My whirlwind summer began even before I left Badjoudé. The week before final exams, Benin’s national education board decided to extend the school year by a month. What a mess! My flight plans were nonadjustable but luckily my administration was understanding and allowed me to give my own exams and finish my classes early. Not only was it hectic, but I had major guilt leaving my colleagues to another month of working in the oppressive heat with kids who were beyond ready for vacation and many already gone to work in the fields.

Finishing on a Friday, I spent the weekend getting organized. Then on Sunday night I welcomed my postmate Heidi and Badjoudé’s former volunteer Malaïka, just in time to start our girls’ camp early Monday morning.

We brought 22 girls together from two local secondary schools, teaching them about self-confidence, good decision-making, family planning, women’s health, conflict resolution, healthy communication, etc. It was a good group- though shy at first they quickly opened up. Unfortunately, I had to leave before the end of the week but already in several days I watched the girls grow closer to each other and have more confidence in themselves. Though I was sorry to leave them, I knew they were in good hands. Heading down to Cotonou, I was getting more and more excited about the next stage of the summer…

Two days later (and after a great send-off by my friends Megan and Rima), I was on the plane flying home!

GEORGIA

Before I knew it, the plane was landing in Atlanta. My parents and Uncle Richard were waiting for me with a bouquet of flowers, a huge neon-pink welcome home sign (thanks Dad), and even bigger smiles. We drove straight from the airport to a French café where we met up with some family, including my Uncle David who was flying out to Brazil the next day. There began my delightful reintroduction to American life:

“Green vegetables!”

“Strawberries and melon!”

“AN ICE MACHINE!!!!”

Arriving home in the later afternoon sun with the trimmed lawn, flowers, and big trees I couldn’t get over how pretty and comfortable and CLEAN everything was. I felt like I was walking around in a dream.

[Now don’t get me wrong, Benin definitely has its beauty. Some of the most striking views of my life I’ve experienced in West Africa but the African aesthetic just feels so different to me. Even in its calmest moments – say, the minute just before a gorgeous sunrise over the plains – it is vibrant and tussled, never at rest, never totally tranquil. I think in America we sometimes overlook how many of us live in ideal magazine images of our own making.]

The next week was hectic with catching up with family and friends, shopping, my mother’s 60th birthday, and preparing for our upcoming trip to Mexico for my cousin Emilie’s wedding. Unfortunately, during that time we also found out my dad was to have an unplanned operation within the week and my grandmother was rushed to the hospital for the emergency removal of a tumor. As if that wasn’t enough, Grandma’s beloved companion, a little terrier named Ginger, was killed by a car the day we brought her home from the hospital! Needless to say, it made for a bizarre week- in and out of hospitals and me still getting used to waking up in an air-conditioned room in America.

My brother flew in two days before we left for Mexico and it was at this time my dad conceded that he wasn’t recovered enough to go on the trip. It is hard to express the many layers of our sadness and disappointment. In addition to being there to show our love and support for a beloved family member, this was to be our first family trip in years and precious family time amongst the too-few days of my visit. We knew we wouldn’t be all four together for at least another year and a half. Finally there was the let-down after being so optimistic that dad would make a full recovery in the three interim months since he’s finished chemotherapy. Though it broke our hearts, it was the right choice- the trip was not an easy one and we couldn’t risk him jeopardizing his already fragile health. So it was with very mixed feelings that we started our trip- excited for the adventure but heavy-hearted to watch Dad drive away from the airport.

MEXICO

The trip was a doozy—layover in Florida, flight to Cancun, 3 hour bumpy shuttle ride to a port town, then another hour by boat out to the wee island of Holbox, Mexico.

As if on cue, the exact moment we descended the boats with our many bags the sky let loose with a torrential downpour! I felt like I was in Africa again… or Okinawa! Why doesn’t America ever seem to have rains like these?

Following Beninese tradition, I took it as a sign of good luck and told the others of our party which by that point had grown to a group of nearly fifteen. However, they needed no encouragement to be happy. Huddled under a big paillote, we were all smiles as we chatted and laughed at the veracity of the rain. After more than a year of thinking, scheming, dreaming we were finally HERE. Emilie and Rowan were going to be married in their private paradise and it was going to be so much fun! Already you could feel the positive energy zipping through the air.

When the rain subsided, we mounted our golf carts (no cars on the island) and sped away to our respective hotels.

Ours was an adorable little place just down the beach from the two main hotels (aka “wedding central”). It was called Casa las Tortugas [House of Turtles] and was run by two Italian women. We couldn’t have been more delighted—hammocks on the balcony, complimentary chocolate shampoo, and welcome cocktails “bought” by seashells at the beachside bar! It felt like a mix of Tahiti, Bali, and Mexico. Totally charming.

The next few days are a happy, buzzing, twirling blur. We lounged on the beach, ate great food, took night swims in the phosphorescent ocean (looked like stars at your fingertips!), mingled with the other family and friends, and happily ran around helping with preparations. We drank and were bawdy at the bachelor/bachelorette party, toasted and were sentimental at the rehearsal dinner, cried and were touched at the wedding.

The ceremony itself was extraordinary. What had seemed logistically complicated on paper turned out to be a complete spiritual experience in reality. Emilie and Rowan made it totally their own, combining their personal beliefs and life experiences to incorporate Christian, Irish, Jewish, Native American, and African traditions. Again, extraordinary. And they made it an interactive event, choosing special family and friends to participate at certain points and then inviting everyone to sing and express affirmations together.

Though it had been threatening to rain, the weather held perfectly- the gray sky only making the colors of the flowers, the dresses, the natural offerings surrounding the marriage circle, the eyes of Emilie and Rowan as they looked at each other, all the more striking.

The sun made an appearance just enough to show off a spectacular sunset for the wedding pictures. As we walked our way up the beach to the reception area, our hearts were full to bursting. It was at that point I turned to my younger cousin Anna and we both agreed when our time came... we had better elope!

The reception was as fun as it should be- delicious Mexican seafood and everyone dancing on the raised, under-lit dance floor!

Just one more day to soak it all in and then we were forced to pinch ourselves back into reality. Another long trip and we were home again in Atlanta where Dad happily welcomed us back. Just a mere four days later Mom and I boarded a plane bound for Casablanca.

MOROCCO

We landed the morning of my 24th birthday. We took a train to Marrakesh and watched the sun set over sand dunes while talking to two Arab men about Barack Obama,. Finally arriving at our hotel around 10 pm, we had a late dinner of fried rice and crème brulee. The next five days were exhilarating and exhausting. We had a great time hiking in the Atlas mountains, visiting Djemaa el Fna square, winding through the ancient medina of Fez, getting taken in by a fake guide, eating lots of amazing food, and drinking even more mint tea (addictive!).

When it was over, we’d had an awesome visit but I was ready to get back to a foreign country that didn’t feel so foreign, where I knew the right prices and could indignantly say “Excuse me, I am NOT a tourist!” In short, I was ready to show Mom the little corner of Africa that had – in a mere 11 months – become my home.

BENIN

Morocco had been wonderful but it was the next two weeks in Benin that secured this one as a trip of a lifetime, especially for mom who at 60 years old jumped head-long into this adventure and impressed everyone along the way with her positive energy and zest for life. She said she “fell in love with Africa.”

We did it all! The first week was spent visiting the major sites in the south: Ganvié (a stilt village built on water), Porto Novo (capital left over from French colonialism), Ouidah (one of the largest and most important West African slave ports), and Abomey (the historical seat of the Dahomey empire). Soon we were making our way North where we spent 5 days in Badjoudé. (Mom didn’t want to leave… though I wonder how much everyone saying she was younger and prettier than me had to do with it!) From there we made our way through the Atacora mountains to spend the night in a traditional mud castle tata somba, went on safari at Park Pendjari where we crossed paths with baboons, gazelle, warthogs, and a herd of 9 elephants, hiked to the Tanougou waterfalls, and rode many, many motos.

[Sidenote: Through everything, Mom’s only hang-up was peeing in the shower (which everyone does here). Considering all I put her up against- latrines, sleeping on the floor, hiking 3 hours in the rain, eating with her hands, etc- I figured that was pretty good! ]

After spending so much time together, it was hard to see her go. However, I comforted myself in knowing we couldn’t have had a better trip – we did everything we wanted to do and I was able to send her home safe, healthy, and wishing she could stay longer.

