Revenant

Jessica was here for a visit and I thought an appropriate trip would be to see Mr. Fawgla, our resident voodoo chief/free meal/drinking partner/source of fun. Those of you whom followed the previous stories have probably seen his name mentioned before in a myriad of contexts. He is an important part of our lives here in the Couffo and, as such, would be a good person for Jessica to meet. Genevieve had a good time when I took her there; he taught her how to do "Sodabi eyes," a method which prevents you from becoming ill from sodabi consumption if you stare down the putrid liquid as it enters your mouth. I have yet to see it work, but he never seems to be sick, so maybe he's onto something.

I had lost my second cell phone at some point during my stay at home so I was hoping our previously arranged plans for a visit would be well-settled when I got a startling call from Fawgla himself confirming our plans - very un-Beninese and much appreciated. I imagine the call was more to change the plans than to confirm them, however, as he excitedly told me that we would be meeting in Lalo to drink then go to another town 9km away to drink some more. What?! And we had to be there early. Double WHAT?!

In all the time I have been living in Benin and visiting Fawgla's we have never traded in our shady circle under the tree, with the wooden table sticky with sodabi and cola overflows and the millions of children and pesty flocks of guinea fowl skittering about as we get to the serious task of drinking while avoiding being drunk. Why would he want to change our location? Our seasoned, well-known and comfortable spot? Never had he given me an ETA. Especially one so early - 2pm! It's still HOT! Despite the fact that we would be on motos, not walking, it's too hot to even just exist under the sun between the hours of 10:00am and 3:00pm. This threw me off a little, but Jessica needed to meet the man and, perhaps, we could convince him otherwise by not reminding him of the scheduled deviance when we got there. People have been known before to forget things while imbibing.

While we tried to get there on time we didn't leave until 2:00pm (the time we were to be there) and then my zemi realized, not before when he was driving around with other people on board, that his back tire was punctured. We stopped for a good 25 minutes to fix it. Luckily, it only took Jess's zem ten minutes of continuing on to realize that I was no longer behind them. He doubled back just in time for me to remount and take off again - what a waste of gas.

The rest of the journey was extremely uneventful (save for the extremely fast and competitive driving in which I had to repeatedly tell my driver to slow down because I imagine feeling myself flying, skidding, then rolling to a dead stop after he hit one of the pock marks in the terribly grooved dirt road). When we finally arrived to Fawgla's all the usual suspects were there: skinny, accomodating kid; whiny, big-butt kid; annoying cluster of indeterminate younger 5-8 children; older girl; repuditedly perverted "animateur"; cross-eyed old guy; spontaneously English-speaking alcoholic guy; yelling wife #1; two younger guys I don't know; and, Fawgla. The two gallon jugs full of sodabi soaking in roots, sticks, nuts and peppercorns were placed as the centerpiece on the low-lying table where they all sat, awaiting our arrival.

Upon our arrival I ordered the two Coke "chasers" I knew were necessary for our get-togethers. To my amazement, however, the old guy brought a bottle of wine and someone else brought a sparkling grape juice (with no alcohol content) that tasted like child spit. Or what I imagine that would taste. So we weren't forced into sodabi consumption for the first time. This was a very atypical visit indeed. After about two hours of this nothing much had changed except Sheena's arrival from Klouekanme -(pronounced -poorly- "Click-a-may") and the arrival of food. Standard fare; pate blanche with vegetable sauce and pieces of cooked, piment-coated chicken. Needless to say, I couldn't each much of this Satan's-fire-ball-sweat-inpsired banquet so I took a few polite scoops of pate and suffered Fawgla's insistances for about 20 minutes until it was all consumed and I could rest, slightly, easy.

Then, shockingly, Fawgla announced that we could be leaving to go to the next location. Whaaaa? Guess my plan hadn't worked and I was only stalling the inevitable drunkfest I knew I had signed up for when coming out to Lalo in the first place. I was still unsure of the meaning behind our relocation so I bewilderdly asked Fawgla again. This time he responded without the usual "to drink a little" (to which I had always mentally responded, couldn't we do that just as well here?), "to see the ghosts," he replied. My eyes widened...he must be kidding. Le REVENANTS! I knew that January 10th was the national holiday for Voodoo, but I didn't know it was a continuing celebration (this was now the 13th). Excitedly, I hopped on the back of my stranger's moto and encouraged Jessica to do the same on the Pervert Animateur's, too.

15minutes and 9km later we were in another town. I have no idea what the name of the town was or where exactly it was. As Jessica aptly pointed out, what was the point of building a town out there? Was there a road already there or did they need to pointlessly build one out to this BFE town, pop. 30? Either way, there we were, and we were given the front view table at the Copacabana. There was a weird empty space opened up in what I assume was the center of town. We were seated under a tree, with enough chairs for our entourage and a whole new sticky table with beers and sodabis displayed on it. "I chose this one for you," Fawgla explained to me as he pointed an 8% alcohol Nigerian Guiness in my direction. "Oh, delightful," I responded as Sheena and Jessica each chose a much more digestible Star.

Almost immediately the action started up. A cloud of dust kicked up as men, women and children scurried away from this man running after them with a stick, whipping whomever was near enough to hit after an odd inaudible exchange. Well, man is not accurate. He, It, was wearing a costume of pumpkin-colored shoes that continued on into leggings with intricate and colorful sequin designs covered by a thick quilt-like skirt of red, orange, packaging paper and pumpkin colors door-knocker designs lined with yellow topped with an impressive head-covering smock thing with beads and a crochet pattern running down where a man's face should be. Attached to this smock was a disturbing collection of animal skulls, a wooden carving bust of a woman, and animal skins. He carried a fistful of thin sticks that he used at random intervals, between his slide-backwards-kick-slide dancing moves, to whip passerby and even people thinking they were a safer distance away. He was the first Revenant, or ghost, who had come to visit us this fine Beninese evening.

As the six of us, Fawgla, Sheena, Jessica, Pervent Animateur, other moto guy, and myself, watched and drank and feared for a whipping another Revenant appeared almost without a point of origin. This one was undoubtedly a more important ghost, adorned entirely with sequins in the shapes of dogs, birds, serpents and other animals on his long quilted dress and head covering. Predominately pink and red, the animals were green, gold and blue, with somewhat muted undergarments he would show off while spinning in his very showy dancing manner. He spun, spun and spun, then stopped to flick a horsetail over his shoulder while kicking one leg back before tilting and spinning again to show off the beautiful colors and handiwork of his outfit. Really something else. Until the other two Revenants appeared.

Sort of boring at first, the two other Revenants appeared and promptly crouched down at the side of the dancing ring. Decidedly much less beautiful they were nevertheless impressive in the detail of their garments. Their outfits were made with marche fabric rather than sequined designs, but wore head (entire head) coverings of beaded concoctions that sort of reminded me of a scary movie I had recently seen involving a scarecrow. One of them looked like someone had just cut up several carpets into strips and affixed them all to his throat. The other had a large weird wooden carving in the shape of a circle with three breasts on it, but it was on his back so I don't really know what it was meant to signify. Both of these ghosts danced in the same circular manner as the previous, but they both were a lot more personable than the former.

In about the top 1/3 of my second gross Guiness I was busy filming the pretty ghost dancing when I noticed out of the corner of my eye two lumbering, bulky carpets eccentric carpets walking towards us. I panicked! You would have, too! It's eerie being told these animated parlor furnishings in front of you revered and feared by every single person around you, every single heavy-breathed, gaping-mouthed, protruding belly-button child leaning heavily on your chair (and there were plenty of these) and gawking are believed to be ghosts of the people; dieties you were not allowed to address, touch or look at without their permission (i.e. giving money). And they are fast approaching your table. I didn't know how to act, where to look, what to say, could I say? I instinctively reached for my coin purse and they bowed and started talking in some weird Kermit the Frog voice. They wanted to greet us, their handler explained (as the guy who played their special drums following behind him beat in agreement). And get money, of course. After they had succeed in their mission they returned back to their crouched position at the side of the ring. As they waddled away I was instantly reminded of Cousin It and lost a lot of the anxious feelings I had initially felt. I wanted to take a photo of them, dagnamit, and I had certaily paid enough to do so.

Fawgla agreed to take me up, but we had to wait until the whipping ghost was long from sight. A fifth, and final, Revenant was center stage keeping up the audience attention and the drummers gasping for breath. It was time to rock. We kicked off our shoes and snuck across the arena to kneel in the ground before the carpet bags. Someone threw a large stick across the path in front of us so as to create a tangible barrier between us, the living, and the Revenants. After Fawgla groveled a bit and asked for permission I clicked away. Satisfied I grabbed two coins out of my pocket and made to place them next to the Revenants's hem. But Fawgla grabbed my wrist, "Oh, no! Do not TOUCH them!" he cried out with white terror in his eyes. I laughed it off, but was shaken at his fear for me, "I know, I was going to put it close enough to them to reach." He relaxed only slightly. "I know not to touch," I reassured. He cooled and we got up to scuttle back before Whipping Guy came back.

"If you touch them," he asserted, "you die." This was his explanation for his behavior as we prepared to get going. The sun was setting and we needed to meet our zemis back in Lalo for the return journey.

I could see he was serious and I was touched at his concern for me. It's a fine line to walk to maintain sincerity in the face of things I don't necessarily believe to be true but mean so much to my friends that I can't take it lightly. How can one say, with any certainty or basis of truth, that something doesn't "exist" when so many thousands, an entire region of the world, believes in it? I believed in Fawgla for that moment and was grateful to my friend for showing us this beautiful ceremony and, perhaps, for saving my life.

By the way, if you are intrigued (or skeptical) and think you might just want to have one of these silly ceremonies yourself you better save up; one of those ridiculous costumes costs around 1.000.000f CFA, or approximately $2,000 USD. I imagine this means there is money in Benin, but is it wise that it goes to the dead and not the living?

I am standing on the side of the road. It was lucky I could find some shade in which to wait, otherwise I would be sweating twice as much as I am already and getting worse. It’s quite impressive the difference between being directly in the sun and not can make. I see the glimmer of a windshield in the distance. It’s approaching along the stone road, dodging motos and moutons. I can tell it probably isn’t a taxi because the car looks too nice, too new, too cared for. It rolls by and I wave my right arm up and down, levitating, asking for the car to stop. It’s like hitchhiking, but instead of simple thumb sticking out I have to use my entire arm in one fluid animatronic movement. Instead of stopping the car glides by with a slight pause on the brakes. I shout out, ‘Azovè!’ and the car keeps going. Bust! So I wait until the next car comes by.. Just wait. I sit and wait. Then a car comes! I float the arm again in the critically acclaimed ‘taxi dance’ and yell out “Azovè!” as it whizzes by, but this time the car has more then one person in it and slows down enough for me to think it’s going to stop for good. I pick up my helmet and bag and start walking towards the car, but the driver must have conferred with his passengers that indeed I did say Azovè and takes off again before I can get to the door. He’s not going to Azovè. He might not even have been a taxi and was just pausing to see what the white lady wanted, the most likely scenario. The arrival of the third car is met with my disillusionment and I only manage à pathetic half rise and fall of the arm. With this one, however, I decide to tack on an additional point in the direction of my destination. This piques the driver’s interest and he slows down enough for me to call the ritual, “Azovè!” and he stops!!! I pick up my junk and hoof it over to the car where the driver opens the door and takes my helmet to put in the back. I climb in next to two other people and smile and say “Bon soir.” We’re rolling. “Two thousand, five hundred,” the driver says. “No, it’s two thousand,” I counter with authority, I say, but arrogance says the guy in the front passenger seat who shakes his head and butts in with an, “Oh! You white people!” “What?! It should be! It’s one thousand five hundred from Cotonou to Lokossa, right?" He nods his head. “And it’s only five hundred from Lokossa to Azovè, right?” Another nod in agreement. “So therefore,” I am reasoning in French now, mind you, with people who don’t necessarily speak the most correct French to begin with, “from Cotonou to Azovè it should only be two thousand. Do the math!” With this the entire car bursts into laughter. “You’re in Africa” says the guy in the front. Déjà vu. I know how this ends up and I’m not about to climb aboard a part-time delivery truck to sit in the sun for four hours on a dusty road while we get out every twenty minutes to push-start and jump on. I know that when I get out of the car he is only going to get 2 mille out of me. I keep quiet and try to sleep. When my next door neighbor sees this he instantly prods me, “Are you trying to sleep?” “Not anymore” was my bitter response. We stop to pick up a new rider and switch up seating arrangements. The guy on the far left leaves, and a new guy walks up to the window. “No, he’s too fat,” says my neighbor, “where are we going to fit the fat guy?” he asks, seriously. So ‘musical chairs’ ensues. The guy to my left gets out with his mirror cargo and shifts to the front next to ‘surly old man’ and they squeeze in nice and tight while I get bumped to the middle between “Big Fat Man” and “Wake-Up Guy” and we are cruising again. That lasts about twenty minutes and we stop again to pick up a woman that I quite honestly can’t see fitting in our sardine tin on wheels. She shoves her bags of produce in the back (miraculously with the help of African bungee cord magic) and somehow it works. It means cracking my hip out of socket, but it works. We are all squished in nice and tight now, and she gets out in less than 2km anyway so life goes back to normal with the six of us all nice and cozy. “What are you doing in Azovè?” says Wake-Up Guy. “Volunteer, Peace Corps,” I say groggily. “Oh, so you’re CIA spy?” I glare at this. “I mean, you are with the U.S. government right? You are being paid by the government to spy.” I yawn and explain that being a volunteer means taking an oath that we will fight (implicitly) against Communism, but are technically not allowed to participate in political activism (our own or otherwise). He doesn’t buy it and continues to grill me on whether or not we are considered a part of the government and our involvement with government actions. Then I start to doubt myself. Am I a spy? I am writing all this stuff for you guys. Everything I see and hear and experience, every conversation I have worth mentioning in sent in broad circles and disseminated throughout the U.S. and possibly further as it is the worldwide web and hacking is not out of our realm of reality. Was I brainwashed? As I am swirling in self-doubt and questioning the eternal question of the meaning of existence and “Who Am I?” he does a change of topic that would rouge the cheeks in shame of the best NASCAR pit crew. “What were you doing in Cotonou?” “Using the bank and the internet” WHY?! WHY do I answer these questions, and with honesty?! So unnecessary!! “Is your boyfriend in Cotonou?” I doubled back, “What? Cotonou?” Then I spot a hole of freedom, “No, he is in Djakotomey. Yes, he lives in Djakotomey. And he is my boyfriend and we’re dating together,” I reassure him of the fact that there will never, ever be a chance for him and no point in even asking for my number like they normally want to. “What network is your phone?” Drat! Boyfriend is obviously not enough of a deterrent, I must develop some inner problem and right quick. Although, being an international spy for the U.S. government doesn’t help to decrease my intrigue. “97” I reply with surliness evident. “Ah, MTN,” he smiles knowingly (oh no! is that HIS network, too?! It’s cheap for us to date because he can call me on the same network) “Everywhere You Go.” Oh! Thank God! He just wants to demonstrate his command of English slogans, “Yes, so I hear.” Then he falls asleep and Big Fat Guy nudges me into waking him up and although the temptation of revenge is gnawing at my soul I decide to let him sleep just to give myself peace – spiting my funny bone to save my sanity. And it goes like that until at least Come. At Come we stop. For no reason. Literally, I can't see any point in stopping in Come. I get the idea of wanting to eat, Come is known for their snails, bread, and "ablo" - a flat corn muffin type thing - but when the driver gets out and just stands there while I fight off the fists being thrust through the windows into my face trying to get us to buy their goods I don't see the necessity. At last, he gets back in the car and we're off. I am still confused, but by now it is expected. The driver is swerving potholes at alarming speeds. He honks at big trucks he passes in the of a motorcyclist who sports the look of impending doom across his rapidly approaching face. I take a deep breath and try to relax as we dip and slide and roll over through and around every road hazard imaginable. The driver isn’t fazed and just honks and keeps on rolling, until he slams on the brakes unexpectedly. There is a goat in the road. Someone’s paycheck just munching rotten road trash. Unsuspecting that he is next in line for a roadkill dinner he waited until the last possible second, until the driver was slamming on his brakes, until I can't see his little body in front of the hood any longer from the back of the car and he darts to the left across the road and I rub my neck from the whiplash. By now, every part of my body is aching; my legs crossed and slammed together until my feet are going numb, my hips turned to fit in at 25% and my back tingling from being twisted, my ribs sore from the elbow of Big Fat Man digging for the past hour. My head just hurts from the nausea caused by the leaking gasoline smell in the car. We stop again in Lokossa. I also hope that we keep on going, but more and more frequently we have been stopping and being sold off in the taxi depot. Essentially I would have to give up my position that I had fought to make comfortable for the past two hours of the trip to get into a whole new, fully loaded taxi ready to annoy the shit out of me. Luckily for me on this one trip I get to keep my seat and after only a few moments we are on our way again. To Dogbo. That's usually quite a painful stop. On more than one occasion I have been involved in a few feuds. Most recently Jordan and I were in a taxi when a man came up to the driver's side window to talk to us. After calling through the window, "yovo, yovo, blanche" repeatedly I'd had enough and called out, "this isn't a zoo. We're not animals for your display." Stupid as he was, or playing a great kindergarten 'whatever you say is the opposite game' he replied, "this is a zoo? You are animals for me to watch?" I fumed. "Get out of here," I cried out. "Driver, can we please leave?!" The driver turned around to get back into the car, found the good sitting on the window sill, yelled at him for something (we can only hope to spare us but it's possible he didn't want his car door more screwed up than it was already). The dude backed off and moved around the front of the car to Jordan's window where he leaned in to talk to her again. I tried to swat him away from behind the chair and Jordan took a swing at him with her purse - hitting the incoming woman as a bystander. He jumped back and then moved down to my window, where he tapped the glass. Obviously this boy has never paid attention to the signs at the zoo because I'm sure there are more than a few that explicitly state: Do Not Tap the Glass. I snapped. I jumped out of the car, ripped off my bags and threw them in and took off after him. I chased him away from the car and towards the back of the marché. I thought he would get the point, but I didn't expect this: he tore off. He was frightened by me and he was sprinting as far away as possible. I couldn't help but laugh at this grown man sprinting away from a comparatively small white girl in a dress. I laughed all the way back to the taxi where all the zemis cried out, "what did he take? what did he take?" I just laughed. How ridiculous this all was. "Just know that he ran away from a girl," I told everyone. I was only going to take so much rude and offensive behavior and that was now evident. I then yelled out to him a emasculating comment as we pulled away and he sheepishly walked back from the marché. Dogbo was done. From here is Djakotomey - home to Aaron and then Dennis. Look to the right to see the ridiculously large white German eagle on the brick wall of an iconoclast house seen along the highway. And then it's done. At last! There is hope. The last 5km from Djakotomey were the longest. So long that by the time I spot the road sign that marks my house after the Supermarché Immaculé. "At the sign," I cried out to the driver. "At the sign?" He asked back, incredulously; they always think white people don't know what they're saying when they're speaking French. "Of course, I don't live in the sign, just drop me off there," I replied. "Oh, ok," he saw, just in time to slam on the breaks one more time, dust flying, back tires spinning right in the large dirt area in front of the compounds including my house. "Ok, thanks." I cringed as I peeled myself out of the sweaty plush back seat. I just want to get inside and take a shower. Good thing I don't have to do this again until next week.

I just finished my middle-service medical exam where I am tested, inside and out, to ascertain my health status.

Turns out I have a certain type of parasite that requires no treatment as my body should be able to rid itself of it. Funny, though, that's what they said the last time they found that certain parasite in my .. excess.. back in March. Is it not possible that I have had this same "body capable" parasite in me since then, as they did not deem it necessary to treat it at that time? One can't help but wonder. Apart from a few heat rashes and an eye twitch I seem to be all in working order - yay me! That's not to say that I am a model volunteer when it comes to health concerns.

In fact, I was chastised for my lack of following Peace Corps policy. I don't boil my water *gasp* and I don't sleep with my mosquito net; despite the presence of creepy-crawlies. Living on the edge has never been more thrilling. I am very pleased, however, that the doctors here are so concerned with my health.

At the Avedogui primary school I sit waiting on hot concrete steps. The key for the classroom has not as yet arrived and only a few of the women have begun to arrive. It's only 10 minutes after our session was scheduled to start so I shrug and accept that we are still technically "on time."

As more and more women arrive I wonder where the key is and when it will finally arrive. It is usually the male secretary of the women's group that brings the key, sweating and in a hurry, but it is also usually around the start time and so far I have no sight of him.

After 30 minutes and the arrival of almost all the women, plus a few new faces I've yet seen, I decide to call the secretary to ascertain his whereabouts.

"Alo?" his crackly voice shouted through the weak network technology.

"Oui, Gilles, c'est Allison. Vous etez ou maintenant?" I respond with slight annoyance that his immediate answer was not the customary "Je viens." (Hello, Gilles, it is Allison. Where are you right now?)

"Je suis au village," was the actual response. No apologies in his voice. (I am out of town)

"Uh... what?" I lapsed into English with my annoyance. "Nous avons une session pour les femmes et vous avez le cles." (We have a session for the women and you have the key)

"Il y a une autre," he offered. (There is another)

Apparently, there was another secretary (what?!) for this group, though none of the women present knew of a second secretary, who had a key to the room. To Gilles it was also apparent that this mystery secretary was coming right now with the key. All we had to do now was wait; keep calm and wait.

After another 30 minutes I was finally tired of waiting and called Gilles again to find out the locale of our key. The sun was hot, the women were restless, I was finishing my "waiting book" and didn't have a reserve - we needed to get going on whatever our next move was. "Il vien," again.. not something I wanted to hear. "Je/Il/Elle/On viens," is the blanket response for "(Sub.) will come at some point in the future; though you will never know when and who it will actually be when they arrive." Anytime I hear that phrase I cringe, knowing that I am now precluded from every knowing anything for certainty.

Accepting the fate that we now had spent over an hour sitting on the sunny steps waiting for some man I have never met, and neither had the women for that matter, to bring a key to a room that we had been using, with regularity, for the past two months. What was more perturbing was that Gilles new we had a meeting and had not deigned it necessary to inform us that he would not be coming and that we had to find our own way to get the key. It is this sort of non-reliability or lack of responsibility that makes working here so difficult. Regardless of his committing to the meetings (it was he who approached me to come do the work with group) he determined it was not worthwhile to respect this commitment and allowed us to rely on him which lead us to sitting here idly waiting. I hate to say this, but it is a common theme he that men place women as second tier and therefore lack the respect normally given to colleagues when that colleague is not a male. In this instance, the man (Gilles) felt it beneath him, or perhaps did not even consider the disrespectful nature of his attitude, to inform the women of his absence from our session.

In spite of the discourtesy, I decided it was not worth the time to get here and subsequent waiting to just leave again without doing what we had all set out to. I attempted to assemble the women in some semblance of groups; there were 18 of the proper group and 6 additional women who were a part of the second group that had arrived early. With my groups assembled and two partially conversational French speaking women and paper taped to the walls in a mock blackboards I began to teach the third installment of our accounting class. Considering that the women were three thick surrounding board, holding onto their howling children trying to breastfeed and all see the board at the same time, with no place to sit (the stoop being all of two-and-a-half feet wide) and no real translator I think we moved through explanations and examples quite well using hand gestures and oratory emphasis (yelling the same word over and over again thinking repetition leads to comprehension).

