I have made the very difficult decision to end my service in Benin. It's been a hell of a year. After experiencing difficulties with a homologue who was doing black magic on me in my village and moving to the capital and coming up on empty with my ONG and housing situation, I am really exhausted. The constant harassment I have faced has really worn me down here. It is difficult for me to walk down the street alone, go to the marche, the bank, etc. I have Zem's who are impolite, and am approached by strange men all the time. At first, it was just Yovo, or cherie, or I want to marry you. Then it was being followed and phone calls and being pulled off the side of the road by my wrists when I refused to respond to their advances. I've had people pull up next to me on motos, grab my wrists and say "I'm going to kiss you". I've had very inappropriate comments yelled at me from across the street. After a while it gets difficult to go places alone, and you start to lose your sense of security and freedom. While there are things I love about Benin and will miss dearly, my experience here has been at times heartbreaking. I spent a wonderful Easter weekend with my Beninese host family and friends. I never thought it would be possible to integrate into this society where I am actually considered a part of the family and not an outsider or even a guest. The conversations I've had with people have been eye opening and amazing and I am so lucky to have been able to make friends in Porto Novo where the French level is high enough that I can actually communicate with people on a real level. Peace Corps, they say has your highest highs and lowest lows. Easter weekend was definitely a high. But Easter Monday was definitely the lowest of my lows. Unfortunately, I am no longer willing to wait for the next high. I went to the beach with my host family and group of friends. There were about 3 families with us, several young people and older people. We had a pic nic and listened to music and we waded into the water together. The beach was crowded and we were all holding hands to try to stay together as we went into the water. (Note we were not swimming, we were just wading in about waist deep- the waves can be dangerous here and no one wanted to go out very far) There were two guys from the family who came with us, four teenage girls, my college aged sister, myself, my 22 year old cousin and 2 of his friends from the gendarme school, and my two host brothers, 15 and 20. We were in a group together and all the sudden I was being grabbed by the wrists and yanked away, being pulled by this group of guys we didn't know who wanted to take photos with me and were pulling me into the water with them. I managed to free myself, but they pursued. There were perhaps 10 of them. I was shoved in the middle of this circle that my host family and friends formed around me, along with 2 other girls. All the sudden these other guys were pushing their way into the circle and grabbing me, and touching me in sexual and inappropriate ways. Fighting started breaking out between my friends and the guys harassing me, my host mama was screaming, and some of the papas came down to break things up. It was completely awful. I had been grabbed, pinched, fondled and groped by 5 or 6 guys in broad daylight in front of hundreds of people including my host family. I felt completely violated, angry, and scared. I never would have thought people could act that way, especially when I was with a large group of Beninese people. This incident is not pleasant to write about, but I want to accurately depict my time in Benin, the good along with the bad- and why I have decided to go home. It was difficult enough dealing with the comments and harassment every day but now I know what can actually happen- despite the presence of Beninese people. It is still unfathomable to me- how could that have happened? It was a very difficult week for me after I made the decision to go home. I will miss my fellow volunteers, my host family and Beninese friends, and all the cultural exchanges I make on a daily basis with people here. I will miss certain aspects of Beninese culture, though the attitudes about women and the way I've been treated here is something I cannot tolerate. I will miss the music and dancing and the palm trees and igname pile with sauce d'arrachide and wagashi. I will miss bissap and phrases like "donne moi ca" "doucement" and " ah bon" I will miss the fetes and the crazy, loud tissu and how they think the most tacky things here are "tres jolie". When I think about the past year it is completely exhausting. I've had really tough times and really great times. I've learned so much in the past year and I consider myself lucky to have had the opportunity to travel and live in another country and try to understand the way people live and think here. My memories of Benin will be bittersweet. I am still trying to comprehend how a day like Easter can be so perfect, and the following day a trip to the beach could be so completely awful.

Though annoyed by the Director's constant unavailability, I was optimistic about this meeting. PC had set up a meeting with me for the following week to discuss our plan of action as far as work goes- with my boss from PC present. It looked as though things were about to get moving on my housing situation. The director called in the director of the kid's library and I immediately realized that this was not going to be a conversation about my house. To summarize the meeting, I was told that I was not integrating well into the ONG, that I didn't have any friends within the ONG, that the director was not going to let me do health related activities, that they wanted to teach English and play with the kids at the library and they expected me to understand their local language, Goun. I was not to work with any other outside partners, I was only to work with them, and I was getting the house next door to my host family whether or not there were any problems- that was the house I was getting and there were no other options. There was no discussion, I was cut off each time I tried to talk, and it was clear that the director did not' want any conversation- it was a lecture, a "this is what you are going to do because I say so" and that's just the way it was going to be. He then said I had to move all my furniture out of my old house and give him the key by Friday because he had a stagiare coming in and he wanted to put them in my old house. I didn't have a new house yet, so I had no idea what I was supposed to do with my belongings, but it was clear that he did not really care. I realized that what this ONG expected me to do was not what I came here to do. They were not willing to compromise or negotiate on my role within their organization and they had the power of renting my house to hold over my head. They had not been looking for a house for me as they said they were, they were not taking my security concerns seriously, and I was being kicked out of my house with nowhere to put my stuff. I knew that there was no way to work with this ONG. I just hit a brick wall as far as housing and work go.

So that morning I went to go see the director. I walked to the office- it was about a 40 minute walk in the hot sun. They said he wasn't there, he was at the pharmacy. I went to the pharmacy, snuck in and quietly sat down because it looked like they were about to start a meeting of some sort. It was the first time I had been to the pharmacy( though I had asked numerous times to be taken there) and I had not been told anything about a meeting. I looked around for my director and didnt' see him anywhere. PC called me and said they had just spoken to the director, he was at the main office and he was waiting for me there to talk about my house. So I went all the way back over to the main bureau. He wasn't there. The office was closed and the doors were locked. I called and he didn't answer. PC called and he didn't answer. I waited and waited. Finally, I gave up and went home. I was sunburt, frustrated and angry. I had been searching frantically for this man who was the only person who knew anything about my housing, never answered my calls, emails or showed up for our scheduled meetings. I walked all the way back home, ate lunch and then PC called me and said he was in his office now, so go back over there. Why couldn't he just call me directly? I thought this was absurd. I walked back over there. He was with a client. I waited and waited. He finally called me in.

My host brother came home for Easter. I was so excited to see him. He is probably one of my closest friends here. Easter weekend we went to several fetes. There was midnight mass at the church, and then it was party time. We saw local dancers and singers and had drinks until 5 in the morning. It was a really fun night. My host sister came with me and her cousin and a friend of hers. I had secretly been hoping my host sister would date this friend of hers, because he is one of the nicest, most respectful men I have met in Benin and he totally adores her. We rolled in around 5 and slept for a few hours... at 8 they were up and cooking for Easter. We had pate rouge (the most tolerable of the pates) and chicken with jus (tomatoes, onions) and my host Maman even bought me a soda. That evening we went to a friend's house where we were recieved with more food, and then headed over to a buvette where he was performing with his local hip hop band. Afterwards, my host brother, sister, cousin and I went into town and watched dancing at an outdoor concert. They were still feting Easter weekend.