Not having much time to reflect I was immediately swept back into Peace Corps life, teaching one week at a fellow volunteer’s summer school, spending ten days resting up back in Badjoudé, then 5 weeks in Porto Novo helping to train the new group of Benin volunteers. Of around 60, 14 were in my TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) group. In honor of PC Benin’s 40th anniversary, the 9 weeks of training ended in a huge to-do for their swear-in ceremony. It was such a big deal, in fact, that Benin's president was invited. Unfortunately, he was unable to make it so my quest to meet Yayi Boni continues but he put on a huge cocktail party in our honor which eased the sting a little!

GHANA

By this point, having spent too much time in the hectic, aggressive South and too little time relaxing, I needed a vacation from my vacation! So my best bud Megan and I took off to Ghana for six days.

We had a great time! Though definitely not enough of a visit to do it justice we comforted ourselves by knowing we’d be back next summer when I take the GREs (Accra has the closest [and only?] testing center in West Africa) We spent two days in the capitol and then headed straight for the coast where we based ourselves in a beach cabana in Cape Coast. From there we did day-trips to the neighboring towns and nearby wildlife reserve. Called Kakum National Park, it's known for a canopy walk that runs along the tree tops, 100 feet above the forest floor.

Being English speaking (1) and much further along the development road than Benin (2), Ghana had a totally different feel. We took advantage of Accra’s cosmopolitan life and indulged in some guilty pleasures- real pizza, ice cream, wheat bread, LOTS of smoothies, and even margaritas, nachos, kahlua mudslides, and a game of pool at Accra’s one sports bar! We also sampled some local fare including their bread (amazing!), spiced sausage, fried plantains, and delicious jollof rice (West African paella).

Our last morning was spent at this tiny pancake hut run by a rastafarian guy named Winstone, who we had met the night before. Though we ultimately had different ideas of what constituted a pancake, Winstone, his puppy Lyle, and the vegetarian revolution book he put on our table when we arrived made for fun company. Bob Marley’s wailing and nearby crashing waves melded into the perfect soundtrack.

It was a fitting end to our trip, and Ghana made the perfect ending to a crazy summer.

I realized some time ago my education here goes way beyond the local language and customs. I’ve become familiar with so many new sounds. I now know the sound of a chicken when it’s being killed, a goat when it’s giving birth, the baby next door when it’s hungry. I know the sound of the tonal repetitions in the local language when two close friends meet in passing; the rumble of the flour grinder two houses down and the hum of a nearby generator; the sound of mice and big lizards running around my ceiling at night and the ruckus that ensues when one chases the other (I always root for the lizard); the sound of the marché across the way from me carrying on well into the night; the deep-throated grumble of cattle as they graze in front of my house; the low clicking orders of their herder; the whining of children versus the baying of goats, though I swear one goat sounds like he’s always saying in a deep grumpy voice “Badddddd!” (I’ve named him Eeyore); all the different bird and insect calls. I’m even learning to discern the voice of each student who, in passing at night, will see me cooking dinner by candlelight and holler out from the dark “Good Evening, Madame Catherine!”

There are no glass windows here, just metal shutters and sometimes screens, so you can hear everything going on within several dozen meters. With all the noise I find myself listening more. That is, before I put in earplugs at night to try and get some sleep!

“Chaleur, Circumcisions, and Mangos, Mangos, Mangos!”

After so much traveling, it was nice to settle back into village life. In addition to school, I started meeting regularly with two work partners beginning to organize Badjoudé’s second annual International “Day of the African Child” celebration – a festival highlighting primary school talents in traditional theater, music, and dance, while at the same time educating about children’s rights. The last two weeks were spent moto-ing around the countryside visiting over 20 little primary schools in the commune, inviting them to participate—tiring but fun!

One weekend was spent in a nearby village, Anandana, attending a mountain-top circumcision fête – grown men, no anesthesia, not allowed to show any sign of pain. Incredible. In a totally opposite vein, the next day was spent at the 1st birthday party for the little girl of my best friend in village – Mounirou, Badjoudé’s Sage Femme (“wise woman” or mid-wife).

The party was as delightfully chaotic as a one year-old’s birthday should be : complete with collapsing chairs, near choking, popping balloons, and three costume changes for the princess of the day! I helped serve food and supervise then spent the rest of the time taking pictures of the kids. Nearly 100, to be exact. I couldn’t help myself, they were so cute!

Another weekend I had the honor of hosting my two lovely post-mates Heidi and Lindsey and my best bud Megan. They came to help me paint a world map at my school since the original had long since peeled. It took us three long days but in the end it was beautiful and fairly proportionally accurate to boot. Us, my homologue, and a geography teacher who helped all celebrated afterwards with cokes and galettes with fresh piment sauce at Badjoudé’s one buvette (bar). My colleagues tell me they have already been using it to teach their classes about continents.

Last but certainly not least, April announced the arrival of true mango season. Mangos now compromise a good third of my diet. Everyone walks around with a mango in hand or mouth, even the goats! Everyone has the tell-tale strings in their teeth. Yellow poo abounds. Just as exciting as mango season was the long-awaited return of the rains. When we had our first shower after so many dry months I went out and twirled in it. I hope never to take rain for granted again.

“In - and out - like a lion”

With a week of in-service training on an organic farm in Porto Novo and another week of training ending with the ALL-VOL(unteer) Conference, I felt like I wasn’t in village very much- though long enough to crash a king’s funeral (ie. huge party with traditional dance and lots of food) and go to a local Women’s Day celebration on March 8th. However, the month yielded plenty of quality hanging-out time with volunteer friends, including an all-night dance party on a terrace overlooking the ocean!

After a second week in air-conditioning with other Americans it was time to get back to village. When I got home, the dead bat in my kitchen sink was a nice slap back into reality!

“THE LAND OF NO PROBLEMS”

What a trip! When we take off in a rattly mini-bus for the north-western border of Benin, we have no idea what we’re in for. There are five of us: Jordan, Megan, Phoebe, Rima, and myself and we are about to get to know each other a lot better.

The mini-bus in itself is an adventure -- things are looking pretty good until we cross the border. Not long after, the engine starts making ungodly racket which includes ear-piercing pops out the back every few minutes. The other passengers don’t seem concerned so we decide ‘when in Burkina, do as the Burkinabé’ and patiently wait for the breakdown. It doesn’t take long. The medley of ‘repair stops’ follow in quick succession. In between stops, the chauffeur keeps insisting everything is fine despite the fact the car is moving at approximately 1.5 mph. I’m not kidding. I couldn’t look at the window without cracking up, especially after we got passed by loaded down donkey carts. TWICE. Accepting the situation, we each tried to distract ourselves from the fact that if we weren’t so lazy we very well could get out and walk faster to Ouagadougou.

Several hours later, the driver finally admits defeat and we hail down another mini-bus, much to the chagrin of its already crammed-in passengers. Eventually, we make it and celebrate that night with a dinner of salad, french fries, and chocolate mousse. Our first taste of Ouagadougou is delicious.

The good thing about our prolonged arrival was there was plenty of time to take in the Burkina landscape. My first impressions are stronger than I expect – Burkina definitely has a feel altogether different from Benin. To begin, there are donkeys everywhere! I couldn’t remember seeing one such beast of burden in Benin (though plenty of asses…) but now they were everywhere you looked. Also, villages are more spread apart and houses are consistently mud-brick, without the sprinkling of cement building seen in Benin. All this backs up our knowledge of Burkina Faso as one of the poorest countries in the world. Despite the obvious hardship, there’s a great spirit here. The people are friendly and laid back, even more so than the Beninese. This was characterized by their use of the expression “il n’y pas de probleme” (“no problem!”) in about every other sentence. You couldn’t help but smile. And then, of course, there’s Ouagadougou.

