited, we solved our common misunderstanding and were able to successfully repeat our rooftop development strategy as needed.
Later, the party got started and Maman’s basketball team from her college days decided to introduce me to the Beninese art of dancing. They did this subtly, by forming a conga line directly towards me and then arranging for the entire party to implore me to dance. Always being one to bein integre, I jumped in the conga line and picked up a white kerchief like the rest of the dancers. It took about thirty seconds to realize that only women were dancing and only single ones had the white kerchiefs. It took only took three to realize I was likely engaging in blatantly false advertising regarding the state of my hymen and that could be the source of some of the crowd’s amusement. Still, I perservered and danced with the ladies of Porto-Novo for a good half hour until I was rescued by Willy and Bill (my host cousin and brother) who were manning the bar. Willy was skimming off of every drink he made and provided a huge source of amusement the rest of the night.
I went to bed utterly shattered and then started the week for Monday morning.
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Last Ride of Steve McQueen - or Dave breaks out of Songhai
This happened nearly a week ago, but it was a pretty good tuesday for stories, so I'll tell you all about it right now.
First, everyone in the carrefour (big traffic circle) simultaneously stopped dead in the street and started yelling YOVO..YOVO...YOVO. This was remarkably unusual for 7:30 Porto-Novo congestion patterns, so I decided to slow down to figure out exactly what was going on. If I would have been in a car I may have wanted to crack the window slightly. About this time I became slowly aware that I was the only white person in sight, and was thus probably the source of all the consternation. I look back to see this middle-aged man bent double running towards me through traffic. Always being one to 'bein integre' I plant my bike next to the middle of the carrefour and take a closer look. He catches up to me, throws something at my feet and says approximately, "You need to take care of your stuff, idiot". He then waded back through the morning tangle to wherever do-gooders pass their pre-apertif hours of the day. Apparently, I had dropped my saddlebags. It was embarressing. The situation was not improved by the fact that my commute that morning lasted more than a mere 3.5 minutes COUNTING the time I spend with my mouth open like an idiot in the middle of the street. Fortuneatly, all this attention solved my original problem (I had been lost) and I was able to rejoin my other highly educated peers for our morning of intellectual stimulation.
The second good story of the day involved my attempting to foolishly take use of the bathrooms in Sonhai without giving the proper respect to the ancestors, vodun and the chief maintence officer. We had decided to go to a buvette en group after class, and I thought I was being quite the sly one by pre-emptively relasing my bladder before our Benin Emergency Educational Resource Session (known colloquially as BEERS). My friend, who will only be identified as J wished me "good luck" as I entered the bathroom, which I now believe to have activated the failure of the restroom facility. After inspecting the porcalin, I turn to exit and rejoin my fellow stagiers only to find that the door will not open. No worries, there is always a huge line for this lonely toilette, so there will be someone to notify a professional that the door appears to be stuck. No such luck. Apparently, the attractiveness of putting liquids into their bladders had temporarily outweighed the benefits removing them and I was indeed alone in the middle of what can be generously described as 'Beninese Disneyland.' (If Disneyland was run by the World Bank). Anyway after calling for help for an appropriate amount of time (~4 seconds) I decide the only thing to be done is to investigate the problem with my handy multi-tool. First I check to ensure that the door is indeed stuck. It is. Fine. I take off the handle and try to move the axle of the door with the pliers on my tool. No dice. I keep playing with that and I realize that the tounge of the door simply will not go in, despite my attempts to the contrary. (For mechanically-challanged stagiers only- this means the boy part of the door wouldn't leave the girl part so I could go drink). Things escalate quickly when you're trapped in a hot bathroom with thirsty americans quaffing your brews. Thus, I took out my flathead screwdriver and destroyed the doorjamb to the point where it would swing freely in......which allowed the repairman who had been standing outside to walk in and give quite the look to the splinter-covered American on his knees with hopes of escape rapidly fading from his eyes. Damage control mode. I pick up all the assorted pieces of the door, throw my best German accent on my french that I possibly can and make references to "il ne marche pas" (it dosen't work), throw everything in his hands and walk right out without looking back.
I like Africa.
First, everyone in the carrefour (big traffic circle) simultaneously stopped dead in the street and started yelling YOVO..YOVO...YOVO. This was remarkably unusual for 7:30 Porto-Novo congestion patterns, so I decided to slow down to figure out exactly what was going on. If I would have been in a car I may have wanted to crack the window slightly. About this time I became slowly aware that I was the only white person in sight, and was thus probably the source of all the consternation. I look back to see this middle-aged man bent double running towards me through traffic. Always being one to 'bein integre' I plant my bike next to the middle of the carrefour and take a closer look. He catches up to me, throws something at my feet and says approximately, "You need to take care of your stuff, idiot". He then waded back through the morning tangle to wherever do-gooders pass their pre-apertif hours of the day. Apparently, I had dropped my saddlebags. It was embarressing. The situation was not improved by the fact that my commute that morning lasted more than a mere 3.5 minutes COUNTING the time I spend with my mouth open like an idiot in the middle of the street. Fortuneatly, all this attention solved my original problem (I had been lost) and I was able to rejoin my other highly educated peers for our morning of intellectual stimulation.