Later in the week I went to see my sister at Calavi- the largest university in Benin. She is studying to be a vet and I got to tour the campus as well as the laboratory where she has biology classes. It was very interesting to see college life in Benin.

I was called by PC and rushed back to Porto Novo because I was told the Director of my ONG and I were going to see the inside of the potential house near my host family. I got to Porto and called the director- no response. I walked over to the house- the proprietor wasn't there. I was confused. I finally saw the proprietor on Sunday. He told me the director had tried to put down an advance for the house- and he had refused. He wasn't going to let us see the house or talk about money until May 5. That put us back another two and a half weeks. I was starting to get discouraged. I hadn't had a house in over a month. The director was never available. This house was promising, but if we couldn't even see the inside until May 5, and there happened to be a problem, that would mean repairs could take weeks longer. I wasn't comfortable agreeing to a house that had not been inspected. My boss at PC agreed that it wasn't a good idea to commit to a house that could have major problems. This was really dragging on and she wanted the ONG to let us know what other options they had come up with, in case it was possible to move into a house within the next week or so instead of waiting just to see this other house. I was told to go see the director the next morning.

So I went to my ONG to try to figure out what was going on with my housing situation. PC had let them know of the options we had found and to see if they had come up with any- which is their responsibility, it is in the contract to provide housing for the volunteer. I was planning on going home for vacation in June and got my vacation form signed. I talked to my supervisor about doing sensibilizations and the malaria training we had coming up with Peace Corps. I wanted to invite someone to the session and was explaining to her the role of the homologue, and who did she think would be a good work partner for me. She wasn't very happy about the malaria training. She said she didn't realize I wanted to do sensibilizations and that she didn't want me to work with them in the community. I was confused- but that's what I came here for... She said she didnt' know what to do with me because I don't speak Goun. But I learned French to work here... It didn't matter, she said they speak Goun in the community. No health stuff for me- go back to the kids library and do English there.

So I scheduled a meeting with PC to find out if they had any advice on how I could work with my ONG and still do health-related activities- not teach English. I came back with a plan, and a whole lot of books and resources. I was going to try to do a little bit of English, and health related sensibilizations with the kids at the library. In addition, I was going to look for outside partners in the community. Maybe the Mayor's office, local CEG (schools), and the ONG that had let me stay in their room who had invited me out in the villages to work with them. I was not just a volunteer for my ONG but for the city of Porto Novo. Just keep the lines of communication open with the ONG and we thought that would be fine.

So I had heard about all these cooking sessions in Dogbo and how this volunteer named Dennis was just like a chef-God and was making stuff like meatloaf and homemade pasta. I am hopelessly cooking-challenged and was very jealous of Catherine, who in addition to her own cooking abilities had this guy Dennis in her region. So when I was invited to hamburger night I was very excited. I got in a taxi and thought I was in luck when the driver said he was going all the way to Kome and I didn't have to switch taxi's in Cotonou. Well, as it goes in Benin, I was not in luck at all. There were two men who asked me for my phone numbers and addresses in the car- old, discusting men, who said they wanted to marry me. Then the taxi driver pulled over just outside of Kome and left us in the car for about 40 minutes while he went off somewhere. Finally we were on our way again- except we were going the wrong way. Instead of heading towards Dogbo on the paved road we were heading straight into the bush. Some guy jumped on top of our car and said he was our guide. He "guided" us straight into the jungle. There wasn't even a path where villagers had walked or cows had trodded. It was just straight up palm trees slapping us in the face though the windows. But there were villagers present- lots of them with machetes. They had created a road block with a tree trunk and were demanding 100 cfa from us. The driver paid. We continued.... another road block, and another and another.... There was a grandpa, a group of guys, a group of school girls waving their machetes while sporting their khaki school uniforms, and then there was a group of men with iron jaws laid out across the road and their leader was swinging a hoe dangerously close to the windshield which I happened to be sitting right behind, as I was in the middle seat in the front, basically sitting on top of the gear shifter. Finally, after all our fees had been paid the guide asked for 500 CFA as payment and we were allowed to exit the jungle and head back onto the paved road. It turns out the driver didn't have all his paperwork in order for the taxi and had to take a detour to avoid going through the police. He dropped me off on the side of the road and I found my second taxi to Dogbo. The driver was once again- a jerk. He talked all about how he was going to marry me the entire time while the other two women in the car laughed at me hysterically when I told them I didn't understand Aja. They then decided that screaming Aja at me would be even funnier and proceeded to do that for the hour long trip. The chauffer dropped me off in Dogbo- stole 300 francs from me and then tried to kiss me. I was not amused. Finally I found a Zem- thank God, I thought. I'm here. Well not quite. The zem got lost- even though he said he knew where Catherine's house was. Then his moto broke down on the side of the road. He called me another Zem who also got lost and then when he finally arrived at Catherine's house, stole 50 CFA from me. I spent the night with Catherine and everything was fine until I was jarred from my sleep by her demon cat which was chewing on my foot. No matter what I did, she kept coming back, jumping on my bed and digging her little claws into my leg while nibbling on my toes.

So the next day was hamburger night. Was it worth the machete weilding villagers, the abnoxious taxi driver, and the demon cat? Yes, it was. It was delicious. We had hamburgers- will real ketchup, coleslaw, potato salad. Devils food cake, recees peices dessert and jello. It was diviiiine.

Kristen was our hostess and she was so kind to share her Easter goodies with us. Her dog, Jasper was sick, and we were really worried about him, but I think that he's okay now. Apparently, he had a problem with his bladder and the vet said it was because he wasn't getting enough sex. Its just like men, he said, they have to release the sperm somehow otherwise they get sick. Apparently this is also a justification for men cheating on their wives. Anyway, it was a great weekend- until Monday morning when I was awaken by the aroma of vomit and the sound of Catherine retching into a bucket. She had gotten really sick during the night. The doctors asked her to come in, so I went with her- she didn't think she could make the trip in the taxi. We made it without incident. I stopped in to talk to PC about my housing situation. I was getting put in a temporary room for the time being. It was a fellow volunteer's ONG, and the people there were so great and helfpul and accomodating. The room, however, wasn't the greatest. It was really small, you had to stand on top of the toilet to take a shower, and there was a huge hole in the wall which left me open to invasion by mosquitos and ants. The ants ate all my food. The mosquitos ate me. There was no way to hang up my bugnet. I lasted about a week, and then went back to the host family's. I worked it out with my host maman that she wasn't going to be buying food for me or doing anything to put her out, she could just give me a place to sleep and it was fine. So I waited and waited to hear back on the house. Then I found a possibility on my own. PC came down to look at the options and let the ONG know we needed to get moving on this. I found a house next to my host family for an affordable price. The only problem was the proprietor was refusing to let us see the inside- which made me think there was probably some kind of problem. He said we could look at it after the current resident had moved out- at the end of the month. That would be a few more weeks.