Ouaga is a pleasant surprise. It’s a clean and relaxed city, or at least seems it in comparison to Cotonou which Lonely Planet describes akin to “being stuck in a taxi with a chain-smoking speed freak.” There’s green space and lots of people on bicycles, even businessmen. Every two years, Ouaga plays host to Africa’s most important film festival, and the effects of this role are clearly visible, not the least of which in the many movie theaters.

That first morning we walk directly down the street, past the huge central mosque, and buy a kilo of strawberries before going to a supermarket (a real supermarket!) where we purchase baguettes and goat cheese. We then classily gobble this breakfast feast outside on the curb. Even with all the build-up, the strawberries are worth the wait. Having heard they were grown in Burkina we became increasingly distraught when our many stops in villages along the way yielded no sightings. Finally, just before getting dropped at our hotel we see a woman carrying a huge pyramid of red that wasn’t tomatoes or piment!

That day we mostly just wander around… without realizing, we had planned our first full day in Ouaga on a Sunday and everything was closed. However, we do manage to find a BOWLING ALLEY, and are unable to resist, especially considering the total lack of more culturally appropriate options. They even have the cool shoes! That night we treat ourselves to lasagna and the best kiwi sorbet in the world at a popular ex-pat restaurant.

Having had a taste of indulgent city life, we head out early the next morning for Bobo-Dialasso. As if the name isn’t cool enough (locals call it simply ‘Bobo’) this transit town instantly wins me over. Centered around its huge market, the small city lazily makes it way down tree-lined streets bustling with merchants, tourists, and people going to and from work. Just one block from the market, our hotel is in a perfect location.

Wasting no time, we drop off our stuff and take off on foot for Kibidwe, the historic district landmarked by an extraordinary 19th century mosque. Touring the quartier requires guides and we luck out with two easy-going guys who deftly lead us through winding alleys and mud-brick passageways. Since most the buildings are still inhabited, we regularly glimpse families going about their daily routine, some greet us warmly while the rest ignore us completely. Along the way we see a sacrificial mound, a river of “sacred fish,” and many artisans eager to sell us their over-priced goods. Despite our unhappy new role as tourists, nothing can take away from the overall awesomeness of the experience. The genuineness of the people and their lifestyle emanates and I leave feeling honored to have shared in their culture, if only for an hour. The tours ends at the mosque which, with its many towers and protruding wooden struts, is by far the coolest I’d seen since arriving in West Africa.

On the topic of superlatives, Bobo’s Grande Marché wins “Best West African Market.” It’s expansive, but not overwhelming. Labrynthine lanes branch out from a central star-shaped cement structure open to the sky. Occupying the inner circle are the fruit and vegetable stalls, watched over by colorfully clad women. From here to the market’s outer rim are stalls of most anything you can imagine, including booth after booth of beautiful African prints. The wider lanes are covered by thin muslin sheets that billow in the breeze and glow in the afternoon sun.

The market also has great food, saucy pasta with the most incredible, melt-in-your-mouth cooked cabbage. Yes, cabbage. You’d have to taste it to believe it.

The next morning we walk to a museum which to our delight has a gallery of contemporary local artwork, in addition to displays of traditional ceremonial items. Even more exciting (especially for Megan our resident art history major) our guide is one of the artists being showcased and the other arrives within a couple minutes. Megan, Phoebe, and I each end up buying small canvas pieces painted with all-natural mud dyes. For the equivalent of 15 US dollars we purchase truly unique African art and get to chat with the artists afterward! Continuing through the small but charming museum, we tour two models of traditional nomadic and sedentary (farming community) Burkinabé homes. We later mingle with more local artisans working on batiks, iron, and wood carvings on a shady hillside behind the museum.

That afternoon we put on our swimsuits and pile into a taxi in search of “La Guinguette,” described as a crystal clear bathing area in the middle of a lush forest. Sounds good! Supposed to be only 18 km out of Bobo, after 45 minutes it becomes clear our driver has no idea where he is going. He claims he “went there as a child” and “thinks he remembers a short-cut.” What follows is a ridiculous comedy of errors which find us trespassing into a water-processing plant, driving down an empty creek bed and through several families’ compounds, and finally coming in the back way to a mission where we are told “Oh yes, of course, just down the road” when we ask for directions. Three hours after setting off we arrive hot and sweaty, only to hear the news that visitors are no longer allowed to swim. FINE. We decide to go see it anyway and it ends up being a beautiful little hike complete with a suspension walking bridge, a valley of ferns, and (as promised) a crystal clear swimming hole no longer used for swimming.

The next morning, the real fun begins. Sitting in front of our hotel drinking coffee, we notice large groups of people roaming around the streets. We heard the market would be closed due to a one-day strike but had no idea it was quickly spreading into a nation-wide protest against rising product costs.

So we continue sipping our coffee, casually watching as the groups of people (upon closer inspection all men, mostly young) get increasingly rowdier, at one point tearing down a stop sign and setting fire to some tires in the middle of an intersection. They also have started building road-blocks which, when we look down the road in the opposite direction, we see are for approaching armed police vehicles. When we start to smell something suspiciously like tear gas our sweet and overprotective waiter Andre kindly suggests we move inside. As bizarre as the situation may sound, we never felt in danger. We were part of a crowd of people, tourists and locals, standing on the side of the street just watching. No one was paying a bit of attention to us.

We later wander down the empty streets to the bakery where we buy some pastries black market-style, out the side door since -- for solidarity’s sake -- they’re not supposed to be open. Accepting we won’t be getting out of the city that day (police have all roads blocked) we resign ourselves to a day by the pool in a nearby hotel. It’s there we run into Cory, a Burkina volunteer, who is there with his parents who are visiting from Tennessee.

Thanks to him, we get the full update on the situation and realize we should probably call Peace Corps Benin to let them know we’re okay. Within a few hours, what starts as a simple check-in call escalates to the point of all of us being escorted by a Peace Corps SUV to a hotel outside the city. There we meet with Burkina’s safety officer who makes it sound like we’ll be on lock-down for a couple of days. Not so, the next morning the country director calls to tell us to be ready to leave in 15 minutes and “pack light” since we’d be squeezing in nearby volunteers – 16 in all for one car –to evacuate to a different town. Already loving what a good story this has become, we’re all in a jovial mood as we introduce ourselves and cozy up for the 2 hour ride. In a huge coincidence, I end up in the back of the SUV, knee-to-knee with a girl I graduated with from William and Mary! In the words of Ani DiFranco “the world is absurd, and beautiful, and small.”

The next day finds us back on the road again, this time doing a cross-country trip dropping off three Burkina volunteers in their villages before finally pulling up to the Peace Corps transit house in Ouagadougou at 7:30 that night. Early the next morning us and three other Benin volunteers who had been passing through are driven to the border where we are met by Noel, our safety guy, and another air-conditioned SUV. And so ends our Burkina adventure, safe and sound back in Benin, having not done everything on our itinerary but having seen more than we could have imagined.

I’ve had my first taste of African mango and now I can’t get enough. You cannot imagine how good it is: how juicy, how sweet, how full of flavor, how decadent, how (yes, I’m going there) sensuous.

Lindsey, my friend and post-mate, is of the mind that papaya is the sexiest fruit. (This is just one of many important things PC volunteers debate in our free time) To back up her claim, she points to the fruits’ shape – gently curving like that of a woman’s hips. Once cut open, you find the fleshy fruit protects an inner core that, once punctured, bursts forth a hundred squishy, delicate black seeds.

The symbolism is definitely there; I would say the papaya is the most womb-like, most womanly, perhaps most strongly feminine of fruits, but is it sexy?

For that distinction, I feel we must go further than just appearance and look at the whole experience. The color, the taste, the texture, the fullness of flavor, the way it drips down your chin. Taking the entire aesthetic and eating experience as a whole, I think mangos must win hands down.

Their color – the skin is deep green that shifts to crimson as it ripens. On the inside is the brightest, most unapologetically orange you’ve ever seen. It’s a happy but strong color.

The taste and smell is full and sweet. Never overwhelming, just keeps you wanting more.

Now the best part is when you eat it. Never quite finding the perfect cutting method to get the fruit closest to the pit, you resort to taking it by hand and eating open-mouthed with juices going everywhere, the taste and smell filling your senses.