The second good story of the day involved my attempting to foolishly take use of the bathrooms in Sonhai without giving the proper respect to the ancestors, vodun and the chief maintence officer. We had decided to go to a buvette en group after class, and I thought I was being quite the sly one by pre-emptively relasing my bladder before our Benin Emergency Educational Resource Session (known colloquially as BEERS). My friend, who will only be identified as J wished me "good luck" as I entered the bathroom, which I now believe to have activated the failure of the restroom facility. After inspecting the porcalin, I turn to exit and rejoin my fellow stagiers only to find that the door will not open. No worries, there is always a huge line for this lonely toilette, so there will be someone to notify a professional that the door appears to be stuck. No such luck. Apparently, the attractiveness of putting liquids into their bladders had temporarily outweighed the benefits removing them and I was indeed alone in the middle of what can be generously described as 'Beninese Disneyland.' (If Disneyland was run by the World Bank). Anyway after calling for help for an appropriate amount of time (~4 seconds) I decide the only thing to be done is to investigate the problem with my handy multi-tool. First I check to ensure that the door is indeed stuck. It is. Fine. I take off the handle and try to move the axle of the door with the pliers on my tool. No dice. I keep playing with that and I realize that the tounge of the door simply will not go in, despite my attempts to the contrary. (For mechanically-challanged stagiers only- this means the boy part of the door wouldn't leave the girl part so I could go drink). Things escalate quickly when you're trapped in a hot bathroom with thirsty americans quaffing your brews. Thus, I took out my flathead screwdriver and destroyed the doorjamb to the point where it would swing freely in......which allowed the repairman who had been standing outside to walk in and give quite the look to the splinter-covered American on his knees with hopes of escape rapidly fading from his eyes. Damage control mode. I pick up all the assorted pieces of the door, throw my best German accent on my french that I possibly can and make references to "il ne marche pas" (it dosen't work), throw everything in his hands and walk right out without looking back.
I like Africa.
Friday, July 23, 2010
In Africa, send stickers
Leaving the United States, I was sure many things would change, language, climate and everything else. What I wasn't prepared for was the amount of things that stayed the same. In short, I have a price out on my head for jacking someone's hot pink velociraptor silly-band, much like I would if I had done the same thing at camp. A similar tale could be told as regard my moto-helmet. Seeing as many of my fellow stagiers are from such illustrious places as Ohio and Florida State (found in Trailerhasse, FL) and persist in hating when I have my UF hat on, I am asking for PARTICULARY OBNOXIOUS UF stickers. There is a premium for stickers which denote Seminoles failing. (appologies to Jeff for stealing his helmet motif).
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Freak-out Stage
Today was the first non-work day when everyone else in the family wasn't off and it didn't start pretty. Aside from the 'Baby Girl' aka Maple the Collie-Lab mix mistaking the upstairs for a collection of port-a-johns, it just wasn't much fun having to wrestle with the impending nature of my departure. In some ways, its kind of like being a kettle on the fire, if you keep expelling steam (obsessively talking with anyone who will listen) you'll be fine but if you try and seal it up you're simply going to explode. I am confident in my decision and am daily becoming more prepared (read: packed) but damn if the first step isn't a doozy.
Monday, June 28, 2010
New Blog, New Knives, Old Dave
While I was going to present the whole 'making the blog' tale including the epic battle which raged between veranda and courier over the glory of being the title font, I kept thinking about moving on, growing up and everything that comes with that.
Birthdays, traveling and children invite self-reflection in ways that surprise us sometimes. Fortunately, I've had an ample supply of both over the past few weeks. Working the salt mines of childcare brings you face to face with a thousand little inquisitors armed with the latest in pop-culture and a nose for deviancy against what they consider to be the natural order of things. My lunchtime interrogation squad did its work quickly today, inquiring my age, whether I had resolved my Peace Corps service over the weekend (I had taken off Friday, after all) and why for heaven's sake wasn't I married? I startled myself by using age to dismiss the marriage part. Normally, I invoke Africa like the bogey-man to explain everything that's going on right now. Late for work? Oh, thinking about Africa. Puked more inappropriately than usual? Yep, that's the Malarone. Not married? She'd be too snug in a carry-on. Normally the conversation then segues into a request to violate the Endangered Species Act (Zebras being a perennial favorite) and I can escape.
In this case, the reason I used age was because I meant it. And its not because I don't think 22 year olds should get married (though I do). Its because I'm not ready for that level of permanence to my life. It isn't even the whole 'waking up next to the same person for the rest of your life' thing. Well, it sort of is. But not the way you'd think. Honestly, the scariest part is the idea that the expectation would exist that I would have to be the same person everyday till the end as to not upset the balance that facilitated getting hitched in the first place. Maybe you're just supposed to find the person that you can manage those transitions with. Or maybe I'm just a 22 year old spinster like they say I am.
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