More than I could accomplish in one session, however, is the physical hurdles of holding a pencil. It is amazing to consider that almost all of these women have no idea how to use one. As we were moving through the examples and I was trying to get them to understand how to fill out the incomes and expenses sheets I repeatedly had to hold their hands and teach them how to draw even a seemingly simple straight line. It's another affirmation of how truly fortunate I am growing up as an American in a developed country where I learned to use a pencil at a very young age. I stood there, helping a woman who has seen more of life's experiences than I could ever imagine, to do something I had mastered as a 6 year-old in kindergarten. Yet another "right" I have taken for granted my entire life; the abilities to write and draw.

As the sun commenced setting and the first group was wrapping up I had to address the second group (of which there were now 12 women waiting). It was simply too difficult to teach another session without seating, a place to write and, finally, no light as we had now been outside for over three hours. We scheduled our next meeting for two weeks later, not on a market day, and one hour before I would actually arrive (to make sure they are all here "on time" it is sometimes necessary to give them an extra buffer hour to get here). I left the women dispersing in the sunset to their homes and felt a quiet glow of success in succeeding over cultural hurdles within the solidarity of women's desire to succeed in the face of such adversities.

One rule to follow at any given point during a marché day: Don't tell anyone anything about whatever it is you are doing or why you are buying the things you are buying. It leads to a series of follow-up questions that may ultimately lead to “give it to me.” It might be a joke, best not to take a joke too lightly, but even if so, it takes a while to learn to laugh at this joke so just avoid it altogether if possible.

It's not a particularly hot day which is why I left my house at the early hour of 16:00 (4pm). The sky is clouded, but I know it won't rain: the people here are innately meteorologists and they still have all their goods out in the elements – the miraculously-appearing tarps are safely tucked into the shopkeeper's secret holes. I leave my house with my formerly-full of cement sack and walk slowly so as to avoid, if at all possible, sweating through my dress.

First I stop by my tailor's shop. It's off the main road behind a wooden “gas station.” The tailer is sitting out at his sewing machine with a pile of fabric on the table next to him underneath a crudely constructed reed lean-to outside his concrete, unlit, one-room studio shop. He is the president of the tailor's association in Aplahoué and this is his workshop. My bathroom is about the same size and with the same number of windows, one, but I would argue has quite a lot more charm than his studio. I drop off the the pair of shorts I would like for him to copy for me. I am obsessed with shorts now – they are funky, cool, board short length and easier to wear when I'm not working or giving a formation. Play clothes you can sweat in without embarrassment.

I leave his shop and walk past the butchers. They have killed a cow today. When I rode by earlier to my English club I saw a live one waiting outside the shop, tied up, unknowingly waiting the axe. I knew it was going to be a lucky day for me! If I want, I can buy a kilo of raw meat for 2.200francs and take it down to Hotel Plateau where they will grind it up for me in their kitchen for a small fee. I don't have the energy for that so I just watch as one guy squeezes and cleans the intestines and another one hacks at the skull with the bulging black orbs hanging as eyes to get at the meaty brain behind the bone. The hide is sprawled out on the ground as their work area. The feet are still attached in all four corners like a sick twist of the already-sick “bear skin rug” found in much fancier parlors. This butcher is only butcher by name because he kills and cuts up the meat, but he doesn't know what a porterhouse or t-bone is and couldn't make a sausage to save his life, or mine. I thought I would teach him the differences what is a better cut until I realized that, even looking at the graph I downloaded from the internet, I still can't figure out how the pretty dotted lines correspond to the white sinewy-coated red muscle hanging from the hooks in the wall. The guy squeezing out the intestines on the ground has finally gotten to me and I make to go.

With flies around me, I leave the butcher's for the walk to the marché. On the way I end up walking cautiously behind the skeletal form of the guardian of Djakotomy's museum. He's clad in an unbuttoned blue silky-type fabric shirt and torn plum-smuggling jean shorts. He is wielding a long, wide blade, dancing the African funky chicken with eyes closed, arms flapping and knees bent, his head bobbing up and down. I slowly, carefully, tactfully choose my moment to escape from his wake; expecting that at any moment he will do a spin move, a bob and weave to the side or step backwards with a flourish and stab me. I see my moment of freedom and lurch forward with terror in the huge whites of my eyes as the crowd of spectators on either side of the street laugh hysterically and I motion with my arm the terrible knifing fate I was evading. Safe from an untimely demise, I proceed to search out the plastic egg caddy I so desire.

I reach the heart of the marché; to the right is the grain and more food-type goods; just past the alley where the majority of the tissue vendors set up shop. To the left can be found the peanuts, the plastic goods and the miscellaneous knicks and knacks like viagra box-backed mirrors, soft porn posters and “strong fist” afro picks as well as piles upon piles of second-hand clothes, shampooers and soap sellers, more fabric vendors, nail stations and shoes and the food court. In between is the highway to Aplahoué and throngs of people traversing back and forth to the annoyance of the cars and motos who will proceed in clouds of diesel fury whether the humans and animals get out of the way or not. The latter of the two sides is where I head; women and men and children sitting atop cement floors with their wares out on display under reed ceilings that are empty of human life three days of every week. I step over piles of garbage, through women getting their hair washed, past goods piled high in impossible stacks worthy of the awe of any fan of tower building in a desperately hopeless search for a plastic egg caddy that will make my egg's safe return home to my table so much more feasible. Mobile vendors clog the narrow pathways through the stalls as they set their goods down from off their heads and discuss prices and exchanges for the items she's toting; the exact same items her counterpart in the stall is selling.

I give up looking for the egg caddy and begin a search in vain; hoping to find for sale some sort of vegetable other than a tomato or okra. My search is frequently stalled, however, as motorcycles and boys pulling metal carts yell and beep through the impossibly small and closed throngs of foot traffic. I have to climb into someone's stall to safeguard my nine long toes from joining the smaller tenth.

All this walking, sweating, talking and avoiding has worked up inside me a thirst and I spy a woman selling something out of a bucket. It is the color of tea, with bags of ice floating in it and a tiny hybrid lemon-lime sitting at its side. The woman currently drinking out of the bowl (we all share here) seems to be enjoying it, but when I ask what it is, the vendor can only say “sweet”, “sweet”. When I ask, “is it tea?” she nods yes, then says “no, sweet”. She gets tired of my continuous questions and dips a little into the bowl for me to taste. I ask how much it is and try a sample, then I think to ask how she treated the water beforehand; did she boil it? Is it from a pump, or *shudder at the thought* a well? She just answers, “sweet” and I down an entire bowl in a thirst-induced delusive craze. I pay the 25f and turn to face my destiny; did I just knowingly give myself amoebas? Did I willingly put myself on the path to a excruciatingly painful intestinal backlash? With a shrug of my shoulders I reconciled that I have survived this far sometimes making decisions without really considering consequences so why should I stop now? Besides, there is still the other half of the marché to see. “I don't understand what you're saying, but thanks for the drink, Toots” I say in English as I take my leave of the group of six or so women and their spawn that had gathered to laugh at the faces I involuntarily made as I drank the concoction then contemplated my fate. “Toots” they reply in fits of laughter. “Toots!!”

Waiting for the right moment I grab onto some lady's baby strapped to her back and hitch a safe passageway to the other side of the highway. I have learned that if you don't know when to go, just latch on to a Beninese lady and you'll do fine. Ones with babies you'd think tend to be more cautious, but this couldn't be further from the truth. I don't know if it appears as a buffer to potential vehicular impact, but they book much more frequently than those women without infants attached to backs and men. I have chosen wisely and am across the street faster than I can say “infanticide.” An extremely tall man (probably Togolese, the Beninese are hard pressed to pass 5'8”) dressed in a shabby blue zemi t-shirt yells “Champagne” as he passes me; a new nickname for me that I thought was due to the fact that I once wore a yellow shirt. I have since realized that champagne is no a popular drink in developing countries, if known at all, and learned that it was a call for a “demoiselle.” I laugh; I have been unknowingly called much, much worse.

Heading downhill I end up trapped behind two fat, fat, fat ladies chewing the cud off their corn cobs as their big butts wibble-wobble down the hill blocking off any chance of access to the freedom of being ahead of their tortuously slow, meandering pace. I am in Piment Place and it is unbearable. Piment, the Beninese spice of choice, is in the air so potently you know you have approached the perimeter because everyone is coughing from the fumes. My eyes water with fear and piment tears as I contemplate being pancaked between the terrible twins should I decide to make a run for it. Thank GOD! One stops to chew a particularly difficult kernel and I leap ahead and out into safety. Piment dust lingers in my eyes and nostrils and I cough up the tickles in my throat, but I have so far evaded the pancake death.

I see the crowd of people bargaining over hundreds of sacks of corn, beans, and rice in the factory courtyard to my right. I narrowly am able to dodge a boy pushing someone's purchases of five huge sacks full of some type of grain in a metal and wood pushcart and head left. The piment is wearing off as second hand clothing sellers are mingled in on the right in front of the cornfields and the piment women stay under the shelter against the buildings on the left and I wind down the corridor to my destination. “Yovo, la blanche” they cry out and I wag my finger in dismay. Women laugh uproariously when I chide one comrade with a single, solidarity finger rigid in the air. My index finger, of course. I don't think the middle would be quite as effective here – the index finger has an air of reproach they can't stomach! Though, in fact, the most heinous insult I have learned thus far is the five-finger palm thrust that signifies, with a special corresponding noise, of course, that your mother was the fifth wife of your father. True hurt.

Fingers and palms forgotten, finally, I am there. I have reached my destination. I out my cement bag in joyful anticipation. Orange Valley: where station wagons with an inconceivable amount of juicy fruit dump out their goods in piles upon piles of sacks and ladies bargain 1 for 25 francs, no, 2, okay, 3, and then throw in 6 extra as a cadeau (“gift”) because you just purchased 50 of the most delicious oranges you've ever tasted for less than one American dollar.

The sun begins to dip below the hill in nearby Aplahouè and I start to think about getting back. First, of course, I have to stop by the tissue stalls. They're on the way back from valley to the main road anyway so I trudge back up the hill, past the piment, past the tomatoes, past the catcalls and the bad drivers and the boys with wagonloads of goods. My path cuts across the return path from the meat market; where one can find dogs, cats, goats, chickens, ducks, pigeons, pigs, turtles? All for sale to eat. Women walk out with giant wicker baskets stuffed with live chickens atop their heads, men have pigs and goats hog-tied and strapped to the backs of their bicycles; bleating furiously and squirming. I remember how I saw one such soul somehow manage to loose himself from the straps holding him to the rack and swinging lose into the bike tire. That was an unpleasant sight and I can only hope the man I see riding away now has a better grasp of knot-tying. A woman passes by with no less than four goats of varying ages and sizes on rope leashes. One stubbornly plants his feet and resists. This won't last long the woman even more stubbornly pulls along on his head as though he were as light as a feather. My favorites, in a morbid way, are the cars with seemingly hundreds of pigs loaded on top like camping gear; squealing and squirming all in unison on top of the car, like a real movable feast. I pass a woman with a crate full of cats on top of turtles, dogs sleeping in piles next to ducks and one poor turtle with a hole in his shell for display tied to the crate and hanging from his back – I imagine a dork getting a wedgie and hung up on a locker by his underpants. Poor nerdy turtle. But, there is tissue to buy.

There are two columns of tissue stalls and I opt for the left-most. It's narrower, but it empties directly into the street and not out to the right and into the car depot; what would happen if I went to the right. Each stall has a plethora of tissue options, bought from Cotonou, Lome, Come, and other hubs of Benin. Haha, “hubs of Benin.” Right. The tissue originates in Holland, England, China, Togo and Nigeria in a multitude of color, thickness, softness and price. Most are bright, electric and brazenly flamboyant in neon yellows, blues, oranges, purples, greens and reds with the most ridiculous patterns. There's “The Championship” with a Stanley-cupesque drawing in the center, surrounded by Kentucky Derby rose garlands. Or perhaps the “finger,” a popular design with a bloody finger repeated ad nausea um. Maybe the flashlight tissue tickles my fancy? No, I tend to avoid the really crazy ones, even the semi-crazy ones of “chicken and eggs” or “cuckoo clock” and settle on the brown and yellow dandelions set against a royal blue. I argue for the price; 1.500f? But the color is off in the printing, I argue. She agrees, cuts the tissue in a 2-meter measure called a “pagne” (pronounced “pawn”) that she doesn't need to verify with a measuring stick. Folded and tucked safely into a black sachet, the omnipresent bane of my environment-loving soul, I pick up my tissue and oranges and leave the tissue alley for the main road back to my house. I consider picking up bananas or pineapples as a final purchase on the way. I guess I'll see what's on offer when I get there. In the meantime, I have to get across this busy, dusty road yet again.

Dusk clouds in then settles over Azovè in a matter of minutes. The strips of red, orange and pink tame the cruel sun and impossibly fill the formerly noxious and dust filled sky with beauty. All along the wooden stalls and on the road below where women sit with their wares out in wicker baskets, petrol lanterns fashioned out of old tin cans are lit. The vendors all disappear and orange floating faces remain, committed to selling as the crowds really start pouring now that it has cooled down enough to shop. I, however, am done with the marché and a thousand tiny flames dotting my horizon from left and right guide me home along the unlit and crowded street.

Maybe I'll stop and have a drink to celebrate surviving.

It's just another day at the marché in Azovè.

I needed to get to Ketou to get some information from a fellow volunteer before working stage, and despite the fact that it is pretty much a straight shot across the center of Benin, I found myself having a little trouble getting there.

After finding a willing zemidjan easily enough to travel the short distance of 40km from Azovè to Bohicon for the ridiculous price of 2.500f (it's only 700f to go to Lokossa, which is 60km away – its all about demand, never about logistical pricing) I was on my way, lucky to be ahead of the rain that was surely on its way. Riding along, my cell phone smashed up inside my helmet against my ear playing music because my mp3 player died, the zemi quickly pulled off to the side of the road and told me to get off. Fearing for a terrible delay I did so reluctantly as he first tipped the bike one way and then the other. Apparently this is some sort of gas 'saving' technique frequently practiced here (it wasn't the first time I'd seen it) though why he needed to do it I'm not sure because we filled up before we left – less than 25 km earlier. Satisfied he was getting all the gas possible we loaded back up and took off again. For approximately another 5km until we started a terrifying fishtail back and forth across one side of the highway to the other before finally skidding to a halt; once again we were on the side of the road. This time it was going to take more than a tipsy-turvy of the gas tank; our back tire was completely flattened. Good thing my driver knew how to operate on one wheel – how I'll never know since they are typically very unsafe drivers. I guess they just know how to maneuver with sub-par machinery. Lucky me.

With the moto out of commission and the rains coming on I was getting a little more than nervous I wasn't going to make it to the taxi in time to be on my way to Ketou. All the same there was nothing more to do than take my laden backpack while the huge duffelbag stayed on the moto's handlebars and we took off down the hill we were on in search of something to fix the tire. After walking down the hill and starting up a new one we passed an old man on a bike. My zemi driver asked about whatever it was he was looking for (in local language) and with dismay I saw the old man point in the direction from which we had just walked downhill. We'd been walking uphill again in the wrong direction. Now we were forced to turn around and walk up the hill we'd just descended to get back to where we were to begin with. My bags were heavy. I was planning on getting rid of a few things in Cotonou as well as enough food to stay away from my house for two and a half weeks if I got sick (I prefer to cook myself when possible) but back up the hill we went. Eventually we came across a few huts clumped together off the side of the road. Around the corner of one of them was a chicken coop made of bricks, a 'leaning v' chair (the most comfortable in Benin) and an old, old man doing snuff on the ground next to a decrepit wood toolbox full of greasy, well-worn tools. This was the tire guy thank goodness. As I slept in the v chair snuff-nose went to task taking off the tire and my zemi took over somewhere without a word. After a while the zemi returned, took the wheel the old man removed, and, again without a word, took off. I fell back asleep, safe in the fact that at least the rest of his moto is here and so is my stuff – he had to come back.

Sure enough, within and hour someone from the next town up came. “Zemidjanman said to take you to Bohicon taxi gare,” he said to me. “Did zemidjanman already pay you?” I asked. He nodded and I shrugged and climbed on. On my way again. Through the town of Lanta I saw my zemi at a vulcanisateur – the guy who fills the air in your tire and specifically looks for holes to repair – and waved, he looked thrilled to have followed through on his part of the commitment – at least they are, for the most part, a very trustworthy people. Not soon after crossing Lanta the rain started to sprinkle down a little. “Go faster,” I responded when the new driver told me the rain would be coming. I wasn't going to get stuck waiting for hours while the rain poured on in the middle of my 40km trip!! As he stopped for lack of gas I began to realize this was not just a possibility anymore; it was probable. Luckily we found a gas 'station' nearby, but not soon enough as we were forced off the road again in the face of drenching rain. Taking shelter under store front with at least four other drivers and a few assorted passerby we waiting for the rain to get worse before it got better. I just prayed my computer wasn't damaged from the rain.

Twenty to thirty minutes later, I really don't know – have you ever stood with strangers waiting for rain to stop? - I decided the rain looked lighter so we should try and make a run for it to the taxi station. Wading through the muddy flood, water laden with floating garbage halfway up my calves, we got lead the moto and my large bags back up to the highway and then were off. I was wrong, the rain was not letting up, and in fact seemed to worsen as we flew along through the potholes and debris on the road. Ultimately, however, wet, cold and possibly computerless and molding, I made it to the taxi station and was immediately unburdened and designated to a taxi awaiting only one more person before we could depart for Ketou. One more person? I could do that, I could wait, I needed to find phone credit anyway so that I could get directions from Ryan (the volunteer) on how to get to his house.

Credit, I found, was too far away and therefore out of my reach if I wanted to get going in this almost-ready-to-depart car. I returned to the taxi to get something to eat out of my bag to eat (it had been almost three hours since I left my house, only 45km away). I looked into the trunk, my eyes bulged, double-blinked, and my heart sank and thudded into my stomach as wrecking ball through a concrete wall – my stuff was gone.. nothing was in the trunk. My computer, my clothes, my food, my work, were gone. Flabbergasted, I looked up and franticly around me. Where could it have gone? I didn't see anyone running away, encumbered by my massive luggage. Where could it have gone? How could I have been so stupid? This was the stuff the stupid guide books talk about. But it was me, stupid, not the books. They were right. I stopped the panic a moment. Look for someone may have seen what happened. This is Benin – vigilantism persists throughout, they wouldn't stand for theft, even from a white person. There were four people sitting calm as grandmas on the concrete stoop next to the car. I gazed up, a questioning and fearful look in my eye, pointing to the trunk. Before I could utter the beginnings of a query, they burst into laughter and pointed behind me. There was the chauffeur, in a new taxi, with all my luggage in piled into the back with everyone else's belongings. Relief, and then humiliation, washed over me in a deluge as the four spectators went on laughing and mocking. I deserved it, I suppose, I wasn't paying attention, and I guess it was pretty funny, if it wasn't my world on the line.

Stuff sufficiently placed in vehicle, hip plastered to the side of said vehicle in a sentry-style watch position and the final person arrived, we were ready to go. Except the final person wasn't just a final person. It was five people. Admittedly, two were tiny bundles of person potential, but they were human and therefore counted as two, while the other three were about the age of 5 and therefore considered, by me, to be people that should have been counted when filling the spaces in the vehicle. The my extreme chagrin, the chauffeur did not agree with me and placed four people, plus one baby in the third row of the vehicle, four people, plus three babies in the middle row, and four people in the front (yes, a 12 year old girl was sitting, so inappropriately, on the stick shift). This was not as terrible as the ride down from Djougou, but almost even more infuriating because it's not what you would expect from the south of Benin. To add insult to injury, when I made a claim that this was inappropriate and, technically illegal (yes, Porto Novo, the political capital of Benin has declared it illegal to have more than three people in the back of a vehicle – though, inanely did not chose to extend that safety rule of 2 people to the front of a vehicle), I was met with the infuriating response, “but this is Africa – it's like this in Africa.” Somehow I can never accept that there are 50% of the population that complains of their situation, stating with an accusatory tone that there is money in America, but not here, then the other 50% (or perhaps one and the same all 100%) claiming that I should accept the ridiculous status quo that is “Africa” and stop trying to change the inadequacies that so frequently impede their “desired” progression into a viable economy and society of the 21st century.

I cried out, with an exaggerated conviction, “this is not acceptable,” but climbed obediently into the vehicle anyway. The chauffeur wasn't going to take a pay cut just because of me, and I needed to get out of there. Sadly, this is my battle. Defeating morals daily.

After only about an hour on the road, the car slowly filling with the exhaust fumes and the rain forcing the windows shut (the Beninese, and I suspect many Africans in general, HATE rain more than suffocation or gas poisoning), we stopped to let people out. Good. I stepped out to buy phone credit and returned to an all-but empty vehicle. We were waiting until the Muslims in the car were done praying. It was prayer-time and we weren't leaving this town of Cove until they were done. Great.. another business impediment – no working, traveling, anything, while it's prayer time, which happens five times a day. So we sat around, then set off driving through the town, up and down impassable routes, turning around and retracing our steps repeatedly, until we found a house to drop off the woman and her four children. At one point during out whirlwind journey I had to use the facilities. I asked the driver and immediately he perked up; he knew exactly where to take me. Thinking he knew someone in the neighborhood who would allow me to use their latrine I allowed myself to be led by the hand in a determinate walk away from the car, across the street, up to a huge tree, around the tree (is someone's front door here?) and came to rest at the back of the tree. I could see the car and people walking down the street, clear as day, from my very un-private tree spot. Driver, however, was satisfied and walked away, leaving me there to contemplate dropping my pants essentially on the side of the busy road. Sensing no alternative and the impending departure of my taxi, I hesitated only a moment more before quickly drop, squat, and releasing, staying my hand's automatic response to wave at people who saw me as they walked by. That was fun. Really cool tree, too.

Luckily, after our trip through wonderland, the Muslims were done praying and we were setting off once again. Thankful for the room, I stretched out in my seat and took in the final hour leg of the trip. That is, until the rains really began. Without trim in the door and a poor, bent frame I started to receive a small waterfall on my head and down my back. Wet again, I moved into the center of the car, next to another passenger, and lost my roomy comfort and felt the wet cold the rest of the trip, even the windows up couldn't prevent the rain coming in. What a trip.

Finally, at around 4pm, almost six hours after I left my house, I made it to Ketou. Just another trip in Benin. Why was I so surprised?

Luckily, Ketou is a nice, quiet town, with plenty of mosques and entertaining attractions. One attraction, in particular, is a huge pile of trash. Literally, trash.

The story goes that when Abomey (then the capital of Dahomey – Benin's predecessor) was warring with Ketou, then a part of Nigeria, the people of Ketou asked a local fetisher to help protect them from the invaders. The festisher gave them a fetish to guard the town, and the instruction to put everything they own on top of it to keep it safe from destruction. Well, everything they “owned” was their refuse, and so they dug up a hole, buried the fetish, then covered it with waste. Though, ultimately, Ketou became a part of Dahomey, then Benin, the fetish tradition continued and years of waste piled high upon the burial site of the fetish no one in existence today has seen. Some even speculate (foreigners) if a fetish truly exists beneath the pile of filth. Then, they climb it. Yes, many volunteers have made the trek up the trash pile, some even doing so barefooted. Many a staff infection has been developed that way, and yet I chose to hike the pile as well, with shoes on.

The way up was disgusting. There were peanut shells, bags of white goo that I can only hope to call yogurt someone didn't want to finish, small piles of animal or human feces, and other things. It is a vertical landfill in the town's backyard. But I made it; with the help of two young, barefooted (one boy pantless) children, who walked ahead of me to point the path so I didn't have to use my hands to climb up. Ugh! Making the top was actually fairly easy. I was pretty impressed with the view as well. Ketou really is a beautiful little town, too bad the best view of it is from a giant pile of waste. I had accomplished another one of Benin's big tourist attractions and that felt good. Now I had to get down. Now, that, was truly disgusting. It was bad enough when I had to go up and up, but now I had to go down, which included a lot more slipping, sliding and downward glances at things I had missed on the way up. I won't mention the things I saw on the way down, but the pigs that got in my way and almost tripped me, didn't help matters when I tried to avoid looking where I was walking. Successfully at the bottom of the hill I made good work of scrubbing my feet clean. No staff infections for me.