So I had been having some difficulties with people in my neighborhood that had resulted in me asking my ONG to move my house at the end of February. I had not heard back from the director and had not been able to catch him at the office- he was either not there or too busy. My problems consisted of men following me to work, showing up at work, following me home, following me, sometimes in pairs on their motos, and trying to cut me off en route to work in order to talk to me. Talking meant saying things like, they were going to marry me, they were coming to my house tonight, they wanted to sleep with me, they know where I live and where I work and they are coming over to see me, they wanted to give me rides on their motos, they wanted to have mixed children with me, or other blatantly rude or vulgar comments about they way I walked or looked. I was getting very stressed out and worn down by the constant struggle to leave my house every day when I knew what awaited me on my way to work. Riding my bike didn't change anything because they still followed me with their motos. Sometimes they cut me off, or waited for me at my gate when I arrived from work. I tried to avoid them, ignore them, yell at them, tell them to go away, to leave me alone, tell them I was married, etc. Nothing was working. Then some of them started coming up and grabbing me by the wrists and trying to pull me over to "talk" to them off the side of the road. I started feeling very threatened when people started to touch me. Then I started getting creepy phone calls from someone who was watching me when he called. I left for work in the morning and he would say "Where are you going? I'll give you a ride, I'm coming with my moto". I would refuse, tell him I didn't know him, never call me again. He continued to call for about 4 weeks. He called when I got home from work as well, and he said he knew me, that I didn't know him, but he knew my house and where I worked. There were a few men who tried to pick me up on their motos as well- though I don't know if these men were related to the man calling me. I began to get really creeped out, and that's when I asked the director to move my house. When Kate was murdered Peace Corps jumped on my situation and told me I was moving. I requested to be in the neighborhood with my host family as I thought it would be safer to have friends and family around and be in an area where I knew my way around and people knew me. I also thought I would benefit from being located far away from work so people wouldn't be able to follow me. Just being able to tell people I lived with a family (although I wouldn't actually be living in the same house, just close by) was somewhat of a deterrant for people who said they would be dropping by during the night to visit me. Peace Corps thought this was a good idea, though my ONG didn't seem to eager to find new housing for me. I had waited for a few weeks and had been staying with my host family, which was getting to be a bit of a strain on them. I started looking for houses on my own since I could never get in touch with the director of my ONG. In the meantime I was invited to Dogbo to attend a "cooking session." The theme was American Food night.

We have an annual fund raiser for uor Gender and Development fund that is used to fund projects dealing with girls clubs and gender empowerment, education, etc. This was in Parakou, and despite the recent shock and sadness of Kate's murder, we all tried to give a good show as Kate would have wanted. We had a date auction, talent show, and silent auction in addition to the dinner and we raised a ton of money-thanks to some of our own very generous volunteers and it was a great success.

For those of you at home just burning to hear which packages I have received thus far, here is the most recent update.

I have received the package from Mrs. Roberts- thank you so much for all the yummy foods.

I have received several packages containing several newspaper clippings ( and I would like to request that the newspaper clippings be reduced to a bare minimum please, its a bit overwhelming) as well as magazines, candy, foodstuffs, sandals.

The envelope with the pajamas has still not arrived- it's probably a lost cause- so don't worry about it.

For those of you who want to send packages the items I find most useful at the moment are:

gum

hazelnut coffeemate creamer

peanut butter

granola bars

trashy magazines

music

examples of things I don't need:

stainless steel condiment holders

nails, hooks, hinges, door handles and other hardware

powdered milk

Thanks to everyone who is sending me stuff- letters, packages, etc, - keep em coming.

I'm finding myself at a bit of a crossroads here. You have to change to live here. You have to be more assertive for sure living in the South, because well, people are more assertive here. They'll cut in front of you, push you out of the way, cheat you, lie to you, yell at you, and sometimes you just have to yell back. But what qualifies as normal levels of adaptation, and what's crossing the line? I had a zem try to change the price on me today. He yelled at me, he whined, he complained, I yelled back at him that no we had already discussed the price and I wouldn't pay any more than the established price. I handed him the money. He refused to take it. I placed it on the back of his moto and walked away. I was heading towards the door at Peace Corps. The zem jumped off his moto ran over to me yelling and grabbed my wrist and my bag. No! I screamed at him trying to free my arm, but he only tightened my grip. He was actually hurting my arm. I told him to let go of my arm, and started to struggle. There's security here let me go! I shouted. Okay, he said. He let me go and asked to switch out the 100 piece I gave him because it was a little worn down. I switched with him and huffed over to the gate where a Peace Corps guard was rushing out to see what I was yelling about. I encounter these experiences every day. When someone is rude or tries to change the price on me or calls me "cherie" that's obnoxious, but that's also part of life here. When someone grabs my arm and refused to let go of me- that requires yelling a little. I am not usually very loud or assertive person and in a way yelling at people every day I view as a sort of personal development- but where do I draw the line? A few months ago I threw a rock at a child-granted this was a disrespectful, obnoxious, Yovo-chanting, tres impoli child- this is definitely not personal development. Am I going to forget how to stand politely in line at buffets and pummel the other customers in order to get a chicken wing first? Will I try to negotiate prices in department stores and throw a fit as I walk out after they've told me the price on the tag really is the"dernier prix?" I think I need something to keep my sanity in this place. Seriously. Remember when men opened doors for women? I was trying to get out of this bakery today. The door was weird and wouldn't open all the way so I was clearly struggling to open it and exit, when two Beninese men approached- and were they there to help me with the door? No, of course not. While they pulled the door open, un-sandwiching me they immediately shoved me out of the way, and I landed back inside the bakery- and the door slammed shut in my face and I had to start the process of escaping from the bakery all over again. And on a side note- bread is usually 125 CFA. I paid 150 for a loaf. The bakery dude slapped the loaf of bread on the table in front of me. I asked for a bag. A bag costs 25 more francs. I have never paid for a bag before. Not a nice papery bakery back, just the normal black sachet you find all over Benin. He wouldn't even cut the bread in half, because I wasn't paying the 25 francs for the bag. I stared at him for a moment. Seriously? I grabbed the bread, ripped in in half, and shoved in in a black sachet I had in my purse. It was so disappointing. I mean bakeries in Benin are supposed to be warm fuzzy places with delightful, sugary, chocolaty, caramely hazel nutty deliciousness - not places where they refuse to cut your bread in half and pull out rugby moves on you. Who would have thought a trip to a bakery could have been so frustrating? Only in Benin.