Not that you LOOK particularly sexy. I’ve eaten only a few mangos so far and it’s always at this moment, when I’ve given up cutting and pick up the whole pulpy orange mess, and sucking what remains stuck to the pit, it’s always at this time I’m terrified a neighbor or student will come knocking. I won’t have enough time to clean all the juices off my hands and face and they will KNOW. They’ll smell the distinct sweetness, see the orange strings in my teeth, and know I am greedy enough to be eating mangos two months before season!

Go forth and hunt one down for yourself. I promise you even the worst mango is ten times better than the best banana. Hands down.

With so much going on, and a distinct lack of post-Thanksgiving over-commercialized holiday advertising, December crept up on me. My focus at school was on writing and giving the first set of final exams which, though stressful to write up and nerve-racking to give, turned out pretty well.

Only a few days in, my postmate Heidi left for her long vacation in the states (her first time back since leaving the summer of 2006). Although I missed her, I took it as a good time for me to have a quiet few weeks to get myself together. As the nights and mornings cooled and the Harmatan winds picked up… so did my spirits and my energy. I started talking with colleagues about potential projects in the Spring. I organized the house and ventured further out into the village. I hung up my hammock, ordered a rocking chair, and handled my first dead mouse (it was an accident!). It was a welcomed, boring few weeks. As the holiday approached, news from home was my only reminder of nostalgia. Luckily, the week before Christmas my friend Megan and I fell upon the idea of making everyone who would be together in Natitingou stockings from colorful African tissue. Little did we know what we got ourselves into! Sewing each stocking by hand… names across the top and everything… we must have put in 50 hours each but it was so worth it to drop that little bit of Christmas spirit around… we even made two with jewish stars for our non-christian buddies!

Packing up and leaving Badjoude this time was much more organized than the haphazard departure to Parakou. I arrived in Natitingou and had an incredible visit. We made a side-trip to Boukoumbe, a mountain village where we hiked 3 hours into the hills to spend the night in a Tata Samba (mud hut castle). We also swam in waterfalls, made potato pancakes with real applesauce Christmas morning, visited an orphanage Christmas day, ate pizza and REAL CHEESE (baked brie is a luxury no matter where you are… but pure heaven in Africa), planned for next year’s national spelling bee, and watched Grey’s Anatomy. The only down-side was several people’s illnesses, including my own: first Christmas in Africa followed closely by my first cold... how appropriate!

Now I am heading back to Badjoude to celebrate the New Year au village. Since this is the biggest holiday in Benin I am looking forward to lots of eating and festivities… I cannot believe it is already 2008!

November, unlike March, came in like a lion…. and went right out roaring as well. It began with the sudden, unexpected departure of a dear friend of mine. Erin was an amazing girl I was lucky enough to call post-mate for one month. The closest TEFL volunteer, her post was Djougou and a perfect resting spot for any travels. She had been struggling with pain in her legs for weeks (months, really) and finally went down to Cotonou to see if the doctors could discover the cause and help treat it. When the source of the pain couldn’t be discovered after two weeks of testing, they had no choice but to send her home. I think in the end she was at peace with the decision, but we were all very sad to see her go. So far, our little TEFL family had yet to lose anyone and this loss hit hard. To make matters worse, admin decided last minute to only give her a day at post so the only way for many of us to see her before she left was to travel down south to see her off. It was a sad but really touching weekend. Even with the repercussions that would follow, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

The middle of the month brought a nice respite. I got into the teaching routine, enjoyed my kids, gave quizzes at my house… my terrace packed with eager students always hoping for one more piece of candy when they were done. I added some extra touches to make it feel like home. Hung out with my closest postmate Heidi as she battled a knee injury and needed my house as a recuperating spot (I was happy to oblige!).

As Thanksgiving came closer, I began to see a slight change in the weather. The infamous harmatan wind began gently puffing dust around. All around, fields were set on fire… leaving behind black ash and awkward stalks after their dramatic glow. I was amazed how much closer everything looked without the tall fields blocking the view. Pigs were a new addition to the landscape as well…. dozens of them roaming around freely now that the dry season was here and they could no longer damage crops. It took a couple days for me to get used to the chorus of oinking that would accompany a gang of pigs running through my yard!

As the end of the month approached, I got more and more excited. All the talk of my cousin Emilie and her fiancé Rowan coming to visit was finally going to become a reality. Unfortunately, they did not make it in time for Thanksgiving day… doubly sad since this year it happened to fall on Emilie’s very special 30th birthday! I was lucky enough, however, to have some good friends over to salvage the day for me with a turkey hand cut-outs, spaghetti, and lots of sangria! We even went around and said what we were thankful for… the recurring answer being: friends the feel like family.

True to her promise, Emilie fought hell AND high water to make it to my doorstep. Three cancelled/delayed flights and a 9 hour night taxi ride later, she and Rowan rolled up to my little house in Badjoude. I cannot express how it felt to see real family… THIS family… one of my “sisters.” All the stress of the last few weeks, the uncertainty of the last few months, the joys and travails of living here came crashing together and tumbling down. We hugged and I just felt BETTER. Not to mention the pre-cooked turkey and honey ham that by some miracle (and Rowan’s genius) made it intact to my kitchen. We started cooking right after they arrived at 10 pm and stayed up until 3 am eating and talking.

Since they arrived so much later than was planned, we only had the next afternoon to visit Badjoude before heading off to Parakou for my training which started bright and early the next morning. Though it was a whirlwind, I couldn’t have asked for a better visit. They saw everyone in village who was important to me, got to taste several local dishes and drinks, and Em documented everything on their digital camera. So fun! At 4 pm we piled into a bush taxi and started our 4 hour trip to Parakou… where we arrived happy but exhausted, and covered head to toe by red dirt kicked up by the taxi on the 40 k road before you hit paved highway. The orange tint it gave my skin, matched with my short stature, made me look disturbingly like an oompa-loompa.

The rest of the week was spent going to sessions all day and squeezing in time with Em and Rowan during lunch and dinner. It was tiring but definitely worth it. It was a sad day for me when I watched them jump on motos and ride off to their bus-stop in the early morning. The sadness I felt from that and worrying about my dad was lifted a little when I received the good news that his cancer surgery had gone well. When I finally made it back to Badjoude I was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and looking forward to a few good weeks of nothing to get myself organized and well-rested.

Whipping Fête ~ October 26 – 28

Lucky me that one of the most interesting festivals in Benin (and I’m not biased at allll) happens in my little village at the end of every October. It is called ‘la fête de chicotte’ – the Whipping Fête.

I know much more about it since having interviewed two village wisemen about it several days ago for an article I’m writing for PC. I will try to figure out how to make link to that article but don’t hold your breath!

Though I’ve learned a lot since, back in the last week of October I had little more than a vague collection of facts surrounding the event: largest Lokpa celebration, during which young men whip each other, a sort of ‘rite of passage’ in order to attain manhood in the eyes of the community. Oh yah and there would be lots of drinking.

Happily, my house became “Whipping Fête central” where I welcomed nearly 20 volunteers over the two days, including the first volunteer in Badjoudé – a village hero, and rightly so – Annie! She came at just the right time in my service, when I felt comfortable and familiar enough with Badjoudé to want to learn more. She introduced me to different important people, gave me tips about the house and general living, and gave me a lot more insight into Lokpa culture in general, and the Fête in particular.

With her help we hosted quite the event: ordered drinks from the bar and two large barrels of the local brew Chouc-chouc (a cross between beer and cider, in my opinion, and made from millet) to offer visitors and dancers throughout the two nights of festivities. We also made appropriate visits to the village King (yep, had no idea Badjoudé had one of those!) and mayor. She even spoke with local police and border patrol, and organized a bus and 5 guides for us to go see the festivities in a nearby village just across the Togo border the day after Badjoudé’s celebration. It was a crazy and amazing two days.

The fête itself is so hard to describe to someone who was not there. I know I will fail miserably in trying to do so but I hope to get a few pictures up to give a better idea. The morning of Badjoudé’s, always the first of the season with the surrounding village’s festivities happening throughout the following week, we awoke just before sunrise. Luckily, my house is just a stone-throw’s away from the action so we lazily made our way up to the main road and waited. Just as the sun came up over the trees we started to hear the drums and whistles in the distance. More spectators came to join our crowd and within a few minutes we could make out two mobs of people dancing, blowing whistles, and singing their way towards each other from opposite directions on the long dirt road. They were two of Badjoudé’s quartiers (neighborhoods), rivals, and there was going to be a rumble!