Hope you enjoyed this one.

Monday morning. Boring, right? Not in Africa. This is probably the LEAST boring of all the days I have spent here so far. It was a Monday.

Only about 1/3 of the original machete remained of the one the little girl, who was all but naked save a few strands of beads around her waist, was using as a walking stick while we waited to hear if Paul and Anastasia could do the ceremony, too. The village men came back with an affirmative, pending the mandatory increase in monetary compensation, of course. To this completely expected response we agreed; only 10.000F to add on two more people – we were getting the Bob's Bargain Bin of voodoo ceremonies. As we sat around pawning Liz off to the village women, she's a village favorite everywhere we go, the men discussed the second and third requirements of our ceremony; no shoes, no shirt, yes entry. Aaron, Sourou (our friend and go-to guy for anything), and Paul took off their shoes and, for the most part, shirts without missing a beat. Anastasia and I were still somewhat agog. How can we mock the absence of shirts without actually removing shirt? Wasn't it enough that my feet were going to be full flush against the snake skin “welcome mat”? Evidently, no.

Aaron, Paul and Sourou, seated comfortably on the bench with their feet on the snake skin, knees exposed and chests bared, looked a far sight more prepared for the intimacy of our ceremony as Anastasia and I; purses on our laps, hair sweating down our backs, pants/shirts covering until our shins and shirts as firmly attached to our backs as a tattered, thin, worn-out-from-a-year-of-hand-washing-or-more can be. I was hoping it would go unnoticed. For a while it did, as the very young, very handsome (a bit God-like himself) chief began pounding on his drum and chantsinging, his sleepy pillowcase hat splattered with blood stains from the past ceremonies nodding in rhythm, while ringing a bell on the wall to implore the gods to let us start the ceremony (the “pay attention to us” song).

After about 15-20 minutes of that we started the drinking (all time estimates are made very poorly and with minimal accuracy so don't plan a surgery on it). A giant, smelly, molding horn of

Glorious God of All Things Dead and Rotting was procured from one of the seedier corners of our 10x10 mud hut (all space and area estimates are completely bogus so don't base a blueprint on them). Each one one of us got up, took possession of the stinking horn, gargled a shot of sodabi (the poison you all recall), swallow some, but not all of it, spit the remainder back up onto the horn with superior accuracy (lest you spray all over), suck that already-been-drank puddle back up again and finely mist both the fetish on the wall and on the table with your impressive aim and pressure control, like a fine car wash for the Gods. Each one of us did this a few times, except for me; they took the horn away after I first drank all the sodabi and secondly just hocked a loogie (loogey?) on the wall fetish, finishing up that wreck of desecration by drooling all over the table fetish. I was glad to sit down, however, as there was some weird “left foot goes 'here'” ritual I wasn't picking up on during the horn-spitting contest and I ended up kicking over the lid to the sacred water jug on the ground under the table fetish. I heard there was a huge bug crawling around on the horn anyway; I didn't see it, but Aaron and Anastasia said they did before they had to drink off it – lucky I got to get away from it when I did.

Next I felt something warm by my elbow (Liz had been sitting next to me, but was gone by this point to enjoy the company of the women outside the hut) and it turned out to be a hot plate full of burning embers. The chief's less-attractive and much-creepier assistant (like a voodoo assistant? Really?) took the plate and started turning the embers over with his fingers to expose their red-hot underbellies. Then he placed three wooden spool-looking things on the plate, into the burning coals. Placing another plate on top, as a lid, then spitting on the plate (they had already spit on the coals before placing the top plate) he took a big leaf, spit on it (getting the theme?), then poured sodabi on it and told Aaron to rub it around in circles on top of the plate. As we each took turns rubbing the leaf around the plate we said (secretly thought) from what we wished to be protected. When I had finished (I was the last on the bench) the chief took the plates, removed the top one and showed us all how the spools didn't burn, didn't even have any dark marks from the embers smudging, because they were protected. Protected, he would prove, even when he drowned them in sodabi, took a swig, then lit them on fire. Flambé protection spools. Protected.

Not protected in the room was ME! We had to take another round of sodabi shots in celebration of breathing I guess. This time even the old, fat buddha-looking fetish in the corner got a shot; after being doused in talcum powder and blue hair product. After the drink it was time for a cigarette break and one was duly lit and placed in the fetish's gaping mouth to burn out. While crazy singing, drinking and smoking was going on (give some sodabi to the fetishes all around the hut, blow some smoke in their auras) the next shot of sodabi, talcum powder, blue dye and ladies' perfume was made. This was accompanied by a talcum-and-dye-covered cola nut the crazy guy put on the ground to get the 'royal' treatment. Luckily, we only had to watch as the Chief and Co. shared the shot and crazy nut fat dude knocked people over so he could get down on the ground and eat the cola nut with hands behind his back. By this point everyone was sweating (even those of use who weren't dancing and singing the songs – yea, the four of us). Someone behind me teabagged my neck in all the excitement. All gross things.

Hot Chief got even hotter during the next segment (I'll get more “professional” about this story-telling when I get paid to, right now it's straight talkin'). Right before it, however, he played a little game with seashells. I lated asked another voodoo friend of mine what it meant and was informed that the chief was asking for permission to perform the ceremony. If both seashells end “face down” it's a 'no,' if both end up that's a 'roll again,' what he's looking for is a one-up, one-down. The trick is to keep rolling until you get a 'yes' (whether or not you get 'no' first, as I learned from watching my friend do his chicken-burying ceremony). Then, satisfied with his shells, Chief took a dulled, broken machete, not unlike the very one the little girl had; foreshadow? Placing it in his right hand, he took a thick piece of wood with his left, never missing a beat of the terrible, terrible song. Dancing around, singing, we're all happy and he takes the machete, puts it up against his chest vertically and POUNDS the wood into it. He does it over and over again. I'm pretty sure my face was a complete blank as I stared in confusion and mysticism. The blade was pounding three times into both sides of his chest, then three times along his stomach. Hoping it was as dull a blade as it appeared, I didn't realize how hard he must have hit it until I saw the streaks of blood forming. Freaky! Sodabi, of course, was then used, but this time as an antiseptic treatment as he doused his chest in it and then rubbed it all over his muscle and into the open wounds like some glistening, alcoholic god of S&M.

More drinking, smoking and singing ensued, but then the time for sacrifices came. First a sheep (mouton), then a chicken came sqwaking into the room. The men were given idols to hold and I guess were meant to ponder over the idol's strength as the girls just got to watch (we were left out of a lot and I still wonder if it was due to our clothedness). After a significant period of pondering the idols were laid down on the banana leaves in front of the alter and the chicken was brought forth (you have to say “brought forth” when telling a story about a sacrifice). The assistant skillfully held the wings back, exposing the neck, while Aaron and Paul held each leg in support or connection or something else girls couldn't do. Once the head was off (with minimal sawing – very sharp tool) the exposed throat was trumped around, dripping blood on all the idols and festishes and a few yovo toes before finally, being taken outside.

The mouton, heretofore resting quietly (or petrified into immobile silence attributed to some sort of intellectual sophistication that allowed him knowledge-of-self capabilities), was also brought forth and began munching on the banana leaf alter (“He's a nervous eater,” Anastasia explains). Each of us took a turn whispering our protection desires into the condemned animal's ears (including a few apologies and demands for forgiveness) afterwards he was unceremoniously (what gives?) flipped onto his back, again with Paul and Aaron holding back legs, and his throat was cut so that he could carry our desires straight to the god. Two men were required to hoist the beast up and spread the blood around all over the place – very graphic. I stopped looking in real life because it was so much cooler through the pixels in my camera. It looked fake, like a Tarantino film or something starring Bruce Campbell. After everything was sufficiently drenched in bloody (including a bowl filled with it) and all of the idols had been rubbed into the sheep's gaping throat (I could see the muscles!!) he was thrown outside to finish dying in a writhing heap on the African dirt. It was sort of upsetting, but the Thunder God, Messenger to Big God, must have been very pleased to see all this stuff done for his altar.

I watched a man go out to start cutting off the sheep's horns while he was still alive! I guess I'd had a lot of sodabi by this point because it took me some time to realize this was Hot Chief – the bloody barbarian! The testicles, too, were cut off and placed like fur-covered Christmas bulbs at the altar. As the Chief splattered blood from the bowl around the walls with a feather, assistant totally grossed me out (yes, there is more!) by taking a blood + sodabi shot, followed by the Chief who did the same. The antlers finally came in and the men all held it (women weren't invited) while placing it on the altar, saying some chants, then patting it down as it rested on top of the table fetish with a bowl full of past antlers. Anastasia and I sneaked popcorn and gum while they weren't looking and between sodabi shots – the only thing that kept me from getting sick, I swear.

Meanwhile, the chief had prepared for each of us a special concoction of talcum powder, palm oil, cola nut chunks and peppercorn, which we licked off our left hands (he put at least two tablespoons of this crap there), chewed, then swallowed down with sodabi. You know it's nasty when you have sodabi as your chaser. There was powder all over my face, then I choked as the talcum turned into a giant peppery cotton ball in my throat and the cola nut stayed cracked in my teeth. Time again for smoking. A madhouse of smoke. Chief hunkered down over a bowl of blood-covered rocks, tiny cloth sacks and our spools from before. He spoke in a language I didn't recognize, praying over his artifacts as he filled his sacks with rocks.Each of us, Aaron, Paul, Anastasia and myself, held out our left palms again to receive our amulets. They came with instructions: never be without your spool, drink with it in your beverage, keep it in your pocket, it is your protection. If you are sick or traveling, eat a rock from the sack. When you run out mail-order some more. Seriously, Chief said he would do a satellite ceremony and he'll send us more rocks. I don't know how since I have no address and no number for him. My hand was bloody from the wet talismans, but I accepted and put them away in a plastic, germ-breedingground of a bag as the Chief came around to smear a line of blood and flour across our left cheeks with a feather and tie cloth 'protection' belts around our waists. If anyone sees the belt or it falls to the ground we lose its protection. We were told to wear it for a year, when we are scheduled to come back for our next annual protection ceremony (postcard reminder in the mail).

I noticed the sheep's heart had somehow made it to the altar right as the assistant was beginning to chop it up into little morsels and place them around on the different idols. He kindly pretended to eat it for me – Photo Op! Finally, after about five hours of bench-sitting we were alllowed out into the fresh air. 'What about the circumcision?” Paul jokes. “Oh, yeah. After,” Sourou replied, serious. He thought Paul said “cicatrice,” which means “stitches.” Lucky for the boys, that was not the case.

I don't know how I ever lasted through that – five hours of crazy singing, boozing, superstition, smoking and death. Sodabi and blood. That was the ceremony in a talcum-covered cola nutshell.

Leaving Dakar without sushi was painful, but I did it anyway.

20 FEBRUARY 2008

I arrived at the Club Atlantique on time and Liz was sleeping on a bench next to the entrance, waiting. We hung out, waited, Amy showed up to get her wallet then Evan and Aaron, but still no Erin (who’d been the most adamant about leaving at 9am). Tom and Danielle decided not to come, effectively ruining our 7-place taxi strategy for getting out quickly and cheaply.

At 10:45 we decided to go out and get Erin and took a taxi who wanted 1.000F CFA to go thisfar. We said 700F and took off at which point I asked if he had the 300F to make change for the 1.000F. First he ignored me, then said he didn’t have it so I resolved to give change only – then we saw Erin walking towards us. We told him to stop, several times, before he finally did. We asked if he wanted to take us all five to the station now that our previous mission was null. He declined on account of there is a rule against > 4 and we were 5. So Aaron handed him a 200F (we were still in sight of the club) and we got out.

The driver refused to open the trunk door to get out our luggage. He demanded the 700F though we hadn’t even gone more than 20 meters. He even pulled out the 300F he said didn’t exist to give in exchange for the 1.000F.

Aaron found the trunk release when the guy exited the cab and Erin immediately started pulling out bags. Liz joined in, but the driver slammed it shut against her back and then her arm where she was pinioned and held it while we continued to argue for our luggage. Our yelling very quickly attracted a series of construction workers, passerby, and a security guard (even a volunteer from Mauritania who I’m sure gives us a bad rep for all our arguing with taxis – on more than one occasion) Liz finally got her arm free and slapped the guy – who then had to be held back by four or so of the spectators.

Infighting began between the spectators and the driver who started picking up big clumps of rock to throw at people. The security guard finally seemed to agree with my explanation and even gave me the 300F back that I offered to appease the driver. Then we all got into a new taxi that finally agreed to take us all together. We were finally on the road to getting out of Dakar. Until it came to light that this new taxi couldn’t even turn because his steering was so terrible!! After asking several times whether or not he would be able to turn and he finally giving in. Then even HE ripped us off by promising the guy to whom he sold us that we would pay an extra 500F. It was just a bad, bad taxi experience all around. Third time’s a charm and we finally got to the taxi station where I broke my sunglasses getting in as the man behind me pressured me into the seat more quickly than I was prepared to move. As the driver was swerving all over the road to avoid the potholed crap highway on the way to our destination of Kidira I thought of all the things that are different in Dakar that aren’t in Cotonou: things such as the existence of horse or donkey-drawn carts; the need to pay before the taxi ride and for the entire taxi, not by the person; beggar children; flies all over; and no Milo anywhere!!! We reached the destination around 2:00a.m. and slept in the car in the taxi parking lot.

21 FEBRUARY 2008

Got in taxi #5 of ride home – easy enough, jump through the endless hoops to get across the border; get out, walk across the border, find the police station, get the same stamp we got earlier, walk back to the freeway, get back in the car and go 10 meters to another taxi station to wait for taxi #6.

Taxi #6, however, while we were stopped at the border, screamed at me to close the door as a bus passed this _______ far away. Of course I yelled back “why are you so rude?” outside the Malienne border office. Though he couldn’t understand my words – the tone was enough to spark a response in kind. He charged over to me as I got in the car and slammed the door after me so hard the window shattered all over me as I sat there, shocked. I had glass in my elbow for two days afterwards. As I sat there in shock, Aaron and the driver began to sweep out the glass surrounding me. Surprisingly (I think I was still in shock) I didn’t say anything except “ce n’est pas bonne, chauffeur” in a trembling “little” voice. Glass all removed, we got back into the car.

The chauffeur didn’t apologize and instead screamed at Liz as we drove away to leave her window rolled all the way down or else she’ll break it. The hot, dusty wind was bothering her eyes when it came in full blast from the highway so she rolled it back up half-way. Seeing this mutiny, the driver then careened off the road while attempting to roll it all the way up as her punishment for not acquiescing. Terrible, just terrible.

Taxi #7, however, made up for all of it. It was a short ride, from the racket lot of before, and thank God because the car was one pothole away from dissolving into oblivion. There was no floor - it was a prayer mat over the gaping hole to the road, the front driver and passenger seats were collapsing back into the back seats, the headliner was drooping down to touch the top of our heads and the engine exhaust was billowing into the cabin. As we stalled in front of a group of men sitting on the side of the road, Evan leaned out and asked "isn't this great? the worst car in Mali." The men could do nothing more than agree and gape. The best part was the pride our insane driver had in his vehicle. When I asked to take pictures, as Liz stood outside coughing from all the exhaust she inhaled, he posed in several positions throughout the vehicle - eat your heart out Car Magazine.

MALI BUS

The landscape is arid heat with black, rocky hills and black twisty dry trees, like they’re melting under the sun as their depraved roots seek out water from the parched below. Tufts of tall straw grass bleached and stick straight stand ready as God’s tinder box.

It’s so dry and I’m dried out so that my eyes can’t even water when the hot blasts of air hit my face through the windows, like opening an oven door 500 times an hour. Red dirt clings to where I have managed to sweat, my temples, my neck, hardens in defiance then cracks like day-old icing on my tired cake face.

We’re starting back to Bamako but I swear we’re driving from one form of Hell into another. But at least the bus is nice.

22 FEBRUARY 2008

Slept for four hours on the roof of a building we stayed near last time in Bamako. At least I was able to shower. It’s the home stretch – today we leave for Ouagadugou on STMB. Strapped for cash, I don’t know if we’ll try and stay the night in Ouaga for lasagna, grocercies, strawberries… hot chocolate.. mmmm…. Or keep going.

23 FEBRUARY 2008

Found out in Ouaga that Burkina Faso Peace Corps was on standfast and that Peace Corps Benin had been looking for us to evacuate back to Benin. Woops! We immediately went to the bureau in Ouaga to talk to their country director who didn’t necessary look pleased, or angry, to see us. She directed us back to their chauffeur who took us to the Hotel Crillon where we had to pay for a second night’s stay though we had only arrived at 3am that very morning and were forced to stay in the Peace Corps transit house so they could know where we were at all times. I hate spending extra money for no reason.

Staying the night at the transit house wasn’t so bad. We got to have lasagna after all. It’s good lasagna. We had one last, terrific meal, complete with ice cream desserts. How redundant, like a meal could be complete without desserts.

24 FEBRUARY 2008

The Burkina Faso PC chauffeur came to get us, and five other Benin English teaching volunteers (including my postmate, Jordan) who were all on holiday in Ouaga while we were out gallivanting around West Africa, and began to drive us to the border where our PC Benin Safety and Security Officer, Noel, would retrieve us. Driving along was cozy enough, reading, talking, spreading our goat cheese and crumbly, crumbly crackers all over the car. Then *bam* some of the luggage goes flying off the top of the car and into a nearby crowd of people – whether or not they were there before the white people’s luggage fell into the village or not I don’t know. Don’t worry, it was only my backpack. Everyone else’s stuff was securely packed in. Nothing was broken, luckily, except my faith in the Burkina Faso chauffeur, and I lost my face sunscreen, wet wipes and some other junk I can’t remember, probably medicine or mosquito repellent.

Some hours later we finally were able to get into the Peace Corps Benin ride and cruise on into Natitingou. It felt wonderful to finally be on the way home. It also felt wonderful to stay in Natitingou that night as we got to eat pizza, ice cream and watch all the movies I picked to watch (So I Married and Axe Murderer, Saved and Interview with a Vampire – Liz really picked that one).

25 FEBRUARY 2008

Liz and I finally took off the bus and got going home. I expected a smooth, familiar ride into Bohicon when SUDDENLY the in-ride movie came on. Can you imagine what the Gods of Bus Transport chose to signal the end the horror of all horrors of trips? That’s right, Chucky: Child’s Play. I HATE THAT FREAKIN MOVIE. I couldn’t focus on my book; I couldn’t get my music loud enough to drown out the movie I couldn’t watch. My gaze was limited to my immediate right or my immediate left. Liz started to twitch under my uncomfortable gaze. I spent the last leg of my long voyage in uncomfortable terror. And then it was over and Rambo II was on. I got home and was done.

I’m glad we had such a crazy adventure, but I have to admit, if I didn’t have my youth I would not have lasted as well as I did, which wasn’t all that well. Truth is, nothing really went terribly wrong. Expect for almost being declared a missing person and almost truly being a missing person, I think the trip was a supreme success. We went by taxi, horse cart, bus, ferry and train and we got there, represented Benin – in all our chain-smoking, beer drinking, shy and dorky cliquishness. No one died, no one was seriously harmed, and three fiercely opinionated and self-assured women didn’t blow up on one another. I’d say we had a very successful run at doing West Africa.

If you want any recommendations on how to do it better, however, I’d have to agree with the b*tch in the bashay and say, “Get your own ‘vrai’ vehicle and let someone else do the driving and stressing for you”. Be we are Peace Corps – hard as nails and we ain’t your average ‘yovos’.

LISTIE Mc. LISTERTON:

I ALWAYS appreciate little things you like to send me.

Allison Henderson

BP 126

Azove, Benin

Afrique de l'Ouest

Love,

Allison

I am writing this by the light of the candles outside in my paillote (just recently built by amazing Super Helpful volunteer Tom and Mr. Fawgla of food sickness and sodabi fame) while Cal runs around in frantic circles chasing his own tail and kicking up a lot of dirt on my feet in the process. It feels like real exotic nights now our here in my little straw hut. If only I had some awesome Pacific island type seafood coming for dinner. Back to reality and the voyage, however, and I’ll probably eat rice and spam for dinner (that’s some type of Pacific island food, right?).

FEBRUARY 14, 2008

It gets worse before it gets better.

What a swell Valentines’ Day this was. We left our disgusting room full of mosquitoes and got to Sangue bus depot around 6:30 am. At 10:00 am we finally left for Dakar. Let me go back a bit. After we got of the train late in the evening we tried to find a taxi into the center of town at Kayes, the town just outside the border between Mali and Senegal. Instead, we paid a solid 1.500 to go less than 2km to a taxi station in the middle of nowhere with no lights, no clients and no operating taxis going to the border tonight nor tomorrow for any reasonable price. We were going to have to stay the night in town and take a bus out the following morning, if at all possible, but first we had to track down another taxi to get us back into town. What a racket – literally – here we were in the middle of nowhere, unable to threaten walking if they didn’t give us a decent price so we were forced to take a terrible, terrible taxi ride for way more than we would have ever paid anywhere else (yes, even in America for the distance).

The first hotel which we had chosen through the guidebook was closed. Not just closed, but the water and electricity had been shut off for months, as the man idly sitting on the corner told us, but they would be more than willing to let us in if we didn’t mind no water nor electricity; in other words, if we didn’t mind squatting for the night. We did, so we went to choice number two. It was survivable, though overpriced for the mattress with no net and broken shower. Pay we did, however, though we were spending approximately six hours there. After having a nice dinner of Sprite for me and fries for Liz and Erin we all went to sleep without wasting a minute. Leaving the next morning showed that we had spent the night next to an African prison. That explained the harmonica I heard late the night before.

Back on the bus, the seat in front of me smelled of poop and crying children never ceased their squall. Kayes is the hottest town on the continent of Africa (literally, there was a study, it’s not just me) and we spent the hours between 11am and 2:30pm driving through at sitting at borders. The smell in front of me just gets worse in tandem with the increase in heat. Someone hadn’t wiped very well. A group of Nigerians got held up on our bus at the border because they don’t have their WHO yellow cards (vaccination proof). While we waited the next three hours for their release (after bribing the officials), I thought of how young the drivers are in Mali. VERY young. Unlike the seasoned road warriors of Beninese and Burkinabe standards these boys are stalling the buses (yep, and the “crew” plus some had to get out to push start the bus again with all of us in it!) and falling asleep at the wheel; this instead of chain smoking and cola nut-munching to get through the long, long nights.

We continued on to the Senegalese side where another group of unfortunates were being amassed to go back to Nigeria. They were just leaving, said a guard who noticed our curious glances. In another hot courtyard I ate the only thing available for lunch – cookies. After a time the first Nigerian group made it and we were finally getting back on the bus to leave when pandemonium broke out. First two men refused to get out of Liz and Erin’s seats where they had squatted during the long pause. The Nigerians came to our aid, but a fight nearly ensued when one side was trying to get on and the other was trying to get off. In the meantime my seat buddy (Mikale) was passing stools up to make room for me to sit which incited the man in front of us who claimed that doing that (inconveniencing a black man) for a white woman wasn’t good. At this point I was just hoping we got to Dakar before either someone died or the clutch went out – or I was married off to the 18 year-old Nigerian soccer player who had taken to calling all his friends so he could put the phone up to my face and tell me to speak to them after introducing me as his wife.