I forgot to write about the bike tour. It was organized by some of my post-mates and opened up to the southern volunteers. We started out in Sakate and hit up several villages over the course of 4 days. I only participated during the first two days because I was going to Burkina immediately after. We rode our bikes for a few hours each day stopping in villages to do HIV/AIDs education formations and we slept at volunteers' houses. The formations mostly concentrated on the stigmatization of persons with HIV/AIDS, how to prevent HIV/AIDs and what exactly HIV/AIDs really is. At the end we gave out condoms which was absolutely crazy and in some cases dangerous. We gave sensibilizations at different villages, a town hall, and some schools. We separated the women and men and it was interesting to see how reserved some of the women were. Many were shy and squeamish about touching condoms and talking about sex. When we got to the condom demonstration part, many of the older women simply walked out. It was refreshing to see some of the younger girls actually practicing (we do demonstrations with wooden fallaces) and being comfortable with the condom application. Although we went through ABC, (abstinence, bonne fidelite and condoms) it is hard to know how many of these methods will actually be considered. Many believe that abstinence and fidelity are impossible, yet many men refuse to wear condoms. It was exciting to see the young girls at the school taking the power of protecting themselves into their own hands- and feeling confident in their condom application skills. Then of course, as we brought the guys back into the room the girls immediately gave the condoms we have just given them to all their male classmates. Then when it was time to give the boys their free condoms the room erupted into a madhouse and some of our volunteers were pretty much manhandled in the scuffle. I can only hope we made some progress and gave them the information they need to make informed decisions. Then I think of the tiny villages where they can't even afford to buy condoms, so I know they will never use them and I wonder what good we are even doing in their villages in the first place. There was one village where we felt our formation went off incredibly well, the condom distribution was orderly, and the people were receptive. At the end, the chef stood up and stated that the root of the HIV/AIDS problem is poverty, and thank you for the education but what they really needed was money. I'm learning to count small achievements as victories, and let go of my responsibility for drastic change. I can't change major cultural values, but I can make small differences with individuals. It's really quite humbling joining Peace Corps, you find out you're basically useless. I think I am gaining much more knowledge than I am imparting on anyone, and I'm learning about my self in the process. So I guess it's not half bad.

So as many people have probably read or learned through rumors, blogs, etc., we lost a great Peace Corps Volunteer last week in a most frightening, angering and tragic way. Her name was Kate and she was one of the most enthusiastic, friendly and genuine people I have met, certainly the best of us volunteers in Benin. I didn't know her well, but I did spent some time with her when she came to help out with a teaching session for the health volunteers. She was a TEFL volunteer (teaching English as a foreign language) and she had come to give us some pointers on how to do sensibilizations in classrooms. TEFL volunteers have very difficult jobs dealing with unruly classrooms, terrible curriculums and a lack of general critical thinking skills. They have very structured jobs and must posess large amounts of patience- this is a job I know I could never do. Kate was a natural-born teacher, she was confident, comfortable and commanding and I was very engaged by her presence just during the mini-session she did with us health volunteers. I know she was a great teacher, and by all accounts she loved Benin and was "pure sunshine".

She was found murdered outside of her house last week, and many of us were and still are, heartbroken, angry and scared. The investigation is still pending and we are all waiting for answers. In the mean time we are trying to support each other, and remember and honor Kate, the wonderful person she was and is and the work she did here. A memorial service will be held at the Ambassador's house this week. Please keep her and her family and friends in your thoughts and prayers as well as the entire peace corps community.

So a couple of weeks ago a group of us went to Burkina Faso to attend the FESPACO film festival which is the largest film festival in Africa, I have been told. My voyage consisted of taking a bus from Porto Novo to Natitingou, which took about 13 hours, and then taking a taxi from Natitingou to Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina. The first trip should have only been about 6 hours but of course it's Benin, and there were inevitably mix ups, delays, etc allll along the way and we got stuck in the bus station in Parakou for 2 hours. I think it was something about needed to fill up one more seat before the driver would leave. However, when we finally got back on the road they stopped and tried to kick somebody off the bus, because then they decided we had too many people, so I'm really not sure. Anyway, this was my first trip north and the landscape visibly changed the further up we traveled. The humidity ceased to exist, the heat skyrocketed, my lips started cracking, the leaves were falling off the trees, and everything was brown, red or yellow. The aggressiveness and the level of rudeness dropped significantly. When I arrived in Natitingou I was amazed at how developed and quiet it was. I didn't hear a single "Yovo", "blanche" or "Give me money". Discussing the price with the Zemis was like small talk over tea, rather than a loud, theatrical, violent ordeal. Of course, not all the Zems or taxis are this pleasant in Nati, as we'll see later, but the atmosphere was definitely much much calmer than southern Benin. So day two of travel, we get up, pile into our pre-arranged taxi and head to the border with Burkina. The plan, which had already been discussed ahead of time, was to rent an entire taxi- just for us volunteers, to avoid excess stoppage as this would greatly increase the duration of our trip. Of course the one thing you CAN plan on here, is that no plan will ever work out the way it is supposed to. So taxi driver number one was supposed to drive us to the border, negotiate with taxi driver number two, and split the money. Both taxis were supposed to be just for us, and this trip was supposed to be somewhere around 6 hours. Of course customs and VISAS took a while, so we were already not going to be making the trip in that short of time, but when we finally piled in taxi number 2, we discovered taxi driver number 1 had taken more than his fair share of money, told driver 2 we would be paying him more money upon arrival, and that he should feel free to pick up other passengers along the way (the capacity was apparently 18 when the passengers were packed in like sardines, and we only had 12 people). And just to complicate things a little more the second driver didn't speak French, and we had no way to communicate with him, except through the small amount of French spoken by his apprentice. The apprentice's job, I guess, is to watch the driver drive, open and close the doors of the car for the passengers and collect money. So after arguing and arguing, we finally decided we had no choice but to accept more passengers, which meant we literally drive for about 5 minutes before stopping again to drop someone off or pick someone up. The driver was of course racking up with all these extra customers, and we were several hours behind schedule. Finally, we stopped to pick up about 5 people at once, and we just could not fit them in the car. We all protested, there really just wasn't enough room. So rather than leave some of the passengers behind, the driver ordered the apprentice to get on the roof, and we continued for several hours before arrival in Ouaga. We finally got off very tired, frustrated and dirty, and in a hurry to find our hotels before dark. While trying to navigate the taxi system in Burkina, I realized that us southern volunteers had become quite "chaud" ourselves, as the Beninese say. I looked around and saw people negotiating for taxis and we were the only ones yelling, accusing the drivers of trying to rip us off, and storming away. Finally we thought maybe this guy was actually giving us the real price, and we decided to take the cab to the hotel. Fellow volunteer Catherine and I started to relax a bit on the way to the hotel, although I was a bit nervous to discover that we were basically locked in because there were no handles on the insides of our doors and only the driver could get us out.

So the hotel was nice, almost romantic in the evenings with the palm trees, flowers and great service. We had coffee for breakfast with real milk, butter and jam. I even bought an expresso, which, although the size of a thimble, was quite delicious. We saw a series of short films the next day mostly from Morocco, Algeria, Burkina, Egypt and Ghana. We had pizza at Italian restaurants, ice cream, and of course Strawberries. There are no strawberries in Benin, but for some reason Burkina has them. Unfortunately, although predictably, I was started to get sick on our first morning there. By day two, I had been up all night sick all night and Catherine was needing some gauze pads for her recent moto burn on her leg (her homologue's fault, read her blog for more on him). So we had to take a trip to the Peace Corps Burkina Medical Unit and spent the morning there. So the next few days of my Burkina were spent taking meds, rehydrating and sleeping and being really upset that I was going to spend my entire vacation sick- AGAIN. Our last day in Burkina I forced myself out of bed and caught some more films and went to some artisan's markets. Catherine and I, while exploring Ouaga, noticed some FESPACO flags which were laying on the ground on a street corner. Thinking this would be a great souvenir, we picked up a couple and continued on our way. The next thing I knew there was this huge white SUV pulling up next to us and this little kid opened up the passenger side and told us to come because "Maman" wanted to talk to us. All it took was one look at her for me to decide not to approach the vehicle and she proceeded to scream at us in front of everyone, taht those fliers were to be used as street decorations at next year's FESPACO and they were not up for grabs. Thoroughly humiliated, we put them back and resigned to buy t-shirts instead. The next morning we opted for the bus (no more taxis from hell) which flew down to Natti in just a few hours. It's really just a blurr of pain and nausea to me, though I do remember laying on the ground at customs and the guard saying "Oh, never mind she's sick, it's fine". I think I had made some sort of error on my paperwork as far as my address being Porto Novo or Cotonou in Benin. When we arrived back in Nati, we rented a taxi to take us to our workstation which was a nightmare- welcome back to Benin. The driver overcharged us, insisted on cramming his apprentice in the car despite our protests, refused to listen to our directions, and took us the longest, bumpiest way possible to our destination. Then when we got there he said usually there is plenty of room in the taxi for that many people, and that it was because we were all so fat that we had such difficulty fitting into the vehicle.