When the two groups finally met in front of us, there was much battle crying and boasting. Then, all at once, everyone turned and stampeded into a nearby field. What had just moments before been a calm clearing of waist-high grasses rustling in the wind, was instantly transformed into a battle field. The best way I can think of to describe the mood is “cheerful chaos.”

At first, looking into the field you would have no idea what was going on: there are so many people, whips flying, the deafening din of hundreds of whistles and raised voices, white powder being thrown around… I got doused by an enthusiastic spectator and was pleasantly surprised to discover it was baby powder. Saved me a shower and I smelled baby fresh the rest of the day!

Eventually, your eyes adjust to the commotion and you begin to see that there are dozens of matches going on at the same time. For each match there are two competitors armed with a whip in one hand and a long club for blocking in the other. In between them stands a “referee” who blows a whistle to let them know when it is their turn to make a hit or to defend. Each fighter gets two consecutive chances to try and hit their opponent. All of the competitors are shirtless, so when someone makes a solid hit, even with the surrounding ruckus, there is no mistaking the sound of whip on flesh. WWWWHAP! And you wince because you know that’s going to leave a mark! Talk too long with any Lokpa man, especially when he’s had his daily share of chouc-chouc, and he’ll soon be lifting his shirt or sleeve to give you a tour of his “battle scars.” They are so proud!

What surprised me about this event, and still surprises me reading back through my description, is how NOT barbaric it actually is. I first thought my mind would reject the battling as foreign but in the end my expectations were reversed. It turned out I was not as shocked by the whipping and more surprised by the free-for-all atmosphere of the spectators. People are screaming, dancing, singing, dressed in every which way. The men who have already undergone the ceremony are the craziest: decked out in anything imaginable… the only staple being some item of women’s clothing. A general outfit might be a cut-off jean skirt, flashy red bra, elmo stuffed animal tied to the waist, plastic bags around the ankles, and a small animal scull attached to a headdress on top of a tinsel wig.

My sociology major mind did not miss the irony of hundreds of flashy, cross-dressing men in a country which officially denies the existence of homosexuality. (I’ve had several curious people ask me about the “phenomenon” and then shake their heads disbelievingly, concluding it is must be an “American” or “European” thing). I had guessed this tradition of dressing in women’s clothes must be a modern add-on but my wise men informants told me that it has been a part of the customs since the beginning. It is a way for men to demonstrate the strength and security of their masculinity. Uh-huh.

After a sufficient amount of battling has taken place the two groups merge with spectators into a big dancing circle and then eventually dance their way up the main road to the center of town to merge and battle with other neighborhoods. After a morning of following different groups, everyone crashes for the afternoon repos (nap time!) and then reemerges lazily for celebrating that lasts well into the night. Our group happily took the rest time, then got up around 2 to go greet the king and thank him for permitting us to attend the festival. As is customary during any holiday, we were welcomed with chouc and food (little fried bean cakes) and then sat around making small talk with each other and the king’s family under the shade of two ancient baobabs.

The whole day seemed like a dream, a bright sunny morning illuminating an incredible cultural experience… made personal by the fact it was MY village: MY students running around (and some of them proudly whipping), dancing next to MY neighbors, MY Papa holding court over the first battle, etc etc I’m sure the dreamlike effect was not at all dampened by the continuous supply of chouc which I was obligated to drink in order to be polite to our hosts!

The next day we got up early again and piled into a bus to head over to Kemerida, which Annie promised was worth the trip. We were not disappointed. This village’s Whipping Fête turned out to be an interesting contrast to Badjoudé’s. Theirs was organized, each little neighborhood having a personal ceremony and tiny courtyard battles. In fact we divided ourselves into small groups of three or four so as not to overwhelm these more intimate events. Here we could actually see what was going on; the protocol, each step of the ceremony which the day before seemed incomprehensible. They had official sites for each “tournament round” bringing together more and more groups until the final “play-offs” neatly held inside a huge stadium-like circle. There were even Red Cross officials on-hand to handle injuries… it felt very much like a soccer tournament, screaming “soccer moms” on the side-lines and all!

When all my visitors eventually packed up and headed on their way I was exhausted, the house was a wreck, and there were lesson plans to write, but I wouldn’t have changed a thing. That weekend, more than anything that had happened yet, made me feel like I had ARRIVED.

I have been four weeks at post. Hard to believe since it feels like so much has happened. Not that much has actually happened (it's a small, quiet village) but just my personal mini-events: first house of my own, first day out in village, first solo bush-taxi, first African pet... but I'll get to all that. Suffice to say life here is a rollercoaster -- a high speed one where you can have several highpoints and falls within the span of an hour, much less a day. In short, Peace Corps is life on crack.... catchy, though admittedly less inspiring than their current slogan: Life is calling. How far will you go?

GETTING THERE

After the whirlwind that was swearing-in and final shopping/preparations/goodbyes I finally bid Lokossa farewell in a taxi with me, my driver Mounuri, and all my stuff - one mattress, one gas stove, two gas tanks, one mountain bike, one metal canteen/lock box, two suitcases, and four cement bags.

Mounuri turned out to be decent company. We didn't speak much but I feel we made a real connection over Celine Dion. See, he had this tape of hers which must have been a favorite since we heart it - in its entirety - no less than 11 times. He sang along to most of them (nothing like a grown African man belting "There is no other love like a mother's love for her child!") I was excited when I could chime in on the one song I had heard before ("New Day" for all you Celine fans). He seemed equally excited and sang even louder and so we drove up-country: me, Mounuri, and Celine.

In addition to his fun music taste he was also the first driver I've had here that didn't have me longing for one of those roof handlebars. He used a TURN SIGNAL which, until that point I did not believe existed in this country. Lastly, he gave me my first glimpse of the traditional scarrification found mostly in the North. He had hundreds of beautiful lines running down his face in intricate patterns.

All in all, a good companion for the 7 hour trip. When we finally pulled up to my house in the mid-afternoon he had everything unpacked in a matter of minutes, waving goodbye to me soon after. Alone for the first time in my new home, I took quick inventory of everything and then promptly plopped down on a pagne chair, completely unsure of where to begin.

WEEK 1

Over the next few days, armed with a broom, tiny sponge, and some bathroom disinfectant, I work my way through the house, room by room. I make it a point to go out at least once a day (usually in the late afternoon when it's cooler) to "saluer"people - basically walking around town, smiling and waving. I am getting used to no electricity. I live in a house of shadows but it doesn't seem as gloomy to me as it first did. I'm feeling very colonial with my kerosene lantern and make-shift candlebra (old guinness bottle).

I am proud that I venture out to the big market on the Togo border my second day. I buy basins to do laundry, some salt and garlic, and a funnel and I feel victorious.

At this point, I keep forgetting I'm here to teach... basic survival feels like a full-time job and keep me busy, literally from sunrise to sunset. I'm usually in bed by 8:30 pm!!

WEEK 2

I'm in love. He came to me early one morning when I was out in the garden singing to myself Cat Stevens' "Morning Has Broken." He has blue eyes and brown/gray hair. He fits in the palm of my hand.

Three little girls -- sisterns Charlotte, Chiselle, and Chantal -- came bounding toward me with triumphant smiles and a small black sack. Inside was a tiny kitten. My first instinct tells me he is too young to leave his mother. I tell them and their faces fall so I agree to keep him for the day to "see if he'll eat chez moi," all the while knowing I'll return him that night.

When the girls don't arrive I walk to their house, only to have their mother tell me they don't have cats. Long story short, it seems the girls either stole him or found him, so are unable to return the kitten to its mother. Nervously, I decide to take him on.

By the second day he is eating well. Locals told me to put him on a strict diet of akassa (fermented starch pudding) and milk. By day three he has outgrown the infant stage and is a full-blown terrible two: curious, demanding, and into everything!