The next time we are able to get off the bus (darn it!) was for a variety of reasons, but we made sure it stuck this time. After sitting around for over an hour while the crew worked on a busted belt they refused to take down our luggage from the top of the bus so we could abandon ship. We 100% unwillingly got back on the poop-smell infested bus only to realize that after another seven hours on this stretch that we had actually only gone two hours worth of mileage due to our crappy driver’s handling of the pot-holed road (HUGE POTHOLES). Everyone was at the end of their rope with the lagging trip and one Gambian guy burst out insulting the quality of Nigeran English. Verbal war ensued – overheard were phrases like:

“F**k you, f**k your mother, f**k your brother, f**k your future family”

“Nigeria is the America of Africa”

“We don’t fight, so f**k you there, I said”

“If you’re talking about the vrai English of England or the vrai French of France, no one on this bus speaks either”

“White woman, be calm, the lights have been off”

And other great hits from the African Word Cup where Gambians, Ghanians, and Nigerians argued who spoke the better English and pleaded with the Dutch and German dudes and the American girls to be the mediators. We refused and enjoyed the show, until the driver turned off the cab lights – the only thing saving one Nigerian from pouncing on a cocky Ghanian.

At 6am – almost 24 hours from when we began – we were finally able to get our luggage from off the bus at a custom’s stop. Liz complained of the driver and crew stealing our luggage and forcing us to ride with them, which prolonged our trip and estimated eight hours longer than necessary, to the gendarme captain. As the captain hauled in the driver for questioning we hopped in another taxi and cut our loss. I wrote down my journal entry after that nightmare over an ice cream cone only a few hours from Dakar – hot chocolate, showers and food. The bus, I’m pretty sure, was still somewhere back on the potholed highway – if it left the custom’s station at all. My poor husband looked devastated in the glowing red of our tail lights.

FEBRUARY 15, 2008

After lunch we began walking to the taxi station where we could find a taxi to take us to Dakar. The guidebook said it was 1km away, but after approximately 3, we decided to take up a passing horse-drawn cart on his offer of a ride. We hopped off the horse cart and into a hearse, just another form of transportation I can now mark off my list – which is now dwindling down to rickshaws, pumpkin carriages and plenty of aviation options.

Getting to the taxi station in Dakar was easy, but getting from there to where we were supposed to meet the rest of our Beninese softball team was a bit more difficult. Given only the name of the club where we were to go, we searching vain for someone who knew where in the HUGE metropolis of Dakar the “American Club” might be located. What we did find, and this was arguably more valuable, was a taxi driver (perhaps the only) who could sing along with us to Proud Mary, spouted off random phrases in Wolof (local language) and repeatedly clucked and mutters “that’s those Senegalese for you,” when prompted by such instances as when we watched youth drive a truck into the side of a building while we sat in traffic for hours looking for this stupid club.

Got to Club Atlantique (aka American Club) where there were tennis courts, a pool, and a duty free with booze and a clubhouse with booze and people holding cups with booze like Coronas and Bloody Marys. Tom and I were staying with a girl from Peace Corps Senegal at a USAID private contractor’s place waaaay out of the way (which was bad for spending money on taxis) and next to the beach (which was good for pretty) in Ngor Virage. The wicked-genius couple (Senegalese husband who had Microsoft certificates as a computer programmer and mom with health-related degree from Johns Hopkins) had an adorable little girl who liked to stir my hot chocolate, show me her dresses and how she puts on lip gloss “like” me. She was well on the way to breaking hearts in Wolof, French and English. Lucky, lucky girl. They had a beeeeeautiful house in an ex-pat community where guards sleep in your garage at night and you need five keys to get in the front door. I slept on an air mattress that felt like the clouds surrounding Olympus.

16 FEBRUARY 2008

Got WAISTED. We suck at softball, but Aaron is great! Too bad he nailed our catcher, Ben, in the face from center field and gave him a black, purple, yellow and blood eye. Mauritania (those jerks) Pirates/Seaman whatever were so annoying with their cheers (“1-2-3 You’re Boring” from the girl dancing around in her underpants) but who were legitimately kicking our … so Tom finally told them to shutup. That’s how that game ended.

For dinner there was a party at the Marine’s house (yes, real Marines) where dates were auctioned off for the Peace Corps Senegal Gender and Development fund. That was lame, despite the tire swing and cool glow-in-the-dark horse shoe game, so we took a taxi downtown to a club called “Mex”. In many ways Dakar is a far superior city than Cotonou. For one thing, their ex-pat community lives on the beach; for another it’s a beach you can actually sit on without feeling like a tetanus shot is needed. People here exercise, as in running around in the street, on the beach, there is a lighthouse! There are clubs, clubs, clubs, like nice, clean-looking clubs. Not like the Soweto club in Cotonou where the whores hang out, but place you can go and dance and pay ridiculous Western prices for crap booze. It was wonderful! At “Mex” I immediately found the “secret” DJ booth that was this cool ring ladder up from the ladies’ room and asked him to play a few favorites. It was an alright night full of beeeeeAoooTIful Senegalese women. Got home around 5 a.m. and up again to play by 7:30. A.M.

17 FEBRUARY 2008

hot softball.

not feeling too well.

Got beat by a bunch of kids. Oh well. It was one of kid’s birthdays so the parents came over to thank us for losing “for them”.

We all bought tickets to go to this Indian buffet somewhere near Ngor Virage. This was good for me with taxi prices, except I had no idea where I was going so I took a taxi all the way to club just to go all the way back within walking distance of my home stay. It’s too bad the organizers of this buffet sold the tickets to all of us because the Indian buffet was understandably, frustratingly under-staffed, ill-prepared, and just overall in not a good state for the 100+ Peace Corps volunteers who showed up all at once to take advantage of all-you-can-eat. The staff put chairs outside to accommodate all of us who were showing up in droves for real food. The chairs began to sink into the soggy ground and we had trouble eating without laughing at the next person who tumbled out. As a sort of revenge on the tardiness and insufficiency of our VERY EXPENSIVE buffet ticket I tried to eat as much of the remaining food as possible (of course after everyone else had enough) and only succeeded in making myself intolerably sick. I sure showed them! Foregoing the evening’s festivities (a very wise decision I was told by my compatriots the following morning) I walked back to my home stay and slept again on the clouds of Olympus.

18 FEBRUARY 2008

I won at the banquet!! The final night in Dakar was a banquet for the end of the tournament. Another expensive meal where we had to stand in line, buffet style, while the host told us she bought all these wonderful red wines that come crashing down in a table folding accident and now all that’s left are terrible whites like Gewürztraminer. Who here likes grape juice? I bribed one server with my smile into giving us the last of a nearby table’s more tolerable Chenin Blanc. I wasn't going to let my evening with free wine go to waste. Or Waist?

This was our last day/night in Dakar and we wanted to make it special. Because we really were terrible at softball (we didn't come for the sports if you know what I mean) we weren't in the championships which meant we got to go play at Goree for the day. I know, that was a lot of rhyming. Goree is a little island off the coast of Dakar where slaves were held by the French before being shipped off to the Americas. It's still quite colorful and smacks of a sleepy French seaside town in Provence. Of course we had to make our mark on this historical site of cultural interest and blah, blah, blah, we did a BAND PHOTO SHOOT! The Benin Squirrels decided to just get all of our photos out of the way while we're young and fancy free, though we have yet to record an album; when the music starts flowing out of our orifices we'll be ready with album covers! Other interesting things that happened at Goree:

1) I defiled a historical artifact, of course;

2) I accidentally gave a crotch shot to the beggar man whose legs were all crippled and folded up and he was at perfect height for my seat; 3) a cat urinated all over my leg while I was eating lunch but I worked it good so I got a discount on the earrings the restaurant owner was selling; 4) Liz and I were criticized by an old French lady for not respecting the slaves when we were talking through one of the windows of the "slave house" (not a real slave house) because I was too cheap to pay the 50F to go inside and preferred to sit outside in the beautiful cactus garden; 5) we hung out with a volunteer from the Gambia named Alex. Cool guy, but he only took our pictures, so I can't really remember what he looks like. Hope we didn't make him feel like an outcast with all of our cool band pictures.

6) I sent postcards and got scolded for giving way to much money for postage. We left the picturesque isle of Goree after walking, walking, walking all up and down it in the late afternoon and took the ferry back to the dock in Dakar.

But I won! In fact, it wasn't just me! Out of the six people sitting at my table specifically, five of us won (four from Benin) I never usually win anything!! But here, in Dakar, I won an extra 10.000F worth of sushi I can’t eat because I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Tonight’s buffet line was for Ethiopian food. Delicious even when cold.

After Liz successfully sold my winning sushi ticket to a nearby ex-pat, we went to the after party where I heard two or three songs I knew or liked. It was a fun escape from our reality and I’m so glad we made our trek out to Dakar for this, dancing and drinking poolside. I tried to put it out of my head that tomorrow signaled the beginning of the end: the return to Benin.

Stay tuned for Part IV: The Return to Benin.

Love,

Allison

I was expecting my carpenter. He was bringing me my “dishwashing station”. A beautiful table with two, perfect, basin-sized holes planned, measured, built, delivered, paid for and already put to use in the record time of less than 15 hours. (WHO NEEDS A DISHWASHER WHEN YOU HAVE TWO PEFECT BASIN HOLES AT YOUR EXACT HEIGHT!?!).

Instead, at about 8pm tonight, I got a Toyota truck full of 12+ people complete with bottles of alcohol, larger-than-Shaq bags of charcoal and several pots large enough to feed the small army that just joined me in the quiet sanctuary of my concession. Immediately the people filed out the truck almost as if they were an actual army and dispersed to their respective tasks. A squadron of four women went to work on setting up Operation: Cookhouse while another two cadets got started on sweeping the main house (next door to mine) and its enclosed patio. The officers (i.e. Men) finished unloading the ridiculously Tetris-perfect packed canvas-roofed truck and then began tearing up every single inch of the ground with hoes and hacking up and pruning what vegetation was thriving at the time. The remaining men (there were about four or five left) got to drinking and watching Macromusica music videos on their fake leather couches.

My carpenter showed up about 30 minutes after the circus act was initiated and I was cowering in my house watching the spectacle. Without issue, he maneuvered past the cooking congregation in the outdoor overhand area (like a car port, but with no possible way for a car to access it) and put my prized table in its ordained spot. I timidly went out to him (the allure of my creation coming to life was too strong) and I spoke to him for a while then got to cleaning dishes!! In my newfound glee I dared a conversation with the ladies behind me. Too bad none of them spoke English and a translator was called out. Here came a shirtless, potbellied man who took this opportunity to invite me in for a drink. Not wanting to anger or ostracize myself from my proprietor’s family, I acquiesced and entered the homestead to watch music videos and drink some whiskey (as it turned out to be the offered drink).

Now, as I was standing there against the wall, sipping the straight crap whisky, and making pleasant responses to the conversation directed at me (“This is his band,” my host pointed to a large guy sitting on the couch, who was not present even once in the video) and nodded in pleasant disbelief when it was mentioned that Amanda had been BFF with the guys on the couch closest me (I inwardly doubted Amanda had been all that great of pals with The Shirtless Ones as they were more a nuisance than a welcome interruption to me, but then again people can certainly surprise you). After several moments of politesse I began to look for a way out. Searching up, side, side, down, I came across a horrible discovery. NO WONDER they were so into me coming to hang out and then with the whisky! My face flushed a good thirty times hotter than already possible in this equatorial hot bath of a country. For no sooner had I glance down than I realized that my comfortable relaxation of earlier this evening on my couch had followed me to my current station – aka my pants were unbuttoned and unzipped and perfectly open and ready for scrutiny. Oh Horror of Horrors!! Here I was, the vanilla ice queen of personalities next door with the body language of an open invitation to a party in my pants. I assume you may all imagine now just how unprepared I was for the sudden arrival of this cluster of visitors. My mind went racing back to all the conversations I have been having since I left my house: my neighbor’s to ask if he knew who the newcomers were; my carpenter when he came with the table; the women cooking outside; and now here I am in the den with men watching music videos and drinking hard liquor.

I think at this point I have suffered a momentary social amnesia that allows me to still go out in public because I don’t quite recall how I made my escape from that situation, but somehow it was made and I was back in my house without any major catastrophes. Perhaps they didn’t notice, I told myself, then I recalled with burning agony that it was not so and that I should resign myself to staying in the rest of the night and however long it took for them to finish off the crop of peace and quiet then leave in search of the next great disruption like the locusts they were. Luckily I have a stockpile of instant potatoes and a few remaining foil bags of chicken and tuna so I imagined I would have a good 72-120 hours of provisions left before I would have to eat Cal and then turn against myself. So what if in my spare time I get really over exaggerative? They were gone by the next day anyway (had a funeral to go to), but they stole my machete in the meantime. Now they’re gone and I have my quiet back, at least until the next extended family member kicks the can. And with this funky weather that could be at any moment. I won’t know until I hear the sound of the Toyota tank rolling its way down the highway.

Caution: this one has swearing. Bamako Sucks!

February 11, 2008

Waking up early is never my favorite activity. Waking up early to go sit somewhere and wait for another four hours when I could have been sleeping makes it even more painful a reality. Wake up early we did, nonetheless, because the guide book I swear we should have used as fire fodder told us to so that we could get a quick ride to Djenne – home of the “World’s Largest Mud Mosque”.

Show up at the taxi depot we did. We booked passage on a “bashay”, also known riding on benches in the bed of a crappy truck, (which is what the stupid guidebook to the most miserable trip in Africa told us to do) and then waited as taxi after taxi filled up and took off. Coming to a realization that we were going to be waiting for a long, long time for a very painful ride we asked for a refund so that we might instead get in a taxi and leave. Denied. Waiting, waiting. We finally got “full” and started to pile in. One thing about Mali is that we have to pay extra for baggage. As you all recall in the letter about leaving Cotonou you can bring however many sacks of crap you want without paying a dime more than your passage. Not so in Mali. I had to pay an extra 350F just to put my backpack on top of the stupid truck. This was the way it was with every single taxi in Mali, save the one out of Dogon, paying extra for one bag. I missed Southwest Airlines where you at LEAST got to keep one TWO check-ins, one carry-on AND a personal bag! So we paid – grudgingly – and I hid my cement sack under my seat. The Japanese dude in our truck could only yell obscenities at the terrible chauffeur and I have to say I admired his vigor. Instead, I cried silently as my spine was contorted to fit yet another fat lady on our bench where five were already sitting. After this experience I have sworn off jell-o molds – you don’t know what it’s like, but I do!! It’s not supposed to look like that! It’s supposed to be jiggly and blocky and however it lays most comfortably. So we all get in the truck and start to leave the terrible, terrible taxi gare of Mopti, Mali. Good Riddance.

15 minutes into the trip Liz and “Fat Lady” (henceforth known as “Devil” on account of her blue attire) began exchanging elbows with one another. This plays directly into ‘cramped car etiquette’. When everyone is smooshed shoulders to butt you don’t put your elbows down by your sides to give yourself a flesh wall of security against everyone else. Instead, it is more polite to put your arms up in your own lap so that everyone has enough shoulder room to take a deep breath should they, you know, need to breathe! This woman felt it was more than within her right to lock down her elbows into Liz’s vital breathing space (aka into her kidneys). Elbows turned into snarls and snarls into outright “No, YOU’RE FATTER!” This woman had the gall to tell us to take our “Real Car” (meaning, we were white so what were we doing taking “public” transport instead of tooling around in our chauffeured Landcruiser like the rest of the white tourists?).

Offended, and rightly so, Liz gave a huffy retort with corresponding elbow and it turned into all out war. In an effort to spare my own internal organs I opted to sit on the floor of the bashay (on a tire that somehow made it into the seating area while all of our personal belongings went on the roof to “make space” for more people than could possibly fit to get in), with a kid on my lap. One kid turned into two and soon I was sleeping, sitting up, with kids on my lap – not my favorite lifetime experience, but it was better than hemorrhaging. Eventually, however, the Devil still wasn’t satisfied and the crisis resumed so I dutifully took the place of Liz and took some of the brunt elbow force myself. She was not kidding around – this lady was BRUTAL! I pleaded for just a little room and motioned to those sitting across from us (she was taking up the equivalent of two people on the other side!) right then, noticing that her kid, who was not sitting with “mama” but instead was on the other side of the bashay hogging up someone else’s lap space, began a Yak Attak. I was so thoroughly repulsed with this woman and her offspring I had not choice but to close my eyes and pray for death. Well, the yakking was fortunately short lived and the “fresh” air the open truck provided was something for which I was extremely thankful at this point. At least I wasn’t sitting next to the kid with eye pus (Erin’s left). Devil was unbelievable in her self-righteousness, however, as she somehow forced out the guy to her right, now perched on the back of the tailgate with his Saddam Hussein tissue, and claimed she could take all that space for herself instead of scooting over for all of us to reap the benefits of her maliciousness. “Look, this his HIS spot,” was her argument for why she couldn’t move over to give us a little more space. Somehow it didn’t register to her that the fact he was no longer sitting in his space was a valid reason for us to move into it.

The ride finally ended (about three hours later than if we had taken a taxi instead) after a really cool ferry ride and we all gave a big, sarcastic “Bye Bye” to the Devil when she got off before us. Even the other women who didn’t speak a lick of French could see what a grade-A douche-ka-bob this lady was. Our day was complete and we got out of the bashay in the center of Djenne, in front of the crazy Monday marché and beautiful, huge mosque. Compared to the ride there, the “calm” crazy of the marché and our pretty uneventful lunch of beer, chicken and fried bananas were nothing great to write about. Yes, the mosque was large and I took as many pictures of the outside as a white, Catholic, woman is allowed. Then we waiting around for a bus back to the highway where we waiting another hour or so for a bus to take us to Bamako.

LATER THAT NIGHT

We were able to board a mini bus that had religious writing all over the sides. It was “safe” I suppose. Liz sat up in the cab (blocked off from all us others in the back) and shared snacks, stories and laughs with the chauffeur and manager all night while Erin and I smooshed up together in the very last row where the jump seat was and our only escape was blocked by the ladder up to the roof of the “van”. Imagine my surprise when only a few hours into our journey the chauffeur opens up the suicide back panels and asks me to drive. Apparently Liz had been touting my amazing stick shifting skills (of which she obviously would have no personal experience to speak) and the chauffeur was liking his option of sleep. In face of my polite decline (and my fingers were itching to grab that wheel, let me tell you) the chauffeur soldiered on for another couple of hours – refusing any of the normal stimulants such as cigarettes, cola nuts, coffee, ANYTHING – and finally crashed on the side of the road. Not literally, thankfully, but I was awoken to Liz at the back door telling us we might want to get out because we were “going to be a while”. The chauffeur had gotten out at a roadside stop at one in the morning in the hopes of getting a good green tea buzz, but instead fell asleep by the fire where Liz and I found ourselves shortly after watching the stars and talking about how we both remembered “that time when our chauffeur fell asleep on the side of the road in Mali and we sat up next to a fire with a bunch of random dudes under a sky full of stars, pouring tea from 6in high.”

The manager had eventually had enough of the white girls sitting around and sold us off to a city bus-turned cross-country trekker. We climbed aboard the bus and moved to the way back where I SOMEHOW got place next to the same guy on the last bus who somehow made his one seat turn into three as he slid out horizontally on the bench and into my “zone”, but only for a while as Liz begged me to switch seats with her, effectively over the hot, hot engine heat that was exhausting into the cab. I fell asleep immediately, whether from the fumes, the exhaustion of travel, or the cozy, BOILING warmth vs. the freezing winds from the window above and before I could count the number of seats our neighbor was taking up, we were in Bamako (eight hours later).

February 12, 2008

We got into Bamako’s city center, FINALLY, after being followed and harassed around the bus station. Somehow “no, thank you,” doesn’t bear the same power as it does in other countries. No one spoke enough French to understand when we said “train” at least 15 different ways. Nothing is more infuriating than trying to change your tonal inflections a myriad of ways you’d never before experienced and still not coming up with the right one. Searching, searching, and finally we found a taxi that spoke a language we could, too. We made it to the train station in Bamako. Then we couldn’t buy a ticket because it was closed. Lunch was then to be had across the street. White as we are, the server started to talk to us in local language (this actually makes sense because Mali volunteers are told to learn their local language because not many people speak French). This wasn’t so bad until he began to quiz me on things I could not have possibly known. This was due to the fact that I must have the most boring and recognizable countenance known to man. He thought I had been there just the month prior and was somewhat of a regular staple at their establishment. This isn’t the first, or the last, time that I would be mistaken for some other white skinned, brown haired, boring-looking girl. I could only hope this time my doppelganger was relatively attractive (compared to some of the other ones in Benin where I have fared quite poorly).

What needs to happen next? We looked for beer. For over an hour we looked. One man thought we looked particularly helpless so tried to help us find a bar. At first we thought, okay, the sooner we get to the beer, the better, but alas we found none. Thanking him kindly, we took our leave. Only he continued to follow us. And continued to follow us. At one point I went up to him and asked him to stop. Thinking that would work but knowing that it would not we continued then hid in an alcove as, sure enough, thirty seconds later he walked by in our wake. He caught sight of us glaring at him and that was finally the end of it as he took off running straight ahead. We spent another hour searching for beer before finally settling for water and dry, nasty pastries (that should never have been mentioned in our CRAP, CRAP, CRAP guidebook) in the heat of the afternoon. We’d walked so far that we had to a taxi back to the train station to buy our tickets now that it was open. Mission accomplished, we headed next door to use the toilet at the hotel only to find there was beer there all along. We sat there for the next three hours and got wasted. Bamako sucks.

Fully fed up with our experience we decided to go out and splurge ourselves at the grocery store (Fourni). HEAVEN! I felt a little like a jerk when I realized that the bank I had spent several hundred francs on taxis looking for earlier was right next door to the grocery store; but, by then it was closed so I felt a little better. Inside were so many lovely Lebanese, French and even American goods that I couldn’t help myself. I bought Pringles, a bar of Lindt dark truffle chocolate and some gourmet flavored cheese with saucisson sec! They had ovens and huge American-sized fridges and everything! It was quite a treat. We left feeling elated and yet, connected. Then the crap piled on again.

After hitting up a nice cyber café we were accosted by a Ghanian man looking for someone to give him money. While persistently claiming he didn’t want money he asked us for money to call his girlfriend and ask her for the answer to the secret question on the Western Union transfer sheet. First of all – if this ugly man had a girlfriend she surely was stupid enough to pick a question he couldn’t answer. Secondly – why would he ask us for money by telling us he didn’t money? Thirdly – was it necessary to scream “Fuck You” when his scam didn’t work on us and we politely declined to give him money afterall? No! And I didn’t appreciate him doing it an inch from my face. I don’t think I’ve ever come that close to hitting someone, but I certainly felt the blood boiling under my skin and out of respect for his stupid girlfriend declined to sock him where it didn’t matter (right in his ugly puss). Then we couldn’t find the Indian food restaurant we were searching for when sidetracked by the Ghanian Gerk. I was in a bad place and started eating my Pringles.

Instead, we got in a taxi and headed back to the area near our hotel where we could hopefully have some more luck finding a restaurant. We walked around for another hour or two down streets without names, numbers, or any sort of significant markings before finally finding the Thai place mentioned in our stupid guidebook. “We’re all full,” the snooty host said as he took in our appearances, the record spun quickly to a stop and all the other white folk looked up abruptly from their delicious-smelling meals to gawk. We can take a hint, but instead pointed to the empty tables and asked about a waiting list. Impassive and stern, the host somehow guided us out the door without a problem. I think it was the fatigue/hunger/general disillusionment with Bamako that made us as docile and easily turned away as kittens. This is how we ended up at the “Southwestern Eatery” Appaloosa – where the black servers were forced to wear denim button-downs, black cowboy hats and the white ladies behind the bar looked like saloon whores circa 2001. I don’t know which “Southwest” this restaurant was supposed to represent but on the wall were license plates from Virginia (not even West Virginia) and Maine, the soundtrack started with Melloncamp and ended with five songs from the BeeGees greatest hits and the “black bean burrito” was stuffed full of red, marché beans. I got a migrane and we went home. That’s how it ends in Bamako. Bamako sucks.