Anyway, we made it back to the safety of the Nati workstation where we rested, recovered and recuperated while watching Grey's Anatomy.

The Burkina trip, while significantly impeded by my constant illness, was a great way to gain some perspective on the differences between the countries in West Africa, as well as the differences between Northern and Southern Benin. Burkina was much, much, more laid back and relaxed than Benin, with fewer beggers, less hassling, and less in-your face harrassment and unwanted attention. It's predominantly Muslim, so we saw lots of Mosques and more women wearing scarves on their heads, and I think maybe even a Burka, but the Peace Corps Volunteers seemed to dress much less conservatively than we do in Benin. The volunteers overall seemed very happy and loved their posts and their jobs in Burkina. They live in small villages, many in mud huts without water or electricity. We also met some volunteers from Niger who had similar lifestyles, but spoke local languages instead of French. It was very interesting to see the attitudes and lifestyles of other volunteers in neighboring countries. I am now exploring the prospects of visiting other countries such as Ghana, Mali and Niger, as well as Togo (although this time with a passport and VISA).

Despite the more aggressive atmosphere of the South, there was something that felt like home when I returned to Porto Novo, even if it was simply the presence of my host fam or the lush vegetation surrounding the palm trees on the water.

Valentine's day in Benin. Not really a holiday I care for, but its kind of fun to watch how people think of it here. The fete for the amoureuse, the holiday for lovers, was spent at my host fam's house. Its supposed to be the dry season and it rained- the electricity cut out and ruined our plans for our Nicholas Cage movie marathon. My younger host sister, we'll call her L, scrambled around trying to find the perfect gift for her older, (and secret) boyfriend who lives next door, and my host brother, M, and I sat on the front porch and talked all day. We shucked corn (they thought that was amusing, though I assured them that they have lots of corn in Alabama and its not foreign to me) and we talked about the agricultural situation in Benin, imports, exports, why Valentines day is stupid, all the things we were going to do to celebrate (go to a party, go to a club) knowing that we really didn't have the money to go do any of those things, all the relationships in the family, how the host mama and papa met, magic, voodoo, and finally we resolved to play UNO and drink whiskey. L was of course finding ways to sneak out of the house all day, to run errands and go see her "cherie", and Y my closest sister, was studying with her classmate on the front porch as usual (she takes the BAC this year and is always studying!) As we sat in the rain the host maman came over and told me a story about a funeral she had attended. It isn't suppose to rain on funeral days. They bury the person and fete- party party party sometimes for days at a time. So just to make sure there's no bad weather the family had called over this fetisher to perform a ritual to make sure the rain wouldn't fall on the party. So the fetisher arrived and approached maman, asking for his payment, money and red oil used for the ceremony. Maman exlaimed that it certainly wasn't her who had called him up and she didn't believe in that sort of thing and go ask someone else for money, that she is Catholic and she doesn't believe in voodoo stuff, its the devil. So a few minutes later, it started raining- inside the house! Maman walked outside. She stepped off the porch- no rain, she looked across the street- no rain. She had pissed off the fetisher, and now he had brought the rain- inside the house! Everywhere else she looked the skies were clear. The family immediately discovered that it was her who had brought on this bad luck- and apologized to the fetisher and paid him. The rain stopped. I looked at her skeptically. I know you don't believe me, she says. Its true. Voodoo is real. I don't believe in it, but it's real. I'll see it when I believe it, I tell her. That can be arranged my host brother, M, says. He then recounts his experience with magic, when he was just a kid. The particular fetish is sort of like an all boys club, a fetish group only for the men- no women allowed. There's some kind of initiation and once initiated group members know the "secret". What's the secret? I ask M, and he stares at me hard. He can't tell me, he says, or he will die. Sounds sort of like the Mason society to me, I think. Okay, so where's the magic? During the ceremony they poured red oil on this pile of bones, including a skull. The drums started and the ceremony commenced, and right in front of everyone, this pile of bones came to life and the skeleton started dancing around! Hmm. He knows I don't believe it, from the look on my face. It's true, he assures me. I know its bizarre, but its real. I can't believe him, but he says it with such sincerity I can't believe he's lying either. Determined to make me believe, we set off to the local neighborhood fetish. Zembetto. A haystack in a shack. A statue of Legba, with his wife nearby. We talk to the men hanging out near the fetish. He explains to them I'm curious and that I've never seen magic before and I'm interested in learning more about their fetish. No problem, they tell me. Next time I've got the means available, I'm to buy some rice and beans for the fetish, with red oil of course. Then they will awaken the fetish and he will dance and perform magic right in front of me. They will throw a pagne (the large peice of cloth worn by women like a skirt) on the ground and when they remove it I will see anything I want to- a crocodile, a giraffe, a snake. Really? I ask. And, they tell me, I can even bring my camera and film or take photos to show people back at home. This is an offer I may just have to take up.

So M has left to go back to school now, but the next time he is in town we've decided to go do the fetish thing. I think I'm going to ask for a giraffe. I'll be sure to let you guys know how it goes. In the mean time, I've got a bike tour this week and then I'm going to the Burkina Film Festival. Should be lots of fun, it's supposed to be one of the bests around and it's only once every 2 years so its my only chance to go.

Speaking of films, I find it very interesting that my host maman is in love with WWF wrestling. The whole family is in fact. It started with M and my younger brother G. They're guys of course they like that sort of thing, but then my host sisters got into it and Maman- wow, she would fit right in with the fans at the live matches. Well I don't know if I could call it a "match" it is entertainment after all- but Maman doesn't think so. It's real, she insists. It's real, look at that punch, that body slam, look how he's in pain. I tell them that its entertainment, that its acting. No, no. Maman says. It's real, it's real, just like Voodoo.

And for those who have asked about work- still not doing too much. Was staying at the kids center and got tired of that. I decided I'm not much of an English teacher, and trying to teach lots of little kids isn't really my calling. So I went out with the animateur one day and that was much more interesting. We went to visit orphans in the villages, they do domestic visits and visits to their schools to kind of follow how they are doing- make sure they're getting good grades, that they don't lack anything as far as school supplies, and check up on their physical and mental health. Still lots of avenues to explore. There's the pharmacy/health clinic, the malaria team, HIV/AIDS education in schools, etc. etc. I'm hoping I 'll find my niche and establish some sort of routine eventually. They don't seem to be too rushed however. I keep thinking how time is running out and I've only got a year and a half left here. They keep saying don't worry you'll be with us for a long time, work will come. So we'll see how it goes. Besides there are lots of Peace Corps activities to keep me busy in between activities at work. Yeah, so maybe I'll end up doing something here after all...