I tell myself not to get too attached but of course I do. Just to myself, I name him Zan-Zan - it means "morning" in Fon, the local language of the South. It was one of my favorite Fon words and seemed appropriate considering how he came to me.

Not to mention the wonderful Cat Stevens pun.

Week 3

I have a great weekend when Heidi and Lindsey, my two closest postmates, come to visit. They are both health volunteers who have been here a year so they are full of great stories and advice.

School "officially" started the Thursday before but I soon find out that this is when people start THINKING about school: the censeur STARTS writing class schedules, kids and professors START thinking about coming, and the few kids that do show up START getting the building and grounds ready (boys arriving with hoes to clear the school yard and the girls with brooms to sweep the classrooms). No cleaning staff here, everything is done by the students. No wonder no one shows up for the first two weeks!

On the homefront I am completely content. Zanzan is getting bigger and stronger and proves to be smart too when he immediately takes to my home-made litter box. I have friends in village now and feel comfortable and happy. Then Wednesday comes.

I wake up already knowing I am sick, undoubtedly brought on by my "marché madness" of the day before where I went to both markets in my area with Heidi, happily chatting and snacking my way through both.

I lay low as best I can but I am still having to go to school twice a day just in case kids show up, which of course they don't. Doesn't help that the censeur has changed my class schedule THREE TIMES... I barely know when classes are!

My health manual becomes my new best friend, as I read it several times trying to figure out the best way to go about feeling better. My favorite pastime becomes reading through symptoms trying to guess if I'm suffering from mere food poisoning or something more exciting like giardia or ameobas.

I get my period and don' thing I can feel much worse.

But then there was Thursday.

I will not share details about my sickness but suffice to say I felt pretty CRAPPY. The only highlight was a sweet moment spent with my kitten when I took him outside for him to airdry in the sun after giving him a bath. He falls asleep purring in my lap and I have no idea that this is to be our last happy time together -- within the hour he is dead.

I wish I could say it was a peaceful death, but it wasn't. He lost control of his bowels and was struck with paralysis all in the matter of minutes. I frantically run him up to the town to try and find help. Not knowing why I am rushing, villagers laugh as I pass with only a quick hello and kids mock my pace since no one walks fast here. The niece of a friend leads the way, through backyards and across fields, before we finally arrive chew the veterinarian, only to have him take one look and tell me there's no hope. When I start crying he looks frantic (it's culturally taboo to cry in public so they get reallll nervous when white people do it!) and promises to find me a new healthy kitten. The worst part is that Zanzan isn't dead yet, every few minutes he lets out a painful meow. Walking back to town I try to pull myself together but I've got two days of not eating, hormones, fatigue, and heartache working against me. After a few half-hearted attempts to explain myself to people I passed I finally make it home and see that he is gone.

I had him for 12 days.

That first night by myself again was the first time I felt truly lonely since coming to Africa.

WEEK 4

After a much-needed fun weekend away with friend from stage, I am feeling much better emotionally and physically. Good thing, too, since - a mere 10 days after the official first day of school - I finally teach my first class in Badjoudé.

It feels good to be working again and being with the kids. They are a sweet bunch but considerably less dynamic than the students in Lokossa. It's to be expected, though, since most kids here will never leave Badjoudé and school for many of them is just a way of getting out of work in the fields or at home. I have my work cut out for me, but I feel up to the challenge... most days, anyways :) My schedule is pretty light so I'm already thinking ahead to different projects around the house and community for when I get settled into the new routine.

Until next time, blabba tassa!

As is evident in my catch-up entries, I've been as busy as the internet has been sporadic. After nearly nine weeks I am now a mere two days away from being officially sworn-in as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

It has been quite the ride.

Just two days after returning from post visit, we started "model school." This was where we'd finally get to put into practice all the educational theories/strategies/nonsense we'd been learning about the last four weeks. Basically, they brought in several hundred real-life Beninese children, bribing them with presents at the end, for free summer English classes. This meant there were approximately 60 in each class and I had just one day (coming off of a week of no sleep) to plan to teach such a class the wonders of English salutations.

I got through it, and the next four weeks, with highlight days where I felt like the best darn teacher ever and a few really, really bad days where I was ready to throw in the towel. So basically, a very realistic look at how my actual teaching experience will be.

By the end, despite the good practice, both us teachers and most especially the students were ready for it to be over. We finished up last Friday and have been functioning like normal, well-slept individuals ever since.

I can't believe training is over and in less than a week I'll be alone in my little village, but I can tell you one thing (okay, really two): I'm ready and I'm excited.

Somewhere around the 4th week we had a conference where we met our school directors ie our future bosses. After two days of in-depth cross-cultural communication sessions (overkill, anyone?) we took off with our directors for the biggest adventure yet: our site visit.

The voyage up to Badjoudé consisted of a seven hour taxi ride, three American women with baby-bearing hips plus one Beninese man in the back seat and three large Beninese men in the front. I had the fortunate/unfortunate luck to be sat, nay SQUISHED, up next to my director which made it especially difficult to maintain the necessary professional relationship we kept hearing about. This grew exceedingly more difficult after he started falling asleep, unawares, on my right breast. Luckily, my travel pillow saved the day when I told him I was worried about his "back being uncomfortable" and swiftly inserted the cushy barrier between us.

The further North we got, the more excited we became. It was so interesting to watch the terrain unfold around us. Having only seen the marshland and jungle of the South it was breathtaking passing through the flatlands and then starting into des collines (literally "hills"), each view more beautiful than the next. Even the most avid window looker can gets tired after seven hours so I was not feeling very excited upon arriving at Djougou, the closest big city to Badjoudé and the last stop for me and my director. My attitude was quickly turned around, however, by the 40 minute moto ride to the village limits. On the back of my director's Zem, him wearing my girly sunglasses to ward of the glare from the late afternoon sun and me in my space age helmet, we were quite the zippy pair. Just minutes outside Djougou I started smiling and didn't stop the rest of the way. THIS was the Africa I had come looking for...

I wish you could have seen it. Up and down we went on a dirt road that stretched as far as the eye could see, on either side stretching gorgeous vistas of savanna grasslands... speckled with Fulani herdsman in pointy hats and clutters of thatched mud huts. All that was missing were the lions, giraffes, and gazelles I knew were found in the wildlife parks of the northern border of Benin.

My time in village was brief, just one full day of meeting everyone in the tri-village area, but it was enough to realize there was a good chance I was going to be very, very happy there. The people were friendly and welcoming, the street food cheap and delicious, the market mere feet from my front door, and my house so nice as to induce bouts of guilt. I have RUNNING WATER with a shower that has amazing water pressure. No electricity, but no latrine either. Instead, I have a separate locked little house with a lone toilet (complete with cushy seat... thanks previous volunteer!) that is "flushed" by pouring down water from a nearby faucet. Only true negatives? There is a rodent issue I'm going to have to face down and all the spaciousness will require LOTS of sweeping! On the other hand, I am planning on converting the "study" into a yoga/guest room so if you are able to visit you know where you can stay!

The trip back was not quite as ideallic, but hey nothing is perfect. My director had told me the only problem in my return trip would be if it rained, since the only road to Djougou was impassable after flooding. As luck would have it, I woke up in the middle of the night to a clap of thunder and torrential downpours and the rain continued until morning. At the appointed hour of 6 am I was ready just in case my director decided to come anyway. At 6:30 I heard his moto. He thought the rain had let up enough that it was worth a shot, so off we took into the drizzly early morning.

I was finding the ride back significanly less spectacular until we crested one of the many hills and I saw across the vista that the sun was rising. Unfortunately, I was unable to appreciate this opening-scene-of-LION-KING moment because I felt if I didn't focus all my attention on bracing for the next bump I'd fall off into the mud. All in all, it was becoming a rather painful experience. Apparently, my director's moto wasn't pleased either because it chose that next moment to make a horrible grinding noise and then screeeeeeech to a halt. Once we got off the zem it was immediately apparent the chain had come off. As Monsieur le Censeur (no idea his real name) began to fiddle with it, I looked at the vast stretch of vegetation and rolling hills around us, and the empty stretch of road spanning as far as the eye could see in any direction. I have no idea why but it was at that moment I had a brief fantasy of half-naked tribal men coming soundlessly out of the bushes, placing me onto a chair tied to two planks, and racing me on their fast African legs directly to the bus station. I am not proud of this fantasy, nor its lack of political correctness, so I will have to chalk it up to the crazy malaria meds which are known for inducing hallucinations. Back to the moto...