February 13, 2008

The TRAIN was AWESOME!! We had to be shown our seats, sadly, though they were clearly marked. This meant that we had to pay a guy to do what we could have easily done ourselves (another sad result of everyone in Mali finding white women incompetent). One of the coolest parts of the train – apart from having a lot of space to stretch out – is that the bathroom is on the train. Not just that, the bathroom is a hole in the ground over the tracks! You can’t use it when the train is stopped, for obviously reasons, but it is fun as heck when you’re rambling and rolling along to watch the ground, too. Well, I got a kick out of it.

Two men came and sat across from us in our little “booth” and promptly spilled boiling hot milk on all of us. What a great start – and what the hell were they doing with hot milk? Grown men! They ask if we’re European. When we respond ‘no’ they then guess by nationality out of European countries. “Oh, you’re not European. You’re Spanish, then?” Really asinine. Finally we give in out of the pure pain of our conversation. It went like this:

“We’re from the United States” us.

blank stares as a response from Milk-Spillers.

“America,” us.

“Oh, right! But how do you speak French?” Milk-Spillers.

“Benin,” us.

“But how are you in Benin?” Milk-Spillers.

“Volunteers with the Peace Corps,” us.

“Oh, Dutch!” Milk-Spillers.

“No, American Peace Corps,” us.

“BUSH!” Milk-Spillers.

“No, we live in cities in America,” us.

“No, George Bush!” Milk-Spillers.

(believe it or not, Milk-Spiller #1 was the more intelligent just by the mere faculty of speech).

The trip was relatively uneventful, which was a nice change. We spent our time just lounging, sleeping, eating (I smeared bread in my chocolate moosh-pile; forgetting I was in Africa when I bought the bar of chocolate and took it on a hot train trip with me), and enjoying the scenery. Then night fell and it was time for our drunken companions to leave. There wasn’t really enough stop time on the train for the unscheduled ones (thank GOD!) so our companions called out to someone on the platform to catch their mountains of stuff they passed it through the cabin window. The only problem to this method was that the window was too small so they ended up spending more time trying to shove through the larger packages than it would have taken to just load it up on their backs and trek outta there. Oh goodness, the efficiency is alive and well throughout.

MORE TO FOLLOW LATER! I have real work to do now people!!!

Love you,

Allison Henderson

That address again for those “must send ‘ers”

Allison Henderson

B.P. 126

Azovè, Benin

Afrique de l’Ouest

PAR AVION

I appreciate and love everything you send me. Except crap. Don’t send crap. My house is little.

FEBRUARY 2008

The trip I knew was going to be a voyage that lasted an eternity, the writing I knew would take longer so thank you all for being patient as I put together this tribute to the first African road trip in my life (don’t know if I have it in me for another, but we’ll see).

FEBRUARY 5, 2008

We got to Cotonou a day early in anticipation of our journey out to Burkina Faso. We’re taking a night bus to save money on a hotel and to make the traveling easier (as in, if you’re asleep it goes faster, and a heck of a lot less heat in the bus at night).

Luggage packing for the bus took two hours. Then, when we finally are ready to get going we have a roll call onto the former Jacksonville Jaguar team bus. Just imagine what pandemonium ensued as the bus agents tried, in vain, to pronounce all the mysterious names and match them to poorly scribbled-out bus tickets. It took us a little while longer to actually get onto the bus. Good thing the seats were numbered. Too bad some lady thought she was in Liz’s seat (apparently the number 7 looks remarkably like the number 9). She’ll come into this later, but for now we’re finally all seated, even seat 7 who tried in vain to repeatedly seat herself in 13 after 9 failed. The Egypt v. Cameroon match comes on and for a moment we’re entertained. The driver arrives and we’re thrilled it is only an hour late (10pm instead of designated departure of 9pm). We start driving, lurching forward in our Jaguar bus with the midget leg room and not the anticipated coolers full of Crystal and Courvoisier, then stop abruptly in a zone of bad television reception so that even as we sat for the next 35 minutes we couldn’t even watch the game they had so considerately put on for us just a few moments before. The engine and the busload of people sat running, waiting for – what?

For the second time we take off again. Enjoying our apple dinner (Erin hits a male passerby with her core – bad karma to come?) we go approximately 0.5km before stopping again at the gas station. It’s at this stop where we see the true art of lacking in efficiency. While the bus driver leaves his engine running to get and pump gas, three more bus workers get off and stand around the pump, discussing how to best negotiate inserting it into the bus. Meanwhile, nothing else happens. When the gas has successfully been pumped (25 minutes later and four more ‘helpers’ jumping of the bus to lend a hand) the driver takes his time wiping down the windshield by hand with a little plastic teapot – again, something that could have taken place while the gas was being pumped? Also, has he never heard of windshield wipers? I guess not as I watched him swipe, back and forth with his hand and little plastic teapot until the entire, giant windshield was clean. Then we were off again. Still in Cotonou, four hours after we got to the bus stop. Well on our way to a wonderful journey in Africa.

But wait, not quite yet. It appears that seat 7, or was it 13, or wait, 9? Has too much luggage blocking the aisles where crew workers want to lay down. It is customary on every African bus to have one chauffeur, at least two luggage handlers, one guy to take the money from passengers who get on en route, and I suppose two or three extra to stand around should anything go wrong with the engine. It is also customary to never account for them when filling up the seat capacity. The woman refused to move her baggage and the crew members were forced to lie in the aisles along the bus. Fire hazard, what? My only prayer was that should the bus crash I be thrown safely from its burning carcass otherwise I burn inside it, unable to maneuver past the bodies wedged in the aisles. The evening ends with this: Can’t finish writing because the chauffeur turns off the overhead lights so we can watch a work of cinematic genius – Dead or Alive (seen it? It reminded me of Street Fighter but with primarily hot girls instead of equal sexes fighting it out). The next few hours before I finally crash from exhaustion are crap kung fu and the glowing cigarette butt of the driver on the longest chain smoking marathon I’ve ever seen in the review mirror and a crew member pushing my leg out of the way so he can sleep under my skirt.

FEBRUARY 6, 2008

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

We finally got into Ouagadougou at around 3:00pm (after spending 20 minutes at the border exiting Benin, another hour and 10.000CFA getting our visas upon entry to Burkina, then 2.5 hours sitting, waiting, bus unloaded for customs to stop by, look at our bags and say that we could go). We got in just in time to miss our shot at the Mali visa so we’re staying the night at the Cathedral (how fitting on Ash Wednesday).

Burkina has great produce – we went to their supermarket (open 7j/7 – what?) and saw so many types of cheeses, meats, fruits and vegetables! Strawberries, artichokes, red bell peppers and balsamic vinegar were some of the best finds (Snickers and Twix ice cream bars were pretty thrilling in their own right though I certainly didn’t partake)! It’s like being in a real big city! The buildings are newer, with more lights and decorations (a bit over done though, like someone on the city decorating committee got a deal at the Target after-holidays sales), less crowding and minimal diesel fumes. They have an air conditioned movie theatre playing Gothika and 300 (did those even come out at the same time in the U.S.? I don’t think so) as well as an outdoor one playing Jurassic Park (the Lost World one, not the real one) and American Beauty. There are no taxi motos here, only taxis cars (green ones that charge basically 600CFA for the car no matter where you’re going and an even bigger bummer if you’re traveling alone). More impressive is the terrain and wildlife. We cut through Benin’s Park Pendjari on our way up North and came out the other side in real desert (Sahel) with dry bush trees, parched earth and massive watering holes where one or two of the many herds of cows are stopped to rest and drink. On the side of the road multiple donkey carts plod along with one, sometimes two, bodies sitting up top to give an occasional unenthusiastic stick thump on the donkey’s rear end. Neither of them wants to be working, but they’re out there in the heat nonetheless. There really is no alternative. They plod along for miles in one direction to fill up on sticks, or hay, or buckets of something else, turn around and trudge back for miles in the direction they came.

The restaurant we were so excited to visit was closed on Wednesdays of all days so we begrudgingly headed back to the familiar Lebanese cuisine to which we were so accustomed. There was a banana milkshake on the menu – something I ate a lot of every chance I got as a kid – and it wasn’t half bad, but not quite like we used to make at home. Ouagadougou was shaping up to be an okay place so far.

FEBRUARY 7, 2008

We breakfasted at a place called the “Four Seasons” (4 Saisons) but really should have been called One or Two Seasons based on their lack of available menu items. Though the first three items I tried to order were unavailable and I finally was reduced to settling on a hot chocolate and toast (but they ran out of jelly) the hot chocolate was the most amazing I’ve had in Africa! The roadside woman selling strawberries sweetened the deal and the refrigerator revealed a hidden jelly reservoir despite previously fruitless searches (I’m just full of the puns today), so breakfast turned out alright if not half-decent. Liz was pretty disappointed that their café au lait was actually just Nescafe and their espresso machine was broken so just went for the regular coffee treatment, but had an awesome omelet with potatoes. Erin’s “petit four” (which in America usually means some sort of assortment of tiny cakes or pastries) was a handful of cookies that tasted remarkably like pound cake so it was a win-win in all cases. Though the food was surprisingly pleasant, the abundance of street-side beggars was something I hadn’t yet been introduced to and found unpleasant as I tried to eat my food with four kids staring at me, eyes pleading and hands outstretched, their empty tomato paste can coffers full only with pointed blaming and my subsequent guilt. I got over that real fast, however, when a fully grown man came over to ask for money because he had just returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca. OOOOH!! I remember now. Muslims give alms. It tends to breed an underbelly reliant on the generosity (and piety) of presumably Muslim passerby and unsuspecting guilty white folk. Since I’m not Muslim and apparently cold-hearted and poor myself, I felt exempt from the guilt of not giving every single kid walking around with nice shoes and full outfits on money, but then my Catholic upbringing sort of swung it back around and I evened out with a general sense of crummy okie-dokieness.

Lunch must have been pretty uneventful because I can’t remember anything to write about. In fact, I don’t think we ate lunch. It pretty much went right from late breakfast to the grocery store and then looking for the restaurant we’d missed out on the night before. On the way there we hit up the Artisan’s Center where we could buy crafts without haggling over prices. Unfortunately we were instantly hit with the artisans who continued to insist that I was not American, but rather, Spanish hiding in an American’s body. I’m used to pushy salesmen but I can’t say I’ve ever experienced it to the degree we did upon leaving the center. For the next twenty minutes or so I was trapped explaining to one man why not spending time walking over to his shop to see the same exact crafts I just bought at the center and then politely decline to purchase them was not considered rude in my country, especially when I was late to go to dinner and getting increasingly angry from my state of empty stomach. At one point the bugger artisan literally likened my refusal to visiting the shop as to stepping on the face of his child. It was either that or his Friendship, I can’t really say I was paying much attention to his French at this point. I have selective French comprehension that comes in quite handy in these pestering instances.

Dinner, in contrast, was quite possibly my favorite experience of the entire trip (even in retrospect as I write this). It's called le Verdoyant and it is in a nicer part of town (near the Artisan's center) and is closed on Wednesdays... so sad. I started with a sweet taste of my past: Gin Fizz. Not quite up to Papa Mel’s par (a real man, not a bar, but now I’m thinking…), but it was a welcome treat. This carried over to a demi-carafe of what I presumed to be a Côte du Rhone red (never again; I’m so disappointed every time I spend more money trying to get a taste of the good stuff then find myself conspiracy theorizing that the restaurant just opened the same ‘ole box of Bonita and poured it into the carafe then charged double. I’d rather live without and have my memories of the better days of wine consumption). Luckily it didn’t all end like this as my endive, hazelnut and Roquefort salad immeasurably pleased my depraved palette. I admit, I was never a real fan of the wedge salad (more my mom’s style) but in a meal tribute to memories of my family I gave it a go and was more than pleased with the selection. This was followed by lasagna. Wait, I didn’t do that right. It was Lasagna. Phenomenal! Lasagna that was worthy of a decent restaurant in the U.S. Maybe I’m biased being as I am from a cheeseless, practically beefless existence, but it really was an amazing batch of Lasagna, wood-fired oven and all. The restaurant obviously had what it needed going for it as by mid-meal I turned around to a sea of white folk. Normally I try to avoid the ex-pat crowd but I was on vacation and thus taking photos and hob-nobbing with the fairer skinned ones wasn’t as embarrassing as it can be in my own territory. The meal was so good we even tipped. I think it was the second, if not the first, time since I got here. Thoroughly sated, we all returned to our hotel with the comfortable bed, fan, but still-cold-showers and seatless, shared toilets.

FEBRUARY 8 2008

Almost nothing was the same as we got back on a bus to make our way up to Mali. We were royally ripped off by the bus. (NEVER TAKE S.T.B.F. IN OUAGADOUGOU). They said they went directly from Ouaga (Burkina) to Mopti (Mali) for 25.000CFA, but what they should have said was ‘direct from Ouaga to Ouahigouya for 2.500CFA then get out and wait four-six hours for another mini bus to take you from Ouahigouya (still in Burkina) to Koro for another 2.500CFA and to leave early enough to catch the one that leaves with enough time to get to the border before it closes and you’re stuck in Burkina, sleeping at the border, for another night.’ Oh well, lost in translation I suppose, or they were just thieving liars (more likely option).

While we were waiting for the second round of crap travel to Mali we were approached by one of those ubiquitous ‘want to speak the “small small” English’ guys who refuse to speak French to you although that’s the only language of theirs you actually understand. He persisted in demanding whether or not we were familiar with “Peter Stevenson” who ‘lived in Sector 2’. We repeatedly denied knowing any of the Burkina volunteers explaining that were from Benin and, amazingly, not all white people are of the same family and most probably don’t know all the other white people in their own village, let alone their entire region of West Africa. It took several frustrating attempts from our side to get him to speak French and on his part explaining just who Peter Stevenson was; a brand of cigarettes (have you heard of them?). Confusion cleared and we thought he would just go away, but four hours couldn’t end soon enough and he persisted in asking us other things in English that we just couldn’t decipher (except for the spit he projected with his English pronunciation; that was intelligible enough). Finally the wait ended and we piled into the next cramped bus that would take us on terre rouge through to the desert of Mali.

I sat uncomfortably between the bench and jump seat, knee to crotch with a man sitting across from me for the next six or so hours just pining for the border and the next place I could rest horizontally. We were finally getting where we were going, so what if my spine was slightly shifted as a result. That is, until we suddenly we weren’t going anymore. The chauffeur stopped and did what any normal driver (in Africa) would do – pile more goods and people on top of the van than he should safely do as there was no more space inside of the van. This would have normally been just a minor annoyance rather than the first skirmish in the full-scale war it became had he not chosen to do so a mere 15 minutes before the border was scheduled to close with three American girls on board who had already been ripped off once that day and were loathe to pay extra later upon exiting Mali for not getting an entry stamp first on their passports. Of course we complained (I threatened to drive away, but couldn’t figure out how he hotwired his car to get it going) but that didn’t stop him taking the next 40 minutes to load his new cargo and passengers. We eventually got going again while the sun was setting and my nausea started to set in. The beautiful stars exploded into the desert’s dark black night as we drove past solemn campfires out in the brush. It was becoming magical, but my blood sugar level was still dropping from lack of food. Then, as if in final protest and in opposition-empathy to my nerves, the gas tank emptied and the van sputtered out simultaneously with my last nerves. At this point we’d already reached and passed the Mali bureau 40km inside the border and got our stamps by the light of their lantern, but now we were on to the next crisis of hunger and fatigue. I guess the driver had had enough of our complaints and tossed a 10.000CFA bill at us when we started to set in complaining again (I’m not proud of our actions, did I say I was tired and hungry and already ripped off once that day and had to wait for him to add more luggage despite our earlier protests? Not that it’s an excuse for my behavior) and threatened to walk the remaining 3km to Koro (the next town in) – which I guess must have been more of a relief than a threat to him at that stage of the trip. He took off at a brisk walk and as his glittering cell phone faded into the night I feared he just might not return for us. Luckily he must have forgotten his wallet or really liked his van because he did return on a moto and put enough gas to get us to Customs where they took down only ¾ of our bags on top to search so we were out of there just another ½ hour later.

Koro was finally reached and Omar (the Dogon guide) came to get us. I threw up next to the telephone center as he kindly waited then we went on to a campement on the outskirts of town. We had an AMAZING family-style plate of salad with sesame oil (lettuce with oil), fries and spaghetti made with a really strange sauce and served cold. I could actually only eat some of the spaghetti, but Erin and Liz looked pretty pleased with everything else. I was out by 11, lying on a matt lifted up by wooden sticks, ready to put that day behind me.

FEBRUARY 9, 2008

I checked out my journal for this day and remembered why my dirty finger prints were all over the page, rather, why the finger prints all over the page were dirty. I had just woken up from a nap atop a mud hut bar (Tati Samba in Benin) under thatch covering protecting me from the broiling heat. Even after washing my hands, which left a thick line of distinction between my pale skin and the thick layer of dust mixed with sweat on the rest of my arm, it was difficult to keep the pages clean. My view from the rooftop was that of the ancient mud town of Dogon nestled high up into the carved rock while I rest below it in the new civilization of Dogon, created just as recently as sixty years ago. The path here was flat and sandy with the occasional drop through a ravine that marked the path of the dried-up riverbed. It’s so hot out on this cloudless day, but the breeze is constant and refreshing and sounds a lot like I’m sitting by the Pacific when it blows through the surrounding palms.

The people of Dogon are used to tourists and became angry when I tried to take a picture of their horses without first giving away some Cola nuts I bought back in Ouahigouya just for this special purpose. We pass out 10 or so to the inhabitants to gain access to this relic of ancient Mali. Children cluster, chanting “calabash” or “coton”, hoping you will want to buy something. When you don’t they give up trying to sell you anything and start to beg cola nuts for free – children! Cola nuts!! Stimulants for Children (a new band name perhaps?)!

We got through town and hiked up rocky trails to the old town in the cliffs. This was just one of many settlements similarly situated in the face of the rock, but was the easiest for us to climb up. We saw their clay granaries; their mass cemetery of bones littered indiscriminately in a hole bored into the rock’s body; their water supply that ran down the face of a wall that millennia before was once an underwater abyss. We also saw their ‘courthouse’ with low ceilings so as to prevent fighting should the dispute not be resolved amicably. We saw where the “Hogon” lived (yea, I laughed and then repeated to the point of annoyance “Hogon of the Dogon”), the king of the Dogon people who wore neither shoes nor bathed except on every fifth day when a snake would come and lick him clean. I interjected my concern at whether or not it would take a full five days just to get that little tongue all over, but Omar just pondered my sanity and went on without response. I guess no response for me is sometimes the best response. Luckily the view was so incredible or I might have continued to imagine snakes cleaning kings. We wandered through the abandoned houses and looked out onto the vast expanse of desert land, shielding our eyes from the brilliant sunshine to fully appreciate how it used to be a lush, fertile area until the Dogon people’s continuous tree-chopping devastated the terrain, leaving it subject to alternating droughts then floods.

After the rock village and several hours in Tely post-descent at the camp/bar we left at sunset for Ende, 4km away, where we would stay the night. We ate dinner at Campement Aly, one of only three buildings with electricity in the settlement of 3,000. After dinner we cleaned up and slept in one of the hottest rooms I have ever slept in so far. It had only one window and no screen door so we had to leave the door closed, until finally, fearing suffocation more than bug bites, we opened the door and were able to sleep a little at last. Breakfast did nothing to clear up the pain of the night past, the freeze-dried coffee grounds resembled the earth we had just trodden upon all of yesterday, the ants had our sugar on them, and the “pineapple” jam tasted like grandma’s perfume, but we ate and drank up in anticipation of the day (and our perceptions already slightly desensitized from being used to African conditions).

FEBRUARY 10, 2008

After our ‘delicious’ breakfast we took off for the other side of Ende, where it seems like every Tom, Dick and Nancy has a shop shelling some sort of “artisanal” creation. The walls of the town are laced with hand-painted, -dyed, -woven articles to buy and ship back in your luggage for Auntie, Mommy, Best Friend, Grammy, Favorite Hippy Professor and Sister. There was a group of women that grew, harvested, and made their own indigo in which to dye their hand-woven wool tissues. Who doesn’t do that nowadays? Everyone has one of those women’s groups in their town! It was easy to see these women weren’t used to being introduced to white people who knew what their goods were worth and were clearly agitated when we bargained for a real price on their scarves. Needless to say, we weren’t making friends, but at least we were making good deals, and that’s what really counts when on vacation, right? After the indigo girls (and boy), we walked over to “Carving Man” (trust me, this town had an artisan for every single type of African art, quite possibly including a medicine man who would have performed a scarification if we’d named the right price), who was in the middle of carving a cool staircase made from the branch of a tree. Crouched down in his work environment, surrounded by a plethora of wooden works of art, he posed like a natural used to being photographed. After the woodsman we saw the group of men who paint batique. Except they weren’t painting anything, but they were watching a little boy on the ground painting for them. Maybe they were on a break? I don’t know, but I got a good deal on a scarf that the Indigo girls never would have sold to me for the price. Funny thing is, it was probably the Indigo girls who sold the scarf to the Batique men in the first place so I imagine something is amiss with wholesale and resale in this town.

We passed the metal workers and then the old men who sit around asking for cola nuts to jump on a horse cart with a horse that looked as though he had seen a better lifetime. Surprisingly still full of spring, we pulled away with a little puff of dust, like a cm tall, in search of the next big adventure. Our guide, Omar, had left earlier in the morning to go back to Bankass and pick up his next tour, a triad of Peace Corps volunteers from Ghana, while we continued on with his brother, Mohamed. After an eternity on the horse cart (cool views of towns and rock settlements along the way – a constant source of wonderment as I questioned how did they DO that?) we reached a little, tiny town of about four houses and a pretty impressive marché constructed entirely out of sticks. We unloaded our beings and started hiking up the mountain face. It was about 45% as intense of hikes I’d done in the past, but felt about 275% more difficult than the sitting on my butt I’ve been doing for the past 7 months. Finally, with much huffing and puffing, we made it through the rocky/tree hill (which looked remarkably like some El Dorado Hills, California hiking paths) and emptied into a mini-Eden flanked by impressive stone sculptures that reached up to the sky in a protective enclosure. Children, a few women and a man were industriously carrying calabashes of water from the river that lazily dripped through the little fertile valley to their plots of onions, lettuce, tobacco and herbs in a picturesque little commune nestled up here in the hills. Walking through and to the other side for our final climb I felt as though we’d been introduced to a secret little society of the last unknown people (though I was fully aware that this is an extremely well-known and tourist-frequented location). I almost could see Veloceraptors flying overhead and Bracchiosauruses digging for watercress in the murky brown waters – yes, I imagine everything “untouched” as a scene from Jurassic Park, why don’t you?