Ok turns out Action Sociale has a ton of activities so I am hoping that Feb will be a busier month for me. The website is www.actionsociale.org. Let me know if there are problems with the link. Thanks

So I got sick 1 day out of January- a record!!! A whole month of good health. And this morning I reached a new level of laziness- or creativity? I didn't have any sugar at the house. So I sat staring at my oatmeal and coffee- both of which obviously require sugar. I debated putting on some clothes and running down the street to buy some, but then I spotted a can of rainbow sprinkles my mom had sent me for my birthday. I dumped a handful into my oatmeal and watched the rainbow swirls blend into my bowl. Next I added sprinkles to my coffee-purple. And you know what it actually tasted pretty good. So here I am at the end of January eating rainbow oatmeal and drinking purple coffee in Africa.

Here's a recap of January 2009.

Accomplishments- none really. Done lots of reading, settled into my house, and done a lot of nothing at work. It is a cool organization, Action Sociale, look up the website. Unfortunately I've just been kind of observing and hoping things will pick up in February. Will write more about work later.

So New Years is a big deal here. Lots of dancing, drinking, eating, and not much sleeping. There was an all night dance party, beach party, dance party the next night, and finally Epiphany at Grandmaman's house. My oldest host sister left to go back to University at the beginning of the month. She wants to be a veterinarian. My host brother is home for vacation and will return to his agricultural school in February. The remaining two sisters are in school here- one will take the BAC this year and go to University the following year. My youngest brother is 15 and still going to school here.

Those wondering about my house- I've got water, electricity, and tile. Water and electricity cut often, but its much better than in the village. I have neighbors and a big gate so I feel pretty safe. I bought a TV. I thought it was extravagent, but then I thought of all those volunteers with laptops, ipods and blackberries and decided a used TV with 4 channels wasn't all that luxurious. It is a nice house though, for Peace Corps volunteers.

So I watched the inagauration ceremony with the host family. They are very well informed, and all have differing opinions on Obama. The rest of the people I've talked to- another story. I've been asked- How do you feel about having an African President? Are there blacks in the U.S.? They tell me Obama is Kenyan, he's Muslim, that he's going to donate a ton of money to Africa, and that immigration rules for Africans will be much more relaxed with an African as the President of the U.S. I've given up explaining what an American is, what an African American is, Obama's biography, or anything else. I just got tired of being called a racist and people asking my why Obama didn't invite the rest of the African Presidents to his inagauration. And I am the racist? I leave my house each day and someone always shouts, sings or screams Yovo Yovo, La Blanche, Francaise, Anglaise, or something to that effect. People follow me from work to my house. They make fun of what wear, what I eat, or don't eat and the way I speak. And they don't understand when I walk away and refuse to by something from them it's because they have just mocked, insulted me, or made a racist remark. This, they say, will continue and I just have to get used to it and find a way to cope. Sometimes I explain to people why it is impolite, but most days I just don't have the energy. More so than the Yovo calls, its the old, young, married, single- any and all men- who constantly harass me on my way to work- or library, or cyber cafe... etc etc. There are the playful, serious, obnoxious, joking proposals- and I can't always tell the difference between them. I want to marry you, I want your number, Where do you live? I want to know you very well, I want to come to your house tonight, I want to have children with you, I want to sleep with you, etc. etc. etc. I almost devised a plan to blow up the cyber cafe the last time I was here, simply because a man was bothering me. First, you don't talk to the people next to you at the cyber cafe, you don't look at their computer screen- you work and mind your own business. Well this guy was right up in my space, looking at my screen, commenting, whispering pretty girl, sweet girl and other obscenities into my ear and would not just shut up and leave me alone. I stormed out and vowed never to return. Of course I came back because I had paid a ridiculous amount of hours, but I was still pissed off for about a day afterwards. Sometimes, however, these experiences are quite entertaining, just because of the sheer stupidity of these people- its unbelievable. I went to the library the other day. Of course some guy whistled at me and I ignored him. He came over and said the library wasn't open for another 30 minutes but he had the key to the research library would I like to wait there. Okay I said. I just wanted to return books. So we went upstairs and I waited and read this boring poetry book he had insisted I take about some dead poet which was really a critical analysis and included very little of the actual poetry. Finally it was time to return my books and he wanted to accompany me. And this is where I get ready for him to ask for my contact and all that. Where do you work. Action Sociale. Doing what? HIV/AIDs work. Ohhh wonderful. I do that too. I know all the NGO's which work in that. Funny you didnt know Action Sociale. Well, I work on my own, at the library, I do AIDS education with the young girls. That's great. But I need your contact. Why? Because I take my moto to Cotonou and work with AIDS on the weekends. And? And we can work together. I don't have a phone, but I'd be happy to give you the contact info of our director. Of course he doesn't want to be involved with Action Sociale, just ME. And if I won't give him my contact, where do I live? What's my schedule? He's coming to my house with his moto and .. to do what? Oh work together? Right. And do you know what his primary method of HIV/AIDS prevention is? He says before he used to pay girls to sleep with him, and now if he has a choice to sleep with 5 girls, he'll just take 2. Oh, the 2/5 method? Haven't heard of that one before. Funny he didn't mention Abstinence, Fidelity or Condoms in his whole speech about HIV/AIDS. So of course I took his number and saying I was in a hurry escaped, depositing his number in a nearby trashcan shortly thereafter. I must look like an idiot or something. Seriously?

We had a 2 week training in Porto Novo which exhausted me and took my mind off Madengbe. We found my new workplace, but my house wouldn't be ready until after Christmas. I spend Christmas in Bohicon with other volunteers passing out gifts at orphanages and schools. I was very tired, homesick and overwhelmed. We watched Elf, ate pancakes and hashbrowns which is really all I could ask for for Christmas. I stayed with my friend Catherine in Dogbo for a few days, traversed the Togolese border in a pirogue, and was back in Porto Novo for New Years.

So without going into too much detail, here is why I left the village.

1. Problems at work- no workpartners, no translators, the Aide Soignante was becoming increasingly hostile and uncooperative- people started telling me she was out to get me along with the apprentice- and she was going to start using gris-gris (black magic)

2. There were 4 unsuccessul meetings held to try to resolve the work issues- nothing changed

3. There was a lack of French- either unwillingness to speak French or inability

4. A mouse fell on my head in the middle of the night and it was possibly the scariest moment of my life (this has nothing to do with me leaving, but it happened in the midst of all the other stuff)

5. Inappropriate advances by the treasurer and government officials- marriage proposals, being set up with influential men and then having to piss them off by rejecting them- lack of support from work partners on this issue and work partners encouraging the behavior

Peace Corps said that it was a communication problem which made my continued work in the village very difficult. They sent me to the village with the Safety and Security Officer in a pickup. I started to pack while he went to meet the village health center board who had shown up in matching tissu- a symbol of their solidarity and commitment to keeping me there. Out of the 10 people I recognized 3 and figured they had brought some people in from Glazoue that didnt' even live in the village. I packed as quickly as possible, but soon my house was flooded with people. And not friends or neighbors, but strangers who had shown up to help me pack, which really meant they came to ask me for stuff. I searched for my friend the carpenter but he was no where to be found. I tried to pack and keep and eye on my stuff at the same time, and I watched the apprentice cry in the corner. I knew that she was sincerely sad to see me go, and I would also miss her. She just sat there and cried and didnt' ask for a thing. When it was all finished and we rolled out of Madengbe I was both relieved and disappointed. I didn't get to say goodbye to my carpenter friend, and my last few hours had been spent with strangers who wanted my stuff.