After several minutes of working and fiddling he succeeded in getting the chain back on and we triumphantly mounted the moto and took off once more. Our success was short-lived -- not two minutes later an all-too-familiar clank-clunk-screeeech came from beneath my very uncomfortable ass and we quickly dismounted yet again. This time he seemed a little more concerned, shaking his head and repeating over and over: "Ma chaine est trop longue." (My chain is too long). I was too distracted to giggle at the time but I would later find this phrase very amusing.

After another failed attempt, I was starting to get worried about making my bus but I figured as long as there was no french cursing we were fine. Then I heard it, soft but clear: "Merde."

Shit is right.

We ended up waving down a random passer-by (correction: the ONLY passer-by) and he graciously sped me to the station where I barely made it onto the misspelled CONFORT LINE bus.

As I sank down into my seat next to a woman eating plantains with her baby in lap, I sighed and thought how grateful I was to have a good site-visit story that didn't end with me having to hitch-hike down half of Benin!

I have many of both now. I still have a lot of fun with my sisters. I realize how lucky I am to be in a family dominated by strong women. Not to say that when Papa is home he doesn't have all the say - he certainly does, to ridiculous levels - BUT he's not here very often so I feel like I'm in matriarchal home.

I feel I can go no further in sharing my experiences without touching on the goat situation. Basically, they are EVERYWHERE (them and mopeds). Hundreds of goats roam the streets like stray cats. My college roommate said after her trip to Kenya that zebras are the squirrels of Africa... so many as to lose their charm. Well let me tell you, I can't speak for the rest of the continent, but goats are definitely the squirrels of Benin. However, I have to say, despite getting acclimated to their omnipresence I still find them pretty cute. They are little billy goats mostly, each one with its own dopey expression and funny hair-do. The "stud" goat at my house has one of the best mullets I've ever seen. Seriously, you have to see this! I will try to post a picture when I get the chance.

They sound like small children when they "bahhh". (Yes, I'm still on goats.) Before figuring out that the goats were kept in a chamber two doors down I thought there must be a cackle of whiny 3 year-olds living next door! My sisters got a big kick out of this when I told them.

You'd think with all these goats there'd be a lot of eating of goat meat, but as far as I've seen this is not the case. I asked Aubine about it and she said they are kept mainly as house pets - they eat all the trash, which is great in a country lacking any semblance of organized waste management. They are also sometimes used for sacrifices on special holidays............. bahhhhhhhd break, kids!

As we pulled up to la mairie (city hall) it began to rain - another bout of good luck? - and I was nervous but excited to meet my new family. Within moments my three sisters had found me. There was Elodie (20) and the twins Aubine and Aubinette (14). Apparently Maman was at a party but she'd be home a little later.

I immediately felt at ease with them. They are fun and easy-going, especially the twins who like to be silly. Elodie plays the part of the mature older sister gracefully. She is beautiful and strong... watching that girl do laundry is a work of art! The twins are hilarious: Aubinette loves to sing and dance all the time while Aubine is very cuddly and attentive, always taking time to explain things to me slowly. Of course at 14 they both love to giggle about boys so I've definitely had some flashbacks to middle school but it is fun :).

I quickly discovered I had more family then I originally thought. There is Papa who works in Cotonou. Apparently he is the national director of Youth Recreation which requires lots of traveling. He visits on weekends when he can. There is also an older brother and sister who live with their families in Cotonou. Then there's Memé, the grandmother (maman's maman) who lives with us and only speaks the local language Fon. I am excited by the last bit of information because it will be great practice for me as I start learning more and more phrases. To finish out the family I'll be in contact with, there are two little cousins that live with us, Abraham/"Hamo" (10) and Faresse/"Fafa" (8), as well as an older cousin Mimi (13) who was staying for the holidays. As for the two little ones, I'm not sure I have ever met sweeter or more hard-working kids in my life. In Beninese culture children are expected to do all the household chores and the sisters keep them busy!

So, as you can see, in a matter of moments I had acquired my very own African family and I couldn't be more delighted.

To get to our house, we left the city on a dirt road through many cornfields (corn and its products are big here). After many twists and turns we pulled up to a little concession. Once through the red gate, you are in a courtyard busy with chickens, ducks, and sometimes goats. The house is set up around this courtyard with each room opening up to the outside. I essentially had my own part of the house. Two rooms, one in front of the other, and a private cement area in the back for cooking and taking bucket showers. Quite the nice set-up! Although seeing the communal latrines would bring me back to earth a little, all in all I couldn't be more happy with my new home.

The next day we headed back to le bureau for a long day of sessions. I started with a walking tour down past le marché and local bank, where I got my first glimpse of the ocean here -- the Bight of Benin.

Next came lunch on the roof where we had a good view of downtown Cotonou. It actually reminded me a lot of urban Okinawa - a certain controlled chaos where the lack of urban planning is made up in character and general funkiness. After the rooftop break came the REAL fun... zemidjan training!

Zemidjans are the mopeds here (vespas for you euro-trippers) and they are literally EVERYWHERE. They are the primary method of transportation in Benin and so widespread that PC Benin has the special honor of being the only site world-wide authorized to use them! Don't worry Dad, the catch is that you must always wear your helmet and they are serious about this: any volunteer seen riding a moto without a helmet is instantly sent home, no questions asked.

Although helmet use is not popular here and you end up feeling pretty silly being the only one, it only takes one ride to be glad... those peeps are CRAZY: zip zip over potholes, narrowly missing trucks and pedestrians and all the while your only sense of security comes from a deathgrip hold on a tiny bar across the back. Most people that are accustomed to riding hold on at all! I've decided this must be due to having acquired thighs of steel.

The practice ride was enough for me for the moment. They paid some zemi drivers to come by so we could practice hailing them over, bargaining the price (very important here), mounting the moped properly (always left side if you don't want to get burned on the exhaust pipe) and finally going for a little ride. I think they got a big kick out of all us silly yovos (word for foreigner in local language, literally translates to "whitey") in our space-age helmets - think power rangers but more ridiculous.

Next on the schedule was an interview with Maria Soumounni, the director of the TEFL program. She was intimidating at first but I quickly felt a connection with her and respected her straight-forwardness. She is from Benin but I found out she has a son going to GA Tech and living in Buckhead just outside Atlanta... what a small world!

Back at the compound, we had some time before dinner so I napped a little to the sound of one of the other stageaires playing outside on his saxophone. When I got up nearly an hour later he was still playing but he was now joined by two more, one on flute and the other on guitar. As I came out onto the second floor balcony the sun was setting and I could see other stageaires scattered around the courtyard, hanging out and playing frisbee as the chill music played on. All in all, an awesome vibe and I was truly content in the moment. To top it all off, that night we played possibly the funnest game of Scrabble ever (okay, okay maybe not EVER ever but surely the funnest ever played in West Africa).

The next day we finished up by getting a few more vaccinations, interviewing with the doctors, picking up our malaria meds, and having free time to call home, email, exchange money, etc. I chose to attempt international phone calls again (first time failed) since I hadn't called home yet and, what's more, it was my best bud Lera's 23rd birthday! I also thought this could be my last chance to call for a while since international calling wasn't guaranteed at our training site. Unbelievably, this time the phones worked without a hitch. I was able to talk to my parents and the birthday girl, the only drawback being that since we were leaving at noon I called around 11 am my time which made it 6 am their time... yikes! Luckily, they were good sports :)

In the afternoon, we got pictures of our host family. Mine showed a picture of a maman and three daughters. There would be many more in the family but I would not find that out until our arrival the next day...

Since this was to be our last night together as a big group (each sector has its own training site) we hung out as long as possible before heading back to our rooms to pack up and sleep a little before our early departure.

The next morning all 59 of the stageaires and our many, many bags loaded up into five vans (2 for TEFL since at 19 we're the biggest group) and headed out for a scenic two hour drive to Lokossa, a small town northeast of Cotonou, and our home for the next nine weeks.