One last rocky climb and we were on top of the rock formations enjoying a cool drink and taking in the scenery. We were in an interesting assortment of towns that form one collective village, separated by religious factions. We ate our lunch with the Ghanaian group in the Christian part of town (‘cuz there was booze) but then took a little tour of the Muslim one while getting a nice view of the Animist one in the distance. After fully stuffing ourselves with a bland concoction of couscous and corned, boxed beef (literally comes in a tin, felt like I was an Irishwoman during a world war) we left our little rockytop village and took the final stretch of our journey to the taxi that would take us to Mopti. One intense, hot climb left and we reached the top to discover that the taxi had gone. Two French ladies that we so graciously allowed to share our taxi (and the price of it) had up and commandeered the entire operation. Omar immediately got on the phone and stood atop a precarious rock to get reception in search of our driver. I took of my shoes. Within another thirty minutes we found the source of our frustration. The driver didn’t leave, at least not the one we’d hired, he was waiting a little walk away on the other side of field full of rocks for us with the same frustration we’d been experiencing waiting for him on our side of the terrain. Confusion finally over we got in the car and experienced a beautiful moving picture of dry scenery littered with rock formations and a periodic blooming garden of greens and palms to blot the arid landscape. Mopti was going to be wonderful.

LATER THAT DAY

Mopti was, for the most part, a great experience. We arrived in the evening and stayed at “Y Pas de Probleme” hotel, Liz losing her shoes in the taxi’s car as he drove away. The beds were comfortable, even if the pool was cold and dirty, and the price was decent. Finding food, after an exhausting day, proved to be more of a carnival than we’d bargained. Wandering around, walking and walking (after walking all day in the desert land of Dogon) with a random guy who had attached himself to our group as its leader through dark, dirty alleyways and past groups of street vendors whom we regarded with skepticism. My temper was quickly heating. We finally found a location and then approached the awkward business of discharging our unwanted guide when he sat down at our table. It was too delirious with hunger and fatigue to remember how it came about, but somehow he was gone and we were able to order our meal from the kindly Nigerian patroness.

In anticipation of our upcoming chow session I asked for a soap-and-handwashing station. I was directed to a back area where, to my chagrin, there was no soap. I strode out, yes it was striding, and called out for the patron to bring me soap. A man I hadn’t seen before and was sitting at the next table over called out to me to calm down and that the patroness was already fetching soap. There was no reason to “stalk” about angrily, he said. Feeling my “calm” questioned (I’m just going to assume that from my agitated state it was questioned with reason) I retorted back that I always walked in such a passionate manner and that I had no intention of fighting with our patroness. I’m pretty sure I also mentioned some fabrication about my family being military and learning how to walk like a Prussian before learning how to ride a bike. I didn’t like being called out in my frustration. We were in the middle of discussing this quarrel of fact when the patroness returned and the man started in explaining that I was coming on looking ready for a fight. My gang came in finger-snapping to my defense of naturally walking angry while the man asserted that I was looking for a rumble. I ignored him, thanking the patroness, and went to wash my hands. Upon returning to the table, the man continued to make comments and instigate conversation with us. To his query of my name I answered, Napoleon Bonaparte, much to his amusement and prompted him to address me as the “General” for the rest of our banter. When the patroness finally returned with our food I leaned over with great frustration in my voice and asked the offending man’s identity. To my great dismay and slight mortification she answered “le patron” (her husband and rightful owner of the restaurant where we were hoping to get some nourishment and relaxation). Instantly check-mated I calmed down my biting responses a little (as much as I could, which wasn’t much) and prayed for his immediate departure. My wish was granted and we sat down to a dinner without any further interruption.

FEBRUARY 11, 2008

Thought I’d give you a break. More stories to follow later when I get back to the internet.

LOVE,

Allison

Things I Could Use if You Want to Send:

- hot chocolate

- trail mixes

- dried fruits

- jerky

- food bars

- make-up

- tank tops/t-shirts

- brownie/cake mixes

- letters and photos. I long to hear from you.

- as always anything from my amazon list is appreciated

- anything else you want to send that you think I would enjoy here in Afrique.

Mail to (with sufficient religious paraphernalia):

Allison “The Coolest” Henderson

B.P. 126

Azovè, Benin

Afrique de l’Ouest

PAR AVION

You could technically leave out « The Coolest » but I can’t guarantee it will get to me without it since that’s how my people at the post office know me.

UNGENTLEMANLY-LIKE CONDUCT

IST – yet another acronym to deal with here in the developing world – was an interesting week spent half inside a conference room with a medieval type lock on the door and a not-quite-soundproof bathroom chamber on the side, half out in La Residence Coteb and Parakou at large. This was our “In-Service Training” where we spent hours learning about child trafficking and children’s rights, national tax policies, microfinance interest rates and application procedures, composting and trash management programs, moringa cultivation and use, how to spread information about AIDS on bike tours, how to make ovens out of mud and straw, and other interesting facts and tidbits to help us through the next 20 months of our service. Breakfast, lunch and snacks were included, however, and there was meat at every meal so I can’t say it was all bad.

Most of you being from the wide world of business are used to a life where series of informative meetings are quite commonplace, if not daily routine. Now imagine those meetings in Africa and in French, Franglais, English and other languages of whose origins I’m still not quite certain. Those of you who can, please try and picture the range of colorful characters that were paraded in front of us volunteers and our homologues (who were included for two days worth of these sessions). We had one representative from the Import/Export bureau (another long acronym I can’t quite remember off the top of my head) that was reminiscent of the eloquent, loquacious speech of our beloved APCD (short – or long – for boss of S.E.D.), Jacques. Another fellow who spoke to us about taxes I swear increased in volume, intensity and pitch with every response to a question. At one point my ears began to ring and I was forced to seek solace inside the amplified bathroom walls.

The most entertaining and perhaps shocking presentation was given by the savings and credit man. While excitedly explaining to us “yovo” volunteers the cultural thought process behind the Beninese and their bizarre money saving tactics (i.e. they don’t – as soon as one earns some money it is spent) he gave a metaphor that perhaps made perfect sense to use in this instance to his view of his cultural base that failed to translate quite as well into our Occidental culture’s values and norms. “You need to focus your aim,” he explained while garishly grabbing his groin, “or else you’ll spill your seed everywhere.” At this he shook from left to right, still maintaining his grip in the targeted area. I thought perhaps I had misunderstood the French, and maybe he was actually reaching for his pocket and just slipped up a little, but upon reflection saw how this was not so and before much thought (I learned to jump in quickly when I don’t understand the French otherwise they’ve already moved on to the next topic) proclaimed that I did not understand the example provided. To my exclamation of miscomprehension Jacques immediately stammered out that the reference was one perhaps not culturally appropriate for all the audience and apologized profusely. It was then I understood just what the speaker had meant in his display. Admittedly, it was just another day in the Peace Corps accomplishing our goals of cultural exchange. And again, the daily meat was a nice change of pace, not to mention first hot standing shower in six months!

HARMATTAN IN KANDILAND

After IST I went up to Gogounou, where my friend Emily is posted. Like many towns in Benin, there was one main strip that ran the course of the highway, then sort of gave up and petered out to either side of it. After walking for ten minutes we had seen the bulk of the town and its offerings. Including the mosque and several characters (the Marché Mama Emily jokingly refers to as “God” and the man who sells the bags of whisky) there were some fun families around the same area as Emily’s house. One of these families has two sons named Akilu (Ah-key-loo), the prize accounting student at Parakou, and Mouda, Emily’s MacGuyver and general fix-it-all champion. As a result of Emily’s intimacy and reliance on their support I spent plenty of quality time with both of them, and didn’t really do much else for the two days.

Harmattan is both a blessing and a curse. In the north, it’s downright debilitating. Like during the rainy season, whenever something isn’t quite right it is always occurring as a result of Harmattan. Unlike the rainy season, you wake up cold from the wind and everything is covered in a fine layer of dust. I recently declared a stalemate in the war against the dust at my own house and am now just trying to keep my skin moisturized enough to prevent the cracking like I experienced there in the north (check out the photos – guess which one is the dried Nile River bed that my heel is become).

Expectedly, the windiness also leads to some interesting animal behavior. “Ah! Suicide!! We have a suicide!” was I cry I heard from Emily outside as I was unpacking in search of a missing 40,000 fCFA. Not sure what I expect, I immediately ran outside to her aide. Whether to blame avian flu or Hamattan winds we could not decipher for what awaited us at the bottom of Emily’s water well could have been the result of either cause. There, in the water from which we were to drink, bathe, cook, and have sexy water balloon fights (right?) was a dead chicken, bloated and floating in our faces with defiance. What to do? Well, let’s call Mouda who rigged up some sort of basket on a wire and hauled up the poison poultry. I, for one, was in awe of his boy scout-worthy resourcefulness, but that was short lived as the bleak reality remained that our water was tainted with “Eau du Poulet Mort”. Again, Mouda, ever the asset, offered to get a cart and take the big, black water bucket to his concession, fill ‘er up and return. So, with minimal effort and minor emotional scarring we had clean, full water thanks to Mouda the Magnificent!! I wish I had a Mouda in my town, although I guess Jonsi is close enough (he waits in line to pay my electricity bill for me and feeds my dog when I’m gone) though I’ll never get to see what he can do with a ‘dead bird in the well’ conundrum.

Continuing on our tour the following day we headed up to Kandi on the motos of Akilu and his buddy, Joel. Along the 45-minute drive over picturesque streams and women doing laundry on rocks I saw cows tied up like pets, a couple of beautiful horses lying in the dirt, and dogs running freely around towns! (Dogs!!) The north has meat (one of only two livestock farms in Benin is in Kandi) and real dairy products unlike in the south where cow meat is not very common outside of Cotonou and the only “dairy” we get is imported butter, powdered milk and fake wagashi (“cheese” made from powdered milk). I think the last time I saw a cow here – dead or alive – was Christmas. Kandi, more of a truck stop than a town, had a Confort Lines bus bureau where I made a reservation (more like a ¼-sized trailer) to go home the following morning. After the important tasks were finished, we four went out for chicken and beer and spent half the time arguing politics (I couldn’t believe it when Joel argued for George Bush and exclaimed his desire to see Tex-ass) and the other half of the time dancing stupid dances (see the photo of me doing the Bobaraba). When a group of white people came in (French), both our friends were outraged at our disinterest. For them, when they travel or see other black people they feel as all of the same family and treat each other accordingly. For us, it was just a group of white people trying to fit in like us and we wanted to make as little a deal about it, to act as though it were the most natural thing in the world and therefore ignore it as so. Uncomprehending of why we wouldn’t want to make it a big deal to see our “brothers”, the topic was changed to why Joel thought I was Spanish (on account of my “French” accent like usual). After so much excitement we decided we’d had enough and called it a night. I had to be up by 6:30 the next morning to catch the painfully long bus ride back down to Azovè (Bohicon, then a zem to Azovè).

On my voyage back down I had a lot of time to witness the northeast during Harmattan. I got the feeling like I was visiting home again during the fall season. Going backwards I saw now how the lush green palms, bushes and tall grasses of the South gave in to the hotter, drier climates in the hills. Like miniature mountains against an azure, cloudless sky, huge, out of place, boulders rose up out of brown grassy dry patches spotted with burned black ground underneath. The trees were an interesting mix of continued greenery covered in dust with huge portions of foliage turned brown, but not yet resigned to tumbling down to rest below. The brown and green trees, the starched corn grass and the grey, passive boulders give way along the roadside to fluffs of white that I perceive in my ancient mind as beginnings of snow. As the fluffs increase in number and size I grudgingly admit they are rather balls of cotton, wayward escapees from cargo trucks resting trapped in the stiff roadside grasses. Within Kandi’s borders I saw huge mountains of cotton, not quite ski slope scale, but large enough to remind me of snow plows through the streets of Tahoe. This is the largest cotton-producing region in the country and the method of transportation only lent itself to my homesick imagination. There is no snow in Benin, despite my gullible belief upon arrival that there were mountains (and snow) to be found in the north. Though no snow, there is admittedly a type of fall, but here is “Harmattan”.

ANIMAL PARADE

After a long week in Parakou at training and a few days with Emily in Gogonou and Kandi, then the 11 hour trip back to Azovè I spent a day settling it, which meant a lot of reading and relaxing. By the afternoon of the second day, it was time for me to get off the couch from my Forester and enjoy the dusty winds of Harmattan season.

First thing was first, at Parakou I was charged with distributing notes from other volunteers to their host families. This meant I was to walk from one end of Azovè to the other as a postal servant – gosh it would be nice if they actually did this like in the U.S., but here, if you don’t have a post box you don’t get mail – or you hope the clerk at the bureau (the one clerk) is kind enough to keep your mail on the office grounds until you arrive. I thought it was going to be a stroll in the park – or rather, a nice stroll through my town with my little dog trotting alongside. I knew Africans (at least Beninese Africans) weren’t predisposed to liking dogs – the only ones they see are wild animals that would bite you if you got close enough – but nothing could prepare me for the reactions I got walking Cal around town on a leash.

I have to say for brevity’s sake that there were roughly two camps of reactionary displays and only a smattering of deviance from the two. On the one hand were the fearful group, the ones that (in one extreme case) would walk pleasantly along the street, then happen to look down, see a six-inch tall dog on a chain and jump sideways into parked cars to get away from him, while Cal offered up his doggy smile in a confused manner. I agreed, who could be so scared of such a tiny dog – even if he WAS inclined to bite you, a swift kick would send him running he’s still so small, and on a leash at that!! The other camp was the disbelievers. I imagine that not too many sci-fi films have hit the little screens all over Azovè, but if they had, I’m sure many would have pictured themselves in a Richard Dreyfus state of mind, staring that the dog in marvel with curiosity and a twist of fear, shaken and stirred. The award for most common query is for, “C’est pour vous?” (Is that your dog?). The award for the most heard exclamation goes to “C’est le chien!” (It’s a dog!!!). Though wildly entertaining, I did get tired of people staring at me as though I had two heads (I suppose I did, however, one was a good five feet below the other).

Soon enough I got off the highway and made my way down to the area I, and my bizarre-o whitey antics, are better known. It’s surprising but despite living in the same town as my host family I would say I get over to visit them twice a month at the most. This was one such visit where I came to bring them cheese from the north, but sadly they were gone to Cotonou. So I contented myself with passing out candy to the neighbor kids (who were remarkably unafraid of the pup once they saw that bravery was awarded with tootsie rolls!). Jocelyn in front of her shop shrank up in the face of Cal explaining that she didn’t “know” him, and therefore didn’t like him. Cal’s demonstration incessant yanking and pulling and frenzied state over spilled food didn’t help my claim that actually he was a very nice, calm dog. What a liar I was. When grand-mama strolled up to the doorway where I was standing so made a clear, wide arc away and decided to continue on with her stroll instead of coming in afterall. She shouted a greeting from her orbit then went on to inquire as to the squirming mass in my arms. “Oh, is he a boy?” and when I replied in the affirmative, she nodded assent, “That’s good,” and I think I detected a smile from the distance, “they’re better,” she concluded. I agree. At least should I lag on my neutering duties, I never have to worry about more unplanned puppies.

Upon leaving the house I decided to take an alternate route. The highway was already buzzing with too much action for the little furball to handle so we went the back roads way, terre rouge where the grass grows up to your shoulders and people weave in the corridors of their mud houses. “Madame, bon soir,” was a slight shock to me and I jolted around to see one my little soccer players, Clemetine (not “tine” but “teen”). While I was occupied with my greetings and questions with Clementine and her entire extended family that was sitting around cooking dinner and braiding hair a pack of wild dogs was slowly sniffing out little Cal. I hadn’t seen them in my preoccupation and when I turned to go was suddenly chilled faced with the prospect of living through yet another pet’s death by mauling. I (stupidly?) reached in front of the wildlings and scooped up Cal next to my chest. I supposed if they really wanted Cal they would get me, too, but I imagined somehow if worse came to worse I could just kick (but these were big dogs, one of them fresh with swaying udders – those are the scariest because they don’t like any puppy that isn’t their own!). As I imagined the blood that was soon to be squirting out of my arm and the resulting rabies shot in Cotonou, etc. a woman named Terese came to my rescue. A simple clap, clap, clap in between myself and the dogs was sufficient and the pack scurried off into the grass. I didn’t want to admit, but the entourage that then accompanied me (Terese leading the way) back to the goudronne (highway) made me feel so much more secure in walking my pet but I had no way to thank her other than to annoy her by asking questions in terrible Afrifrench.

After all that excitement I was anxious to get home, but the town hadn’t had quite enough. I was stopped every third shack to talk about the dog, let people look at him from afar and demonstrate my wild animal taming skills by picking him up and showing him off to those too afraid to pet him themselves. In fact, I shouldn’t call it petting because it starts with just a timid hand reaching out, while the mate hand rests closely to the heart in a fear-locked boxing gesture, and when the hand gets close enough for a gentle stroke on the head they strike instead, thinking the dog’s inquiring nose is his attempt to bite their unguarded appendage. I am slowly, slowly (oh God it’s so painfully slow) acclimating the South on how to treat dogs as pets and not as pests (in the North they seem already to realize this valuable friendship and dogs are seen in almost every concession yard as guardians of the home). Stopping off at one last stall to pick up a pineapple for dinner, I was propositioned by the friend of the vendor. “You have a dog, would you like a monkey?” she asked with absolutely sincerity. Apparently, having a dog is like owning an exotic pet such as, say, a monkey or, in California, a ferret. Tempted, but wary enough to know better, I politely declined. I still reserve the right to change my mind however. But what would a monkey EAT?! Where would it sleep? Would Cal get along with it? This could be fun!! I’m imagining Monkey-Dog battles in my yard. More humane than the cock fights I witness daily and free entertainment. This could be interesting. Who hasn’t dreamed of owning a monkey at one point?

Ah, I guess it’s just another day in my Africa, overcoming pet adversity one day at a time.

We Americans like to celebrate the evening before January 1. We like to ring in the new year all night long, drinking, kissing, watching balls drop, you know – a real New Year’s Eve Celebration. While I didn’t forget that I was American, I did somehow seem to forget I was no longer in America, but rather in Benin.

I had Emma come and stay with me during the Christmas holiday and then we went down to Cotonou for our flu shots! Yay!! I got back home on the 27th and hung out, cleaning up a few things (all the Christmas decorations I was sent to make my holiday just as festive as possible). After spending all of the 28th cleaning up and getting my house back in order (we spent all day on Christmas cooking and cleaning and even got to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade! As well as Home Alone and Love Actually – hey, I didn’t say we were with the times over here, but luckily holiday classics don’t lapse in time) I awoke on the 29th to find that I was expecting the arrival of a new guest, my friend Aaron who is an Environment volunteer across the country. A few more days of trying to be a good host and I wasn’t too bent to see him go (as fun as it was, sometimes it gets to be a little more than I can handle when its weeks at a time). That was January 31st and I got a call no later than an hour after Aaron left that Liz was coming into town to spend it with me. I finished watching my disappointing Cowboys/Jets football game (I HATE shut-outs, not very entertaining) and sat around. It was very much as it should be on these days. When Liz got here we went out into the craziness that was “marché day” before the storm of New Years! We bought some good vegetables (well, they were alright) and headed over to Jack City to spend the evening with Aaron and Evan.

After spending a few hours sitting around with an audience, drinking really, really bad whiskey and cokes and cooking some spicy, spicy peanut sauce with pasta we got to discussing all those philosophical and moral issues worldly and mildly pretentious people like to discuss – as bad as the whiskey tasted, the alcohol content persisted at standard. The sun went down and we were invited to go along to the nearby town of Kinkinhoue (pronounced “kin-kin-whey”) with Souro, a super nice Beninese Buddhist guy that Aaron and I work with. Liz and I were a bit skeptical – walking around at night, buzzed and through the unleveled dirt terrain a good two kilometers with no clear idea of what type of festivities we were walking into. Good sports, such as we are, we went along anyway and, when we were piled into a white-paneled van with sleeping Togolese refugees and ropes to tie the doors closed we were smiling knowingly for this was Africa, go with the flow. We arrived at the “party” to find that they had waited for us. It was already 12:30 in the morning and they were just preparing to go off on their high-horses about political issues. Liz and I knew it was time to get out. We made our excuses and left Aaron and Evan to their demise. The two of us jumped into a car that just happened to be going to Azovè at 1 in the morning. I think, however, that this man was insanely drunk as we were going so slowly at one point we almost rolled backwards due to the minor incline in the road from Jack City to Azovè. Not exactly a goodie two-shoes myself I climbed out the window and shouted good wishes to those passing on foot (yes, some passed us going in the same direction). Whether I got my point across in English or otherwise I can’t remember, but the reception wasn’t overwhelming at any rate.

Upon our arrival to Azovè we sought out where the festivities could be had – it was New Year’s Eve right?! Our normal bar had crickets chirping, “Come tomorrow,” Johniska explained. What a disappointment, so we headed into town in search of new excitement. Passing by the gas station, hands to the sides of our faces, we were obliged to share a beer with the guys sitting around. At this point I was so full it was hard to keep anything going in, so I faked it for a while. Liz said it reminded her of high school, hanging at a gas station, I thought of Taco Bell. Then boredom struck again so we moved on once more – the night was a spring chicken ready for the plucking. As we moved our way down to the “Moov Bar” across town (named for a cellular phone service in Benin – branding is big here) a white-vest clad youth attached himself to us. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was dressed in a very metro, no metro was too mild for this, sexual way so we entertained his thinking we might be interested in his company. When we reached the Moov bar it was also dismally empty and, despite the cries of the DJ for us to remain, we moved on to a secret warehouse party. Well, it wasn’t secret and it wasn’t even a real warehouse, but it was like a huge abandoned building and it was fun! Vesty still clung to us, telling us who we should talk to and who we should avoid and explaining how all the other guys were jealous him (yawn!). Despite the nuisance, Liz and I enjoyed the African beats and it was especially amusing to note that of the 60+ people at said party, we were the only two females. I really should count one more female: the one wife who sat in the corner that I didn’t see as her husband unabashedly danced with me to her vexation (Vesty had to point her out to me)!! The overload of men made for a very entertaining “slow dance” moment when the men shamelessly groped their best friends closely and swayed their hips in time. They had no idea how this looked to us Americans and frankly, the explanation would have been too painful because you see, homosexuality doesn’t exist in Benin. So, as the bats flew around overhead and the fans rested still, we danced to music we couldn’t understand in a dark, sweaty abandoned building to bring in the new year.

When finally it was time to go, we had to gracefully lie to our chaperone to throw him off the trail to my house and gave him fake numbers. The men here are very persistent and the usual “no, you may not have my number, you are underaged” is not sufficient for them to stop asking. Sometimes not even a “No, I’m actually not a woman” is sufficient to get them to back off!! So there it was that at four in the a.m. of January 1, 2008 I was turning down a white-vested high-schooler and escaping the wrath of a Beninese man’s wife.

When I awoke at 9am the next morning (yes, thank you for the calls, family) and then again officially at 11am I was beat raw by the evening beforehand. For the third time since I came here, I felt what it was almost like to have a hangover (the second being just the week before on Christmas Eve). To my utter horror, what I had failed to realize by all the commentary last night was that the real festivities were on the 1st of January itself!!! While we Americans focused on our Evening parties with the intention of sleeping all the next day, the Beninese were storing up their energy to rock it all night long on the 1st!!! Oh, the unbearable pain as I shook off my sleep and got ready to go make pretty faces for the town. The first stop of our party train was at the Coovi’s (Amanda’s host family’s house). They always have the best beans and usually some good drinking, but after last night and a painful morning I wasn’t really feeling the loads of rice, beans, meat and soy cheese Mama Amanda and Danielle piled on my plate. To top it off, I have the sickening problem of eating everything on my plate and was near bursting by the time the “after luncheon” Cokes rolled in. It was all just a little too much and as we sat on the couch afterwards, digesting to the sights and sounds of Akon music videos, I swore I heard my stomach screaming out in agony. My spine even had to shift a little backwards to make room so that now I’m a hunchback chubby. Oh the horrors! After a few hours of that, Jordan and I (Liz went home to Toviklin to celebrate ‘au village’) began the walk to my host family’s place. I knew they would be much more laid back and I wouldn’t have to entertain so much.