So aside from my fetish excursions, I spent a lot of time with the apprentice and my Idassha tutor and I learned a lot about marriage and Polygamy. There is traditional marriage- just living/sleeping together on a regular basis, there's marriage by the church and marriage by the state. Supposedly polygamy is illegal, but most people in the country tell me that's not true. It's not enforced anyhow. So I had viewed my friend, the apprentice's situation as unfortunate- married to a man 15-20 years older than her, pregnant at 14, a school drop-out, and a second wife. But as I listened to her describe it from her point of view, I realized that maybe she could be happy in her situation. She talked of her secret liasons with her husband as if it were some illicit, romantic love affair, and she had ended up with a man who provided for her and two children she loved. The fact that she didn't complete school or that she was wife number 2 didn't bother her. It was something that could be viewed as pedophelia in my country, but she said she really loved her husband and was happy. Even his affairs with the young girls at the school in the neighboring town didn't bother her. I still cannot understand it completely, but then there are many things in Benin I will never understand.

The second fete I saw lasted 3 days. A woman had been sick and having miraculously recovered, wanted to give thanks to the fetish by sacrificing goat, dancing, drinking and smoking. This is the only occasion where I have seen Beninese women smoking. They wore these dresses with wide skirts that spun whenever they twirled and their faces were painted with white around the eyes and mouth. They had obviously been drinking a lot of Sodabe, and their eyes were blood-shot and trance-like. I watched them dancing, dancing, dripping with sweat, and downing bottle after bottle of Sodabe. A tiny woman grabbed my arm to pull me into the circle, but I politely declined. She proceeded to dance while handing out cookies to everyone around me- purposely leaving me out- and then flinging the empty wrapper at me. This of course provoked laughter, and suddenly I jumped at the sound of a shotgun someone had fired directly over my shoulder into the tree I was standing under. Then someone grabbed my hand and we ran, because something was chasing us. I decided drunkeness and shotguns weren't a good mixture and went to bed early that night.

My favorite was Gidengedinge. I have not found this fetish anywhere and no one can tell me what it is- it probably has another name in more widely spoken local languages. But it looked like a giant mop and it twirled- and fell and twirled and danced with the beat of the tom-toms. It was as tall as two men, but they swear if you lift up the costume you will find no one inside. I was assigned a special place next to the elders- the men who were in this particular group- and I was the only woman allowed to sit with them. The fetish danced and bounded, and twirled and chased little children and then it came towards me and knelt down on the ground. I was shocked that this fetish was bowing to me- the Oyeebo! (white in Idassha) I didn't know what to do so I just said, Bonsoir- oh he doesn't speak French.. okay, Okale- no not Idaasha either- ... well I knew he didn't speak English, so I just nodded my head- turns out he speaks Fon- but not in a comprehensible manner. He blows into this horn thing- like a fog-horn, and then an elder translates- and apparently he was welcoming me to the ceremony. I wished I had learned fetish ettiquette during my training. Then these tall, muscular, cut, towering black men dripping with sweat came running out into the dance- no doubt Sodabe dripping from their pores- and proceeded to whip themselves with cords, batons and ropes. I watched as bruises and welts emerged and the man next to me saw my amazed expression. Don't worry, he told me, they won't whip you unless you volunteer- it was a demonstration of strength. Well, I declined and said I was content just to watch, thank you. But it really was a very entertaining night.

Madenge wasn't really all that bad- the people there were certainly characters and I faced a lot of difficulty during those three months. But the Collines are a beautiful area of Benin and each morning I awoke to rolling hills and striking greenery. Though I wasn't really able to communicate with my neighbors they were nice enough and they always seemed willing to give me stuff- peanuts, oranges, tomatoes. I learned to make Kuli Kuli- a fried peanut snack with the women in my village, though we really didn't converse and they just laughed at me the entire time. I played with their kids and tried to learn what it meant to be a farming community- although it was difficult for me to get anyone to take me out to the feilds with them. I kept running into brick wall after brick wall at work. Jealousy was a huge issue- people at work thought I was rich and any tiny present I gave to anyone was immediately gossiped about- even if I gave someone an orange. I had to learn not to be too nice to anyone. The Aide Soignante hated her apprentice and her apprentice hated her and I was constantly being caught in the middle of their quarrels. I was picking up some Idaasha, though, thanks to my bi-weekly Idaasha tutor, the carpenter's little sister. The evenings were spent with the carpenter, talking on my porch, of village history, gossip, sorcery and voodoo. A devout Evangelical Christian, he still feared the evil forces which he said lived in his village. I skeptically listened as he described how sorcerors could send legions of scorpions or snakes to a person's house in the middle of the night to kill him/her. I had found two scorpions in my house, but I attributed it to the bush (grass, plants, trees) that had not been properly groomed on the other side of my back patio. He took me to watch a fetish prayer one day. The fetish, Ogou, the fetish of iron, was a circle of rocks in the bush. The man who had come to pray was dressed in a very western suit, and explained that he had some problems with the electronic equipment in his photoshop. He had come to ask the fetish for help. Three men went out to the rocks and started chanting and tapping the ground with a stick. They poured red oil over the rocks and told me the fetish was awakened. Where is he I asked. You can't see him, they responded. But apparently he was there, awake and marching behind the man with the photoshop, to protect him and solve all his problems. But then they stopped and started talking amongst themselves. The fetish had decided that the oil wasn't going to cut it and the man was to bring back a cock to sacrifice the following day. My carpenter friend laughed, asking if I could see how voodoo is a waste of your money and that his God never asked for money in exchange for answered prayers. Yet every Sunday, the carpenter prayed for protection from these forces which he regarded as very real and evil. There were many Catholics who participated in the voodoo ceremonies, but the evangelicals were not allowed. Instead, they would come watch, but never participate in the dancing, drinking or eating of sacrificed meat. I went to a few types of fetes (parties, ceremonies) in the village. The first time I was visited by Oro. Oro is a mysterious and secretive boys-only fetish and women are not allowed to even see the fetish. They go out at night making a lot of noise, dancing and singing, and women have to stay indoors with the windows closed and lights off. I was warned that if I saw the Oro I would die. So that night I lay in bed and was starting to dose, when I heard the dogs start barking. Then there was the whirring, buzzing noise, and the chanting, singing and footsteps. I thought about all the ways I could accidentally see the fetish, and if I could get away with it. Then the footsteps got closer and closer and I realized they were on my front step. I stayed put and listened to them chant, loudly, and circle my house. It was kind of creepy in a way, but after I while I started to grow tired and I envisioned all these village men going out at night like a bunch of trick or treaters and sitting on my step keeping me awake. I started to get annoyed, and finally, around 3 am they left. Finally, I could sleep. I closed my eyes and of course, it started pouring rain on my tin roof, like a thousand machine guns firing at once. And, because that couldn't be obnoxious enough, I had to have about 10 leaks in my roof at the time and of course I was soaking wet and didn't get any sleep at all that night. And you know the villagers were knocking on my door the next morning at 6 am to ask me "Tu as bien dormir?" (Did you sleep well?)