After the previous day's excitement I slept hard and was a little confused when I awoke at 5 am. Apparently, one of the roosters on the premises forgot he was supposed to wait for the sun. His call, along with the clamour of another downpour, had woken me. As I peered through the shadows of my mosquito net and listened to the rain (and another earnest "cockle-doodle-doo!") I thought to myself: I'm really here. I'm in Africa!

They started the morning session by telling us that in Benin, having it rain upon your arrival is a sign of good luck. This only confirmed what I was feeling... lucky!

What followed was a series of sessions about the program in general, about security, and finally about health for which we received our personal, fully equipped health kit and manual. And I do mean FULLY equipped... with the amount of medicine and information they provide I feel like I could easily treat a small village for all sorts of ailments. There are two full-time doctors at our disposal here. They are both really amazing and personable. Current volunteers bragged about how this is probably the best healthcare we'll ever have since even the smallest problems are given full attention. Having just seen "Sicko" before I came, I think they might be right.

Dr. Rufin who was giving the presentation made sure to include an in-depth discussion of the most "popular" Peace Corps disease - "Diarrhea 101" he called it. He made sure we clearly understood what it entailed, strategies for avoiding it, and the best ways to treat it. He also made it clear that it is not a matter of IF you get sick, but when. "Everyone has to go through it several times as part of the body's adjustment to a new environment." Awesome. I feel better already.

After lunch and a short break, we piled into vans to drive to le bureau ie. PC headquarters in downtown Cotonou. The ride afforded us our first look at Benin in the daylight. Upon arrival, we were systematically ushered through several station: one to pick out a bike and helmet, one to get our first of many vaccinations, one to get our initial allowance (25,000 CFA about 50 dollars), and finally a language interview. Although I would find out later that I placed in the highest group, I felt at the time that I let my enthusiasm overtake my vocabulary. Example: I was all gung-ho on telling him about working with refugees but when he came back with a question about what I would do if I were in charge of ending world poverty (yes, he really did ask this question!) I was at a total loss. Zut!

The first day ended with dinner and then some semi-awkward mingling. The social interaction was aided greatly by the arrival of the evening's beverage of choice: Le Beninois (aka Benin's Budlight) Santé!

The next day we explored some outside the compound before heading to our country director's house for the official welcome ceremony and some brunch. After winding past the shacks of several poor neighborhoods I was surprised when we pulled up to what looked like a PALACE in comparison. Despite being warned beforehand, I was still pretty shocked. It was a beautiful 2 or 3 story, white-washed house with tiled floors and a large marble staircase. There was a small yard within the gated exterior and even a pool that had been filled in to make a sandbox for the children. Incroyable.

Since Benin's ambassador was out of town we had some diplomat or another from Togo spoke before passing it off to the security advisor for the American embassy. We determined this guy's sole purpose was to scare/intimidate us into not doing anything stupid. A worthy objective I suppose but I found the jet-black sunglasses (à la Will Smith in "Men in Black") was a little overkill.

By far the best part of the whole event was having the chance to play with dogs and children, as well as tasting Beninese pineapple for the first time.... soooooooo good! Watching one of the assistant program directors interact with her husband from Niger and their two adorable sons made me think how cool it would be to have a multi-cultural family. They met when she was a PCV (peace corps volunteer) in Niger and he was her local language tutor. As she put it, they ended up speaking the international language of LOVE :). Hmmm.... wonder if that has a subjunctive tense......

I was lucky to get both a window seat and a great plane buddy so the trip went pretty fast. By the time we were ready to land in Cotonou I was both exhausted and thrilled. I wasn't the only one: since they had announced the final descent there had been a steady hum of excitement. It built as we pushed and leaned to catch our first glimpse of Africa and finally culminated in raucous applause when we touched down.

Nearly 2 hours later, after fighting our way through immigration, baggage claim, and customs we emerged, laden yet again with too many bags, to the welcoming cheers and smiles of Peace Corps Benin. Even though our plane had been delayed and it was now pretty late there were probably 20 or more staff and current volunteers there to greet us.

The drive from the airport can only be described as dream-like. I was overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of an African urban center: hundreds of mopeds zipping by with all combinations of passengers (2 men, a woman with a baby strapped on her back, a full family of 4), vendors on the side of the road illuminated by kerosene candles (like lanterns leading the way), women with huge baskets balanced effortlessly on their heads, etc, etc

After some time, we finally turned into our compound, a Catholic oasis if you will, called St. Jean Eudes. Pulling in, we were met by many more cheering volunteers banging on the windows and calling out names to show us to our rooms. Before we could sort through the chaos of bags and people, the skies opened and it began to pour;

my first African rain (but certainly not my last).

My Peace Corps experience started right away. Not 5 minutes after I boarded the plane in Atlanta to head to my staging in Philadelphia a girl walked by and greeted me with a "No way!" when she saw my PC folder. Turns out she was going to Mali so I only saw her once during the next few days. Regardless, it was interesting to feel that first surge of belonging to something.

Once at the Philly airport, I met a few more PC people (ALL GIRLS!) who were going to South Africa. We ended up in the same shuttle (but not the same hotel). Slowly, the numbers in the van dwindled until it was just me and another guy. Voilà, my first Benin counterpart! He said his name was Colin and he was from Iowa. I told him all I knew of Iowa was the Dar Williams song. He laughed and said that was a good start.

Once there, I saw that we were at the tail-end of the group and that registration was just finishing up. I filed through the line with all my paperwork and was relieved to see my personal passport after being separated for several months (sidenote: fed-exing off one's passport is a scary, scary thing). I was even more delighted by the next gift: a brand spankin' new Peace Corps passport (has a micro-chip and everything) with its shiny Beninese VISA!

As far as the actual staging goes, suffice to say I felt I came out okay in light of a fairly awkward, tedious, and very first-few-weeks-of-freshman-year-like experience. The three women running the orientation were nice but didn't seem to know much about Benin specifically, which was a little frustrating. The best I can say is that I met some nice people and got to make final phone calls sitting across from Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. Oh yah and I ate well!

Philadelphia did well by me as far as offering good last-food-in-America options. I had falafel my first night from my favorite chain on both sides of the Atlantic (I first ate there in Barcelona), then spinach and goat cheese pasta with a bailey's créme brulée dessert the next, and finally good ol' fashioned NY style pizza and gelato for my last lunch. Awesome. Thanks, Peace Corps for such a generous food allowance!

However, by far the most excitement occurred when we got to the airport. Unknowingly, our bus driver dropped us off at the wrong terminal so we had to hike with all our stuff nearly a mile through the blazing heat and several construction detours. For some, this proved to be the ultimate PC test: did you really bring only as much as you could carry?

Thank goodness both of my bags had wheels (thanks, Dad) so I made out ok but let me tell you, some peeps were STRUGGLIN'. Worse, when we finally arrived in a sweaty mess they hadn't even processed the Mali group who had left 2 hours before us to avoid this exact problem. We ended up having to wait several hours in line to get checked in but we made the best of it, cracking jokes about how starting off a 23 hour trip dirty and gross didn't bode well for meeting PC's ridiculous request that we look professional upon arrival.

Eventually, we all made it through and with an hour before our flight ended up, where else?

The closest terminal bar, of course... cheers!

Can't believe it's finally here! By this time tomorrow I'll be getting into Philly and meeting some of the people I'll be spending the next two years with....

It's been quite a ride getting to this point. First and foremost there was packing. Eighty pounds really doesn't go very far when you're having to bring cooking supplies, teaching supplies, equipment, shoes, etc. Finally, I got it down to BARE ESSENTIALS and here's what it looked like: A little nervous about getting all that stuff into two average bags, I was pleasantly surprised when it fit with little fuss. Just a few hours of maneuvering, re-packing, re-weighing, obsessing, and finally saying what-the-hell and the bags were ready to go!

Voila:

Not bad for two years in sub-saharan Africa. Now if I can only manage to download all my music, make a mini-album of favorite pictures, pack a carry-on that doesn't weigh 100 pounds, call all my friends, and see all my relatives in the next 10 hours I'll be good to go!