On the way we passed Aaron and Evan, also making their rounds to the host families. We parted with the same agonizing look in our eyes. The walk that normally would have taken no more than a half hour was a good hour to two on this holiday journey. Every single inebriated soul on the streets (and there were quite a few) stopped us to wish us “happy new year” and “may your thoughts and wishes and health and goodness and money and” (bit of swaying interlude here) “all of it becomes your reality.” The general consensus was that everything good I thought (After I asked what about my bad thoughts) could come to fruition with a firm handshake and a smile (one guy was a real bone crusher and I had to excuse myself from his grasp with a plea for mercy as I wondered if Freud had anything to do with it). The good wishes all around made our long walk almost impossible. We got around the corner of the other big gas station and saw the little urchins coming, hands held out in expectation, and snot trails glistening on their filthy little faces. I love these kids and passed out my little candies with glee – the best part of the holiday. Then I went back under the tree where all the adults sat and passed out goodies to them as well (they’re not above a little American sugar fix). Luckily, as I had foreseen, Mama and Papa were very relaxed and just enjoyed us sitting there. When they offered us food I cried out that Mama was trying to kill me by eating and she acquiesced easily. Our tour of duty was almost complete. À quick run around to the house and I had a few hours to myself to gather my wits and composure.

Two hours later and no slack on my stomach, Jordan and I again set out for our last obligation of the fete: the Catholic Church concert. We peeled ourselves off of the couch and set out at the last possible moment.

Azovè is a large town, but seeing everyone out full force at night is impressive. I have lived in cities before, but the anonymity a real American or European city affords is so wonderfully comforting when compared to the in-your-face “Bonsoirs” and well-wishers you pass in hordes along the warm African streets. It was completely overwhelming to step out into the night and be accosted with hearty handshakes and inquiries about that success of your partying (“Vous avez bien fetez?”). Managing our way through the streets became an even more worthy feat of genius as rudimentary fireworks commenced in the streets of the marché. Green, yellow, red fiery sparks shot helter-skelter across the street, impartial in their aiming, the obviously shoddy engineering of these air-blazes struck fear into our hearts. I don’t know how to get Jordan or myself to the hospital in any sort of rapidity should one strike home on our personal American soil. Though I was intrigued and touched by the festive sparks (I always said I either want fireworks at my wedding or funeral, since only one is a guarantee, but the other at which I could enjoy them), Jordan got the upperhand and we passed safely through the slightly less celebratory back streets. “Booms!” and shrieks were all around by the time we finally reached our destination and joined the throng of folks trying to pay their way into this God-(aw?)ful concert.

Long ago I learned the value of not waiting in line and pushed my way to the fore. I paid and we got in. Mission accomplished. Now just to stand where Jocelyn would see we attended but far enough away that we could escape again as soon as her gaze was averted. She found us and promptly sat us in the third row front, in full view of the Choir, the Father, the nuns and all the children sitting on benches behind us. DRAT! We were trapped and my tummy was flip-flopping. The crap M.C. (I swear, it’s almost a rule you HAVE to suck to handle a microphone here) begged us to clap for nothing and asked repeatedly if we were warm (“Vous etes chaud? Montrez-moi!”). I didn’t have the heart or energy to scream back, “Hell Yes! We’re in Africa!” Luckily I’m not one to back down from festivities and after only two terrible, terrible song and dance numbers (they have good singers somewhere in Africa, but for performance purposes only choose awful ones – must be some politics of which I’m not yet aware) I was bouncing an adorable vision in pink frills on my knee while bumping my eight-year-old neighbor into a rhythm the Jackson’s would envy. Thoroughly enjoying myself despite the Risk War I was waging inside, I eventually gave into Jordan’s demands to return to my place, I was pretty tired too, considering when I normally get about 9 hours of sleep a night and at least a one-hour nap a day that I had gone the past 48 hours with only 5 hours sleep and one nap. It almost felt like my last few weeks in the States all over again.

At eleven o’clock, full of good wishes from the town and feeling every bit a part of it I closed my eyes hoping and wishing and praying for you and for me a spectacularly successful and adventurous 2008. Now, Grams, somewhere in those next twelve months is a luxurious bubble bath, right? Otherwise it was a miserable and spoiled wish.

Love, Allison

December 20, 2007

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season! I tried to send out text messages so hopefully at least of a few of you got them! All I have to say is that I hope 2008 is as interesting, if not more than 2007 was (and that it passes quickly? Can I say that?).

This e-mail is from a few days before Christmas, hence the dating, and tells just à little funny story about something I wish I could say didn’t happen to often, but then I would be lying. I hope you enjoy reading this as much I enjoy knowing my “meetings” are at least 50times more exciting than your real-life job ones are!

AMERICAN AMBASSADOR IN HOUEDOGLI

Last Friday a few of my peace corps buddies and I all met up in a town called Houedogli (pronounced whuh-doh-glee) to celebrate the opening of a few new buildings that house the tools and equipment the town’s women’s group uses in their composting business. A former volunteer in a nearby village had written the grant to the US Embassy for the funding. Astonishingly, however, Peace Corps wasn’t officially invited by the Ambassador’s office, hmm… we found out and showed up anyway (we always find the free sodas and snacks), and I must say I am glad we did.

Undecided on when the actual ceremony was Liz and I finally were able to agree on 10:30 when Aaron came by the house on his bike. He continued on his bike while Liz and I went to argue with zems for prices to get a ride. We arrived at around 10:45 and the women were already singing and banging their metal plates together. At least one hundred kids were surrounding the awkward seating arrangement that had been placed, not very strategically for viewing purposes, underneath a huge, hollow tree in the center of town. We joined Aaron and Sheena (an Environment volunteer posted in Klouekanmey) and took our places off to the side, but still under the shade, on a nice bench in full frontal view of everyone.

We sat and waited. We waited and sat. Sat we did while Kantos, the organizer and former political prisoner, arranged and rearranged the hundred or so school children and elderly along the road to our sitting station. First all in a circle, then two rows alongside the road, then move back into a semicircle with all the goods on display and finally, with the American flag hung haphazardly and almost forbiddingly upside down in the big tree, back into two flanking lines. We sat and enjoyed, then slowly fumed inside. She was the AMERICAN Ambassador – there is no excuse for being more than two hours late, even if she is “bien integre”. Finally came our turn to be rearranged because we just weren’t quite enough in view. Benches are terribly uncomfortable, but they are a lot more comfortable when you can slouch out of sight in stead of the rigid-backed chairs to which we were then forcefully relocated. Finally, with the women singing, the children staring at us in two lines, the men confused and unanimated, the cameras in full view-blocking position, the paper table cloth taped down and the flags all hung – full pomp set – and the motorcade began. Three Landcruisers glided through the display of pride and attention to detail as through a rural backroad in Africa, which it was, but they could have tried to be enthusiastic in their entrance.

After all the minions and go-fers were seated the boring speeches commenced. For every Beninese event there is a required MC (sometimes more than one, which just infuriates the average electronically-aware all the more) who cracks terrible jokes in all sorts of different languages for the crowd’s multiplicity. I’ll spare you the actual dialogue I memorized but just imagine each and every speaker (and everyone sitting at the table is considered a speaker whether they’re the chauffeur or the Captain of the Gendarme) beginning with an introduction of his person and then a thank you of every single other person at the table and a generalized thank you to all of us in the audience. This means you hear “Madame Representant des Etats-Unis de l’Amerique” at least five times and tack on the long-winded titles of all the others at the table and you have a very long commencement to sit through. By the time it was the Ambassador’s turn to speak I was doubled over in my torture chair ready to fall face-first into the red dirt below. I had forgotten, luckily, the ceremonial drive-by shooting the Beninese love so much. I hear it every weekend for the funeral processions, but I had never imagined they would do one here, right next to all of us under that great big tree. And such randomness! Instead of waiting for the ending with a flourish, they would shoot of these loud bombs right in the middle of someone’s speech and no matter how many times you tell yourself ‘it’s coming, don’t jump’ the uncertainty of when and the sheer power of the blast caused me to jump every single time. I don’t know how the speakers last through it all.

Finally, FINALLY! The Ambassador was done speaking (her speech required a separate translator after every single line so I’m pretty sure no one got the message) and the microphone was passed on to some dude on her left. At approximately three lines into his introduction a gift from God fell from the skies. Well, rather, it was a rotten apple that came crashing down from that glorious tree and right onto the table directly in front of the Ambassador. Now, it was just an ordinary rotten apple right? Given up on life in the tree and ready to rest down below, but from the reaction of the crowd and Kantos you would have imagined it was both the most humiliating and terrifying event to ever take place in this town – as if someone had attempted to assassinate the Ambassador with an apple! Inspired! No one saw it coming! But alas, the mark was missed. Kantos seized the microphone and poured his apologizes and explanations through it and out to the Ambassador and her cronies. We Peace Corps, the uninvited, were laughing riotously. How silly – it was an apple, Kantos! It’s cool!! But he was mortified. Such is the lot of life I imagine when a very important person comes to your town and almost gets slimed by rotting produce under your prized town tree.

The excitement finally died down, sadly, and the “entertainment” commenced. Entertainment here is iffy – sometimes highly exciting, sometimes you would have rather stayed home and finished watching that spider eat that fly. In this case it was the latter. The groups of women starting banging on their metal plates and while we at least found one song entertaining they just had to start the dancing ritual instead. It goes something like this: a few women start dancing, their arms pumping back and forth as if trying to touch elbows behind their back, while they crouch lower and lower and stick their head and butt out as far as possible. After a few of them are going on like this, they seek out the whiteys to humiliate as well. They love to watch us try to dance and hold no scruples when it comes to pointing and laughing at our attempts. So Aaron and Sheena, good sports, “volunteer” (that is, it only took a few minutes of one woman goading to get them going) and start the ridicule. Liz took a bit more persuasion but the she-man singing group ringleader (I think she must have played for the Monarchs in another life) got the better of her and Liz, too, abandoned ship into the sea of self-deprecating laughter. I proved a much harder nut to crack. I was tired, sweaty, and angry at the waste of my life this morning had become and was in no mood for my ridiculous dancing to be televised and replayed for all of Adjaland’s participation in the laughter. No sir, it would take nothing short of a purple miracle bunny, giant Cyclops or a midget dressed in tribal wear with troll-hair to get me out there dancing with the rest. Oh but wait, they had one! Who told them?! No sooner had I resigned myself to maintaining my dignity just this once when a little person presented herself to my left, begging and pleading that I join, promising that if I joined so too would she. Whereas normally (as most of you know) that would have sent me running back to America immediately, here I was intrigued and feeling somewhat more consensual to her demands. What?! So there I went, dancing with a midget under a rotten-apple killer tree with the Ambassador of the United States giving me a limp-wristed congratulations handshake on my wicked elbow touching dance moves. Yes, I could safely say there is never a dull moment here, except when you count the ones where I’m awake.

The List:

Beef Jerky

Dried Fruits (Cranberries, Apricots?, and Blueberries are my favorites here)

Jell-o Pudding mixes

Brownie Mixes

Cliff Bars

Earl Grey/Lady Grey Teas

Apple Cider

Good Hot Chocolate!!!

I apologize in advance for this e-mail. I don't know when I am going to get to the internet next so I wanted to get this out before it became irrelevant. P.S. It's extremely sappy and was written while still intoxicated by too much weird food and and intense missing of family and friends. If you want to skip the corn (as in, corny) I suggest not reading the last paragraph which is mainly addressed for those aforementioned friends and family. Other bits are kind of funny, full of poignant self-discovery and just fact-filled story telling for those with enough curiosity to want to read it. Let me tell you about my Thanksgiving. In the morning I prepared a sweet potato casserole; two actually, because I didn't know how much one and half kilos of sweet potatoes really was. I pressed some coffee (the addiction that no ocean nor disparity of national incomes could kill) and spent two hours going through the motions of figuring how just how to mash a kilo and a half of sweet potatoes with just one dinky African-made fork and how to do all the measurements with no actual measuring cups or spoons. Then came the elusive oven temperature game. I have a big pot with some old tuna cans and a bunch of sand at the bottom that has been used for so long the lid is warped and it about as effective as an oven that constantly has its door ajar, no rack and no temperature gauge would be – which is to say, not very. Despite all that messing around I had time to spare (I woke up around 7am to get started and boiled the potatoes the night before to save time) and so I took a zem to Aplahoué to pick up some packages that awaited me. I figured that since the post office opened at 8:00am I would have a chance it was open by the time I got there at 9:30am. I was wrong. The doors were shut and locked and there was no note on the door. As I was fuming, baffled at how a servant of the public could so consistently cease to be present during the known hours of the bureau's operation, a man walked around the corner, saw the door shut, gave a barely perceivable shrug of the shoulders and turned to walk away. I could not stand the apathy; the acceptance(?) that this was just the way things worked and that businesses and consumers could not rely upon their government offices to be open during consistently scheduled hours. I was furious. I know what the Peace Corps preaches: if it ain't broke, don't fix it, but this was too much. In retrospect, I shouldn't have accosted him and yelled at the ladies across the street with questions about why the Beninese were so accepting of these unreliabilities? In retrospect, I should have taken note of how calm and composed and unaffected he was. The building was closed. There was nothing he could change about that, so why pitch a fit – my method of dealing with it. In retrospect, perhaps my way of dealing with the world is not the best; why did I think it was better to encourage the passerby to become angry at the situation instead of turning it around and taking a lesson from him that I can't change what was taking place and allowing myself to become upset because of it, as powerful as I imagine I can be, wasn't going to magically open the bureau. So it was a visionary moment for me; which are fortunately becoming increasingly more frequent. I was still angry, however, that I had paid 300 francs to basically go on a little morning joyride; but, it was a nice ride although perhaps not worth the 300f. Maybe worth 150f, but certainly not 300f. I will never be complacent about wasting money. I returned to my house and then packed for my trip to Lobogo. Aaron and Tom showed up and we sat around for a period of time after which we finally set off for our Thanksgiving in Bennyland. The taxi ride was insignificant though I did get in a great shouting match with the chauffeur concerning the suffocation of his passengers in back. (a little aside: contrary to what this e-mail might imply, I don't spend my days screaming and becoming angry with people, but I do quite frequently have heated discussions with certain classes of people such as marché mamas, chauffeurs and zemidjans: a practice which is not only an acceptable form of discussion in Adja-land, but is encouraged by many and even applauded when performed by a white female – very entertaining to boot). Upon arrival in Zoungbonou (remember this from the last time?) we sought out some decent motorbikes for the long journey through red dirt. It took some persuading but finally my zem driver agreed that 700f was an acceptable price to pay; which then took another 20 minutes of convincing for the other two zem driver and the four others who weren't driving but came over to argue anyway. At one point a zem driver told me that because I was white I should be paying the higher price to which I wagged a very serious "no, no, no" finger and chased him back to his perch where the rest of the zemi drivers were laughing hysterically. That was the end of that discussion and we all took off in a cloud of red dust. Not quite the "Mod Squad" but enough so that I felt cool when I put my Ray Bans back on. We arrived at Ryan's house just in time for the final moments of our dinners' lives. In a strange flourish of protest my zem driver refused to give me back the correct change and instead only gave me 200f for my 1000f bill – evidently he was not okay with our price. I extracted the remaining 100f without violence, I'm not saying I didn't threaten, and went to the side of the house where the first chicken had already met its demise. Ryan had purchased two chickens and two pintards for the princely sum of 16mille francs. I have to admit, I always sort of knew what it meant to run around like a chicken with its head cut off, but I had never really before witnessed this expression in action. Thanks to Africa, I am no longer a stranger to chicken death but normally it is done with a firm grip on the chicken and a slow, methodic cutting and draining. Ryan, however, preferred the more dramatic exit and used a machete and not so much gripping as grasping (I'll leave you to decipher what I mean by differentiating the two). Tom held the chicken down, but that was pointless. No sooner had the machete blade made contact with the earth on the other side of the chicken's neck than Tom's hand came up to protect his face from the flailing, flying, cartwheeling headless chicken. I mean, this thing took off into the sky – without a head!! It was awesome. Truly something to experience. I sincerely suggest every one of you either kill a chicken in this manner yourself, but if not at least watch another brave soul perform the act (you all have the Discovery Channel right?). If I ever ran around like that I would be extremely fit and will forever more consider it the highest compliment should someone tell me that I resemble this fantastic display of agility, athletic talent and determination to persist after death. So we killed all the chickens and the pintards (well, I watched with Liz and Aaron and Jesse) and all stood around in a huddle while Ryan and Tom disemboweled the meal. It was fascinating and there were lots of oohs and aahs and ugghs coming from the white people in the huddle while the other 85% of the huddle were strangely calm and unresponsive; they'd seen this all before, in fact, just the night before. We all came inside and watched the football games I had been sent (THANK YOU!) and it was almost like real Thanksgiving. After we watched the Bears come back in a slightly shocking victory over the Packers (yea, I'm pretty far behind) we all went out to the local bar: The Bel Air. On the way we stopped to visit Ryan's garden which was completley destroyed during his visit up north for four weeks. They tore down his palm branch wall; tore up his lettuce plants; ripped through his bean teepee and even dug up from the ground the basine he was using for a water hold. It was like visiting a vegetable cemetery that was victim to a very serious grave robbing. Very depressing and disheartening. I hope the same fate does not befall my garden; but his is hidden back into a forest-type area and mine is right on the road so should any little pagailleurs pagaille my garden they wil be witnessed and either stopped or turned in for punishment when I return. At the bar we finally got down to some Thanksgiving business with some beers and football. Half the town showed up to play catch with us as we sat around and soaked up the fading sunlight. It was picturesque and magical; I got to speak to some family and it was a bittersweet moment. Here I was, sitting in rickety plastic chairs at a rusted off-centered table basking in the oncoming twilight with some of friends, drinking some mediocre $1 beer and watching as thirty Africans ranging in age from 2 to 45 cried out "Ici! Ici!" (Here! Here!) for the ball and laughed as they missed and threw back awkwardly. Some of them were really good and I wondered if they had practiced before with some former volunteers' ball or if there really existed a genetic predisposition to incredible football skills. The world may never know; or at least I'll leave it to some curious health volunteer with an obsession with gene traits. After all the excitement finally came the eating. I'm used to the early Thanksgiving dinner where the food starts around 12 and you proceed to simultaneously digest while ingesting more and more throughout the day and probably finish up around 9:30pm; about the time we here sat down to a dinner of banana bread, popcorn, potato wedges, market bread, casserole and fried chicken/pintard with spicy barbejus (pronounced "Barbie Jew"). SHOCKINGLY the casseroles came out fairly well; especially considering I was missing one ingredient and added another. I can't say it was the best Thanksgiving I've ever had, but I can say with certainty it wasn't as bad as I had expected and could have been a lot worse considering the circumstances. I am thankful to have the courage and support of friends and family to come to Africa and have it all the same. Thank you all for reading these. It gives me a bit of purpose in writing them to know I have a bit of an audience. I hope the holiday season finds you all well and in good spirits. It really can be much worse so please look around at your wealth of family, friends and comforts and know that you are truly blessed just to be born an American.I'm done preaching. I just wanted to write that I am thankful for knowing every one of you.

I apologize in advance for this e-mail. I have been wanting to write it for a while, but life has actually been picking up in terms of work. I am also still digesting from our makeshift Thanksgiving last week (one down, one to go). I had to write about that one in a separate e-mail, though. This one was hard enough and I know bombarding your inboxes with these huge files gets tedious. So open each at your leisure and just enjoy. There won't be a test, I promise. Luckily for you all, I fear I'm sinking into the hole where nothing is new anymore and I forget to tell you guys about the interesting things that happen in everyday life. Perhaps this will result in my being less of a prolific correspondent. For some of you, I apologize. If there are specific things you would like to know about, don't hesitate to ask; perhaps there are different things here to which I have already grown accustomed and don't bother to mention to you.

For Early Service training we went right back up to Natitingou. It was another 7 hour ride of joyous fun and delightment. Going to the "bus depot" in Bohicon is always a trip as it requires you to jump up at the first sight of a bus (usually anywhere from 20-200 minutes late) and run to snag the empty seats that may or may not exist on said bus. To accomplish this task, however, you must run across the red terrain lot, barge through the vendors with heavy lids of crap on their heads, shove and shoulder out the other potential riders then finally grab the attention and plead convincingly with the maitress charged with managing the passenger load and fares to land yourself a spot.

In this particular instance (and the reason I prefer to not travel in groups – any more than two travelers and the difficulty of your voyage increases exponentially with each addition) there were only three empty seats and we were four (with a fifth on the road up ahead). We (I) pleaded with the woman to let us board as four and we could share one seat and she acquiesed, begrudgingly. Much to the chagrin of another gentleman who legitimately held a reservation but from whom we stole an empty seat nonetheless. The result of which being that I was sitting cheek to cheek with Sebastian and a little African boy who looked as though he had been in situations more comfortable than he was in now pressed up against the side of a bus, but had also been punished worse enough to know better than to say so. Three older French people also managed to persuade their way onto the bus and so the styrofoam luggage had to go under (where it belonged anyway); although it took some manouevering around the foot of a gendarme agent who refused to budge (although I can't say I understood his protests unless he didn't want white people sitting at the back of his bus) and carried the big gun to validate his protest.

The trip itself was relatively uneventful. I scared the crap out of this little girl by my whiteness and we stopped in a few random towns for food and snacks. When we arrived in Nati, it was raining and that sucked, but we got to the hotel without problems and had air conditioning in our rooms (though it was raining, you still want the air conditioner – that humidity)! There isn't really much else to say except we ate really well (the $8 pizza photo), stayed up really late, and drank expensive Nescafe freeze dried coffee (it took us two hours to get the price down from $2 to a little over $1 – it's insane to think of paying Starbucks' prices for worse than 7-11 flavor!). I left Nati as the person in charge of updating the formation binder for the next stage of volunteers coming July 4th (yea, sucks for them!) and being the official contact on radio programs. I'm loving having some new responsibility once again with which to occupy my excessive free time.

CHUTES IN TANGUIETA

After our stint in Nati was over, a group of us took off on in a taxi up through the beautiful hillsides of northwestern Benin. It looked like California, but I think that about everyplace I visit. The only difference was the little roadside stops were red, straw-roofed huts and little naked black children and goats ran along side the highway. This was a new Benin for me and I was thrilled to be viewing some different terrain than what I normally see in the south.

We went up to Tanguieta where another volutneer, Mike, lives in a neat little concession complete with with a grave, memorial and the first full latrine I have seen in-country. (All they do is tear down the surrounding walls and move them to where they have dug up another pit latrine. Sometimes they'll cover the old latrine hole with cement, but was not in this instance what they chose to do). We spent the first night just hanging out and seeing the town – which is right in the hills and is quite charming! They did controlled burning on the hillsides that was eerily beautiful to watch as we ate our street meat and beans and rice while the sky behind the hill was lit up orange and blue.

The next morning we set out for the waterfalls; each of us on the back of a moto to traverse the 40km trip of red dirt and burning sunny hillside. My moto broke down at one point and we had to walk a distance (his spark plug gave out). We finally got it going again, just in time to head up to the town of Tanagou which is just as picturesque as all get-out. Here we waited and waited and waited for the volunteer posted there and her friend to get out of their hut and come up the last little way with us. Emily is the health volunteer used to living out in the bush; the place where no zemidjans go. Sweet girl. While we were waiting, Emma's driver dropped his moto on his foot and we had a bit of an emergency. Luckily, we always have a little bit of a med kit on us and we patched him right up – but then he left his bloody rag on the ground and I had to scold him for being an idiot (and how is AIDS spread?).