Madengbe is a village of about 2000 or 3000 people located just outside of Glazoue in the Collines region of Benin. There I was assigned to work in a small UVS or village health center which was being moved when I arrived. The process consisted of moving a few tables and rickety old beds from one rat infested; urine stained 3 room building to a rat infested; urine stained 4 room building. This missionary had come to the village a few years earlier and donated the new building as well as some water pumps to the village. The pumps; by the way were located about 15minutes from my house and about 20 minutes from the health center, which I suspect contributed to the sanitation problem. The health center staff included a president/zem, an aide soignant, and a matronne plus an apprentice. The health center decision making powers were held by the treasurer who also happened to be the husband of the apprentice. A note on zems: The primary mode of transportation here is zemming, that is you take a motorcycle taxi to get to most places. Longer distances can be covered by bush taxi which will be described later. So when I say the president was a Zem; I mean that was his primary activity; apart from drinking Sodabe, which is also coming. I rarely saw him at the health center and he was often called Mr. Zemijanman rather than any other title remotely relating to health. As for the Sodabe, its basically a strong alcoholic beverage resembling rubbing alcohol which our handy dandy Peace Corps Medical Book claims can cause blindness. So the aide soignant is like a midwife or nurse or pharmacist depending on who you ask; though she is not really qualified to perform many of those duties without the supervision of a doctor. Those kinds of things did not really matter in Madengbe. The people in the village can not afford to go to the real hospital at 600 cfa each way on a zem; and at the same time they cannot afford to pay a realy doctor or nurse to work at their health center. The woman probably is the most educated of the females in the village due to her ability to speak, read and write in French. This is probably why she was chosen to be my homologue, or work partner. However, most of the villagers had a strong dislike of the woman, and I would soon find out why. The villagers just told me she was evil. The matron was a quiet, submissive and kind woman who barely spoke any French. She helped deliver babies and give nutritional advice to mothers. The treasurer was a 40 year old guy with two wives and several children. His first wife was pregnant with her third child and his second wife; the apprentice, was about 19 and the mother of two. She had become pregnant for the first time at 14 by her 30 something year old husband. Of course, as he often told me, his two wives just could not satisfy his appetite and thus he had to look for the young girls in town some nights. So there we have the lineup of characters at Madengbe so far: the young apprentice; the drunkard president; the timid matron; the playboy (some might say pedophile) treasurer and the evil aide soignant.

But I will add a few more here to complete the list. There was a carpenter who turned out to be my only friend in the village; and his younger sister who taught me Idaasha; the local language. Then there is the government guy who came into town every now and then with his fancy clothes and car (no one else oawned a car) and who always made a point of stopping by to see me-and getting my phone number, and did I mention he was a good friend of the treasurer?

So next time I will recount my experiences at the health center as well as village life and following the events which led to me leaving Madengbe.

Okay, so I've been in Benin for approximately 5 months, and I have decided to restart this blog due to a series of unfortunate events which have most probably fortunate results. One of them being I have access to internet now, whereas before it was extremely expensive and a logistically a headache. So here's a recap of the first 5 months for those of you keeping up, and who have most probably been receiving my mother's email updates with statements like "I haven't made contact for 4 days" and other such commentary which makes my situation seem much more dire than it really is.

I arrived in Benin in July, well, July 4th to be exact (Happy Independence Day) after a few days of "training" or something like that in Philedelphia. I stayed in this place called St. Jean Eudes, which is a cross between a monastary and a buvette (bar) which I still haven't quite figured out. (By the way there was this kid who fell through the roof and had to go to South Africa and then D.C. where they patched him up with surgery and a bunch of bolts and needles, but he's back now, so he's ok). We then moved to Porto Novo where we began our 9 weeks of training while staying with host families. Meeting my host family was my first terrifying experience in Benin. The Peace Corps gave us these pictures of our host families and my host Maman (French for Mama) was pretty much the size of a linebacker, and no one was smiling in the photo. In fact I'm pretty sure they were glaring menacingly. (Later I would find out they were just unhappy to be taking the photo at that particular moment, because they were missing their favorite Spanish soap opera called Luz Clarita). Anyway, we were brought to this place called Songhai, where we had a meeting with our host families. I tried to stall by running to the bathroom beforehand, and then casually hanging outside and pretending I was in line again, when someone called me over, saying they had found my "Maman". I slowly walked over to the mass of tissu (gaudy, bright colored, yet pretty awesome fabric the Beninese wear here) and this very large, very jolly woman ran up and grabbed me and dragged me to a chair next to her. I tried, rather pathetically, to mutter some sort of French greeting "Bonjour Maman" which was met with an overflow of enthusiasm and a very long rambling paragraph in French which I did not understand- at all. My host Papa was pretty chill, but I just knew I didn't want to mess with the Maman. As soon as we finished listening to speeches in French that none of us could understand, it was announced that there were refreshments waiting for us outside. Next thing I knew, faster than you could say "buiscuit" (cookie), my mama had grabbed my wrist and we were plowing through the crowd to the snack table, with no regard for my fellow volunteers, their host families, or anyone- not even children. We definately arrived first, and my Maman had a sucrerie (soda) and a napkin full of cookies for me to eat before I could even fathom how we had arrived at that table so quickly. A little later on I tried to make my way through the crowd to grab another cookie, and this woman bumped into me. My Maman responded with a husky "Faire Doucement!" In Benin Doucement can mean a couple of things. First, there's the "doucement" or "excuse me" and then there's "Fair Doucement" which, in this context, meant "Move it, b**ch!" I realized at this moment that my Maman was not to be messed with, but also that she had my back, which was, to say the least, quite a relief.

My host family was great- there was Maman, Papa, Claude (my cousin)- 25, Carole-22, Liliane 20, Laurence 17 and Gerardo 15. They were really helpful throughout my training and made me feel like a member of their family. We watched Spanish soap operas together, they taught me to to my laundry by hand, and brought me endless plates of fried cakes, which are reminicent of doughnuts in the U.S.

Training consisted of various cultural activities, health sessions, vaccinations, and language training. RCH (rural community health) volunteers learned all about nutrition, breast feeding, and tropical diseases while EA, (environmental action) volunteers did stuff like building mud stoves and composting garbage. The other sectors included TEFL (teaching english foreign language) IT (information technology) and SED (small enterprise development). We didn't see too much of the other sectors, because EA and RCH were together a lot. At the end of our 9 weeks after passing our language examinations, we were able to swear in as official Peace Corps Volunteers on September 9th 2008. After that it was off to our posts, which is the term for where you will be living and working for the next 2 years. My village was called.... Madengbe.