We finally made it up to the waterfalls and had a little hike in through some beautiful rivers and streams and some really stinky mud pits that were hard to avoid slipping into. The biggest fall (there are a couple on the way up) is beautiful and the brackish water below has been approved by decades of volunteers for swimming so we all dove in without hesitation while our moto drivers watched (they're afraid of water and aren't really known for their swimming abilities). Nearby was a cave full of bats where we spent some time just hanging out... very cool to say you hang out in a cave, toxic guano or otherwise.

To get to top of the fall itself you have to scale the wall, hoist yourself up using vines well-rooted into the rock for leverage and them climb and shimmy your way through cracks in the wall up to the top. Basically, once you've already reached the summit, you have to jump off because there is no safer way of getting down. Now if you really know me you know that I'm absolutely the worst at guessing heights and distances, weights and childrens' ages, but I would say this fall is about 45 feet high (take with a pound of salt). We got up there and it was far enough to really make you shake in your booties; a very impressive height. Far enough of a distance to hurt my feet when I hit water – the second one to jump – even though they were pointed, far enough to hurt the inside of my legs for two days. It was much higher than I remember being the Spanish Flats at Lake Berryessa or the rocks of our youth at D.L. Bliss. Those didn't hurt when I hit the water. And I got off easy; you should see the other guy! We spent the day swimming and lolligaggin around afterwards and I wish I had the photos to prove it, but alas, I have no camera and my friends are in other towns. One fine, random day you'll see a blur in some water and that's me at the falls; don't doubt it. I was hideously ill on the bus the next day so I'm going to chalk that up to being in water that was neither boiled nor filtered. But it was fun!! Took some of the heat off, too.

CORRESPONDANCE CLUB

This week marked the first of our (Jordan's and my) Club de Correspondance. Kids from both the "quatrieme" and "cinqieme" levels (equivalent to seventh and eighth grade) of CEG (General Learning School) come to the club on Tuesdays or Wednesdays and we help them write letters in English to American students. There is a lady in Georgia (the state, not the former Soviet country) that helped Amanda and Erin (the two volunteers we replaced in Azovè) do the same club and she agreed to help us this year so we gather up all the letters and send them off all together for her to distribute once they reach those shining shores of U.S.A.

You show up to the school and immediately children (I use the term loosely as some of these kids are 17 or 18 years old) swarm to ask you questions in poor English (American standards); trying to pry your bike away and walk it for you while messing with your gears (most often there are at least two doing this, one at each handle); trying to tell you where the class is but no one really knows because the classroom is decided upon the moment you are so fortunate as to find one that is not currently being used by someone else. An order of use is in existence, although its efficiency and efficacy are questionable, so Jordan and I are forced to hunt for classrooms each meeting.

Finally finding the classroom and all the students (yes, that comes next, they all arrive from other parts of the school grounds; some of them never make it), we commence with correcting and reading the letters they, hopefully, have all prepared and written beforehand. This itself is quite a challenge as they are all so eager to sit next to a white person (a girl especially) that they yell, scream and crowd around as you attempt, in vain, to listen to the soft-spoken girl sitting next to you who is trying so hard to pronounce "How" instead of "oh" that beads of sweat are forming on her brow. That sweat also might just be because for that brief moment she has lapsed in her Africanness from as a result of being in such a proximity to me that my whiteness rubbed off – I sweat profusely and incessantly here, and not just beads of sweat but entire necklaces and back rivers. Let's just say it requires no less than three showers a day to feel adequately free of dirt and debris from just existing here; but that's another story for another time and another audience.

So we are writing letters; rather, I'm trying really hard to focus on what the kid next to me is trying to say (they all pretty much write the same letter), while everyone else is circled up in a hideously close range to my face breathing answers (correct and otherwise) down our necks while we try to work. Some of the students are really pretty good and have a strong command of whatever type of English it is they are learning (it's not really "American" english, not quite British, either – it is the special breed of African English that is so unique to this area of the world, the .. um.. African area). One such pupil is named Josh (a.k.a Marus) and wrote a quite impressive missive about the merits of tackle football (he could take out his aggression on people when he is angry) and how his favorite music is hip-hop. Everything about him said he would fit in quite well in America. I just couldn't get past the purple John Lennon shades he was sporting. Undoubtedly, he was the teacher's pet and the coolest kid in school. Which is funny because thinking back on it, no one is really "cool" here. You just are who you are. No one can really afford nice clothes or a car or go out to fancy restaurants to eat. In fact, many people can't afford to go to public school – yes, that's right, the kids at the public school where we are doing our letter club have to pay for their tuition and then they have to pay for their books. If you think about it, we do, too, but in the form of taxes and because there is no feasible way to tax people (their roads don't have names let alone everyone possessing mailboxes or house numbers) continuing education in a "public" school requires cash money and so only those who are wealthy enough may attend. More on the schooling system another time, I really just wanted to tell you about Josh. The kid was hilarious. He literally wrote "My favorite sport is tackle football because I can take out my aggressions when I am angry." I'm pretty sure if a kid in the States wrote that Mrs. So-and-So would send him to a counselor to talk about anger management issues. Another pupil, one of the many princes of Azovè (yes, son of the king of Azovè), asked his American counterpart if he would send some tennis shoes like the ones he wants to wear because he likes hip hop and wears "big clothes" - literally – but in French that means something that Americans would never understand, and we don't like them asking for money or things and so I had to delete half of his letter. Including the beginning part where he mentions that all of his uncles are dead and that he misses his brother who died in 1997. I suggested he wait a few exchanges before diving into that pool of sorrow – he didn't quite understand why (Africans throw huge parties instead of funerals and no one cries when someone dies), but agreed.

Another week and another two days of reading the most ridiculous stuff you can imagine and trying to explain how "having the exchanges with you" doesn't really translate into English.

I hope you are still enjoying these e-mails as much as I enjoy writing them. I hope just as fervently that I continue be a studious observor and manage to share these interesting things with you.

The list of goods that keep a volunteer happy:

NEW STUFF:

Granola!! (Been craving it; used to eating it every day and I don't have the energy to make it myself)

THE USUALS:

Peanut Butter

Parmesan Cheese

Brownie/Cake mixes (boxed ones put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)

Dried Apricots, Craisins and Raisins

Cliff/Luna Bars

Drink Powders

Yoga/Pilates/Tae Bo & exercise CDs (like those cool dance in your house music ones!)

Jell-o and Jell-o Puddings powders!!!

Trail Mix/Nuts in general(we have peanuts here)/Sunflower Seeds

Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets, Marinades, etc.

Kraft Mac&Cheese Powder (put in baggies; these explode!)

Makeup/Perfume samples

T-shirts and Tank Tops (crappier is better so I don't feel guilty when I ruin them with my "spin" cycle)

Earrings (nickel-free)

Good Hot Chocolates

Good Football and Soccer ball!!!!! (great way to meet kids)

Face wash/acne stuff *(St. Ives Apricot Scrub is nice)

Any good new reads you've finished (in softback)

Mixed MP3 cds

Letters/Photos from you

Check out the Amazon.com wishlist

Allison Henderson

B.P. 126

Azovè, Benin

Afrique de l'Ouest

Par Avion

Send it in a padded envelope with anything that could explode (including bags of candy) stuffed in separate plastic baggies. When you fill out the customs forms be sure to put that there is absolutely no value to what you are sending (it's just a little white lie to the man so I don't have to pay more to pick it up). Say it's bibles or books or something educational – nothing you would actually send - and the value is $10 or less; that should get to me just fine.

THANK YOU!!

I hope you all enjoyed the last two e-mails. Traveling up and down the country is pretty exhausting but I should be a profesional at it by the time you get here to visit – you are coming to visit right? Sure. So I know that I mentioned in the October 29 e-mail that I went to Gran Popo again for Jordan's birthday but as it would turn out I got a bout of tummy tumblies (whatever that is – but it doesn't feel, or smell, very good) so I pretty much did a speedy shopping trip at the markets and barely got out of Cotonou before the sun set – really late and really bad. The taxi driver refused to take me all the way to Azovè so I had to get out in Lokossa and find another driver. On the way to Azovè from Lokossa it started to rain pretty hard (it's about 10pm at this point) so I was pretty nervous and quite exhausted from waking up at 6am to get on the bus, having only a breadstick and an orange to eat all day and a stomach that did flip flops in both directions while producing burps that taste like eggs. The final leg proved, unfortunately, but expectantly, no easier. There were two accidents on the road.

Accidents here in Benin are handled in rather a different manner than back home. We are in a developing country and therefore many things are.. ahem, developing. A good example of one such thing is the lack of emergency response crews. At the site of the first accident was a good example of just such a need not being met. The rain had given up just a little bit and I was asleep in the middle of the two front seats (if you thought I could sleep just about anytime, anywhere before wait till you see me now) when the car began to slow drastically. I look up and untangle my legs from around the stick shift just in time for the driver to slam on his brakes and shift into first gear. There were the tell tale signs of a problem up ahead; clumps of tall grass ripped up from the side of the road placed in the middle of the street; Beninese Road Flares. A man twitching and writhing in pain was on the pavement with female and youth bystanders a good four feet off the road on the shoulder watching; no one was helping the man or moving him from the middle of the road. Another group of four or five men who had pulled their zemis and taxis off the road to help were working together to push the car that had driven off the road and into the bush back to where it belonged. My driver also stopped, despite the woman in the backseat's protests. He leapt out and the rain again began to beat down; all the 'helpers' scrambled back into their vehicles. Some of them even took off into the rainy night. The rain passed within a minute and my driver was back out the door for another 20 minutes of pushing and shoving to get this car back onto the road. Once that feat was accomplished all the good samaritans got back on their motorcycles and into their cars and took off; for all I know, the man is still on the ground bleeding to death internally. Each time I asked what was going on (while everyone was conversing animatedly in Fon) I was given an only slightly annoyed response of "there was an accident," and "the man would have been put in the car, but the car was in the bush so we had to get the car out." They never did say that now the car was out they were going to take him to the hospital. Less than 10km away was a 24 hour hospital from which I never saw an emergency vehicle emerge. Needless to say, I fear for my life daily, if only because of the apathy that would follow should such a meaningless and likely accident occur.

The second accident was in Jack City; less than 10km away from my house. It was a motorcycle on its side with four men standing over it waving along traffic with a flashlight. Again, the grass clump flares were present, but this time no body. I could only hope that meant he was well enough to hobble himself home. Rainy nights make these terrible drivers worse. I got home safely at the UNGODLY hour of 11:30pm to the messiest state in which my house has ever found itself. Too tired to function I could barely toss out the molding milk congealing in my disfunctional mini fridge before passing out from the week's adventures (you'll read about in the Nov. 16 e-mail).

(From October 28 Continued...)

TRAVELING MIRACLE CURES

Riding back on the bus with Shekina was a trip, literally (yuk, yuk). The announcements began right after leaving Dassa and didn't end until Bohicon; if even then, that's just where I got off the bus. Rubbing my eyes and ears in disblief I almost imagined I was back in the Paris metro except, after several minutes and no arrival of the subway police to escort him off, he kept going even despite my please of "SHUTUP!" What began as a harmless enough 'informercial' – travel promotion on Shekina bus lines this weekend – turned into a three hour HSN for the poor. The man with next to the most annoying voice I can remember was selling "cure-alls" and "season-alls" for people who don't even have enough money to cure a ham or season their fried mantioc flour balls. At first I was annoyed; then infuriated as I saw people who clearly did not have the funds for this squander their money on schemes. Literally, with one paste that smelled particularly of menthal anise, he claimed curative powers from everything from Cancer to Impotency (that's a Beninese favorite; as if repopulation was a real nation-wide concern). I supressed my urge to get up and slap the third bottle of clear liquid that claimed to cure Diabetes out of his hand and instead shouted "ARE YOU GOING TO TALK THE ENTIRE TIME!?" in French. I don't think the Beninese are used to people speaking their mind – more on Beninese complacency (something that I believe is a widespread plague in most developing countries) when I have enough time and less of a headache to give it its full due – and my neighbor just stared in disbelief for a few moments before smiling awkwardly in nonresponse. I got no solidarity in this country. But, that was response enough... the orator didn't even blink in my direction. He was on a mission to sell as many vials of vile lies as possible on our trip. I just tried to close my eyes and think of a world where taking advantage of people wasn't so commonplace. It didn't come easily. At least he was enterprising and trying to make a buck, even at the expense of his fellow man, and that is truly just that kind of ingenuity that we need here in Benin. Perhaps a better start would be with designing better buildings or different kinds of furniture or growing a variety of vegetables and perhaps not all selling tomatoes right next to each other in the marché or painting in the same style for everything. But we'll get there eventually. Really could have used the Metro police that time, though. At least he didn't have an electric accordian to do a jingle for his 'medicines'.

BENINESE CELL PHONE POLICY

She cracked open and ate peanuts like a hippo does ballet (the Nutcracker, perhaps?). Her chubby, greasy hand diving in and retrieving fistful after fistful of the boiled goodies; cracking then shucking, shells flying in a 360 degree ring around her person then a forceful sucking of the meat from shell. She clicked and clacked her teeth clean in front of all of us without scruples. Then her cell phone rang, she answered and politely stepped approximately one foot away from the head table – screaming responses into the receiver continuously while the President of the artisan's association sat futilely attempting to continue his own oration on the meetings he had with the federal bureau earlier this month concerning their expectations of the artisans at the communal level. Her phone conversation continued throughout his initial statements and proceeded into the bulk of the question and answer session. I stared in disbelief and my friend, the soldeur (my "soldier") Jonsi who works in front of my house, translated for me and then pleaded with the "Organisator" of the assocation to ask her to get off the phone. The Organisator (I guess that is akin to our "Secretary") declined to interrupt Madame Treasurer to ask her to continue her phone conversation perhaps not in the vincinty of a meeting already in progress. Or at least not at the head table, next to the main speaker, in front of the audience. The phone call ended and we were again able to focus on the President's words. But not for long, her phone rang again and this time she didn't go through the trouble of getting up and leaving the President's side to speak.

After this second phone call ended she began to play Jenga tower games with her one, two, three, four cell phones then laid them out like soldiers of fortune to display her fonctionnaire (like "white collar") wealth to us all. She slid forward in her plastic chair and leaned back into a more comfortable position; which freed her legs to perform a butterfly movement – in and out, airing out her crotch under the table in view of us all. This was perfectly hilarious enough; but it got better. After all that eating, talking, prespiration and subsequent airing ritual the poor woman was so tuckered out she just fell asleep right at the head table in the middle of the meeting – head resting on her right palm, her manners just to the left, on the floor below. I mean, I was tired, but I stayed awake through time-tested practices I had learned at university, but I suppose we can't all be so fortunate to sit through four years of academic lectures learning how to stay awake despite all boredom and partying the night before acting to the contrary.

Cell phone culture in this country is unlike anything I have ever before witnessed and I can only hope I do not pick up any bad habits to accompany into meetings I may have at home after this is all over. Anyone at anytime can answer any phone ring and then carry out a conversation; whether in the audience or actually speaking to a group, it doesn't matter. Even worse is when they don't (I still haven't figure out how this is possible, but it happens a good 70% of the time) recognize their own ring and allow it to bleat out for several moments of agony. Some argue this is a function of their sharing culture and that in fact they are allowing us all to notice they have a cell phone and it rings a pretty ring we can all listen to and share and enjoy equally. Do you think many Americans would agree with this? Yea, I don't think so either. Adding insult to injury, they have the absolute WORST choice in ringtones and I have been snapped into nostalgia on more than one occasion when I hear "Jingle Bells" on someone's cell phone they have neglected to put on vibrate and cannot seem to recognize in time to answer. Receiving calls from a Beninese person is just as perplexing an ordeal. They have a habit of "beeping" you, which is to say they call and let it ring once so you see they called but don't actually waste their own credits speaking to you and instead wait for you to return their call and spend your own credit to converse with them. Enterprising, I know, but annoying nonetheless. They have a knack for finding that fine line.

Health is doing better after two days of sitting on my butt with my new love: West Wing. I only have seasons six and seven (and only five or six episodes from each) that I have been watching over and over. They are just so witty and fast I catch something new each time. I could see myself on Capitol Hill and the more and more I sit here in the dark in Africa and think about it, the more and more I feel I just might make a move to get there (let's be real, I'd move anywhere else after this). But, we'll see.. I have two years to continuously change my mind based on television series – anyone seen Weeds yet? Now that's an idea!

THE LIST again (just think of it as a repayment for all these fascinating, scintillating glimpses into the secret world of a PCV; it's either a package every now and then or your first born child in a few years):

New Stuff:

Pocket Thesaurus

Parmesan cheese

Bacon Bits

File Folders (just need a couple and I haven't found any yet here)

Sticky Notes (the thin, colored strips)

I could use a couple more Bandanas (thanks T&Sam!!) they come in handy for lots of things here!!

The Usuals:

Brownie/Cake mixes (boxed ones take out and put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)

Dried Apricots, Craisins and Raisins

Idahoan Potato Packs

Sports/Energy Bars

Drink Powders

Yoga/Pilates/Exercise cds

M&Ms

Reese's

Red Vines

Jell-o and Jell-o Puddings

Peanut Butter

Trail Mix/Nuts in general

Thai Curry Pastes

Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets – marinades, etc

Kraft Mac&Cheese powder (leave the pasta at home and be sure to put in baggies!!! These explode)

Makeup/Perfume samples

Cheap Target-like Earrings (nickel-free)

Good soccer ball!!!!

Acne/Face Stuff

Any good new reads you've finished (in softback)

Mixed MP3 cds

Letters from you! It's fun to get mail in general and I get to e-mail about as often as it takes a letter to get here so if you're feeling Victorian I would love to have a letter from you with some thoughts, funny stories, photos, whatever; and it costs about $1 to mail so don't be cheap with the emotions okay – Bogarting is not cool no matter what the hoarde.

Allison Henderson

B.P. 126

Azovè, Benin

Afrique de l'Ouest

Par Avion

Send it in a padded envelope (put some religious stuff on it, I guess it helps? Not really sure) and usually it is a good idea to send the stuff in separate Ziploc bags (in case of any explosion accidents). When you fill out the customs forms be sure to put that there is absolutely no value to what you are sending (it's just a little white lie to the man so I don't have to pay more to pick it up). Say it's bibles or books or something educational and the value is less than $10; that should get to me just fine.

THANK YOU!!

This e-mail from my first trip up North on my birthday. I went to go experience a coming-of-age ritual that takes place once a year on the full moon at the end of the month of October where boys whip each other. Yes, read on for more. Pictures will come the next time I have internet.

Thank you to all of you who have been sending me great e-mails with stories and tales of what is happening back at home. Time just seems to be at hyperspeed here with new adventures every single day so it's nice to remain a little in touch with what else is going on outside my little “cultural exchange” bubble. It's so easy to get wrapped up in life here that you forget the world outside; it's really easy to see how most Beninese can be so consumed with their own lives and so moated from world events that they remain, for the most part, clueless on what's going on outside of West Africa or Benin or even their own little village. Many families are lucky just to have a radio spouting out local information let alone know someone who has a television where, if they happen to be one of the rare ones that care enough, they can watch the news – that is, if the signal is coming in and there is audio with the pictures, but it's mostly Beninese news anyway, not much in the way of world events. Long story short, thanks for bringing me little pieces of home when you can.

WHIPPING FETE IN BADJOUDE

I took my sweet time heading out of town on Thursday morning. I had already missed the bus in Bohicon so I knew what awaited me; the seek and destroy mission of the taxi cab I was going to have to find and discuter with to get me to Djougou in time to catch another taxi out to Badjoude. So when my traveling partner, Liz, and I finally roused ourselves out of the house it was a relief that we got such a decent price out to Bohicon (only 1500F after twenty minutes of arguing over the price and much rejection of the least comfortable motos – it's a good 40km+ trip you don't want to take on a bad moto, a.k.a. “Mate”). Once we got to Bohicon an hour later there was the expected frantic search for a taxi. Usually, someone will see you walking with a large bag on your back and lead you to someone waiting to fill a taxi. We argued for the good price of 6000F (they began at 8000F ) and then sat around and waited while the driver attempted to fill up the rest of the car – although they'll always tell you they're ready to go that is usually the case only 10% of the time. Luckily, another car full of northern Beninese (Muslims) was coming back up from Cotonou and we fit perfectly into the front seat of their full trip to North. We got sold off to that car and started our voyage only two hours after we left the house (that's good!). It was also a straight shot up to Djougou with our only stop being that for food in Dassa (the halfway point for all South-North travel).

I want to take a moment to stop and humbly demonstrate to you all how ignorant I have been in my life and how grateful I am to have such a rich learning environment currently. As you probably all know, I grew up in a relatively small town with a pretty simple dichotomy of two homogeneous populations of Caucasian and Mexican inhabitants. Going to college in the rich San Diego suburb of La Jolla didn't really improve matters too greatly although I certainly was introduced to quite a large number of other cultures and ethnicities. Despite (and because of) all this, however, I did not learn a great deal about Muslim beliefs and practices. In fact, before this year I can't really say I have ever actually known and spent time with someone of that faith (knowingly). Certainly UCSan Diego has its share of students from the East, but mainly the far east and India; not so much from the Middle and, being as it is college, many of those who were from that region didn't necessarily practice their faith to the fullest. As a result of America's freedom of religion, etc. individual religious practices are usually kept much more private in contrast to what you might see venturing into the North of Benin where entire villages share religious beliefs and therefore practice more openly. Having said that, I would now like to share how I humiliated myself in front of Liz by demonstrating my religious and cultural ignorance. While waiting to be served at the “Health Before All” restaurant on the side of the road in Dassa, I went to wash my hands. Liz came to join me when she asked what I was doing, “washing my hands,” I replied, “Just want to be good about keeping sanitary, but” I continued, turning to look at the group of men behind me, “those guys are really clean. Look, they're even washing their feet before they eat!” To this Liz burst into laughter and explained to me what an idiot I am. “They're getting ready to pray,” she could barely get out through her laughter, “when they pray they have to be clean where their body touches the mat; so their hands, their feet and their forehead.” Oh, boy! Learn something new everyday I guess. I won't get into how I fondled the driver's prayer beads (akin to a Rosary) when inquiring into their purpose hanging from the review mirror.

We finally arrived in Djougou with record time and I'm sure they were glad to be rid of me. Honestly, it was a good trip with laughs and jokes all around – mainly all around the front seat of the car, but all around nonetheless. Djougou, as you will hear probably on more than one occasion, is a terrible, terrible place to have to find a taxi. They are notorious for overcrowding. I suspect this is because it is not a large enough (or centralized enough) for many taxis exist in this area and, as a result, they attempt to address the transportation needs of the town in the only manner available to them; packing people in as efficiently as possible with the least amount of consideration for comfort as possible while charging the same price for a much more comfortable ride in another town. The quality of the ride is insignificant; it's the distance you are traveling that determines your price (there is no first class taxi ride out of Djougou). Liz and I found a taxi pretty quickly, but then the Tetrisesque people-fitting that ensued took another forty-five minutes of bickering, arguing, elbow-jamming and shoving. It was an hour long ride with four grown people in the front (plus one child), four grown people in the back (plus luggage and two children) and four grown people in the middle (plus two children) in which area I was forced to sit underneath a man who had his left elbow resting on my helmet which was resting precisely on the artery in my left thigh muscle and his back almost flush with my chest which allowed me to rest both elbows upon his shoulders comfortably (until I began singing “Killing Me Softly” and “Ground Control to Major Tom” into his ear loudly enough for the whole car to hear). I lost my Nalgene (for the second and, I believe, final time) in this madness.

Badjoude is a quiet little town and the English teaching volunteer, Kate, lives in a house that was previously occupied by a volunteer who currently still lives in country as a Peace Corps Volunteer Leader in Parakou (which means, implicitly, that she was well known and integrated into her community – she was soo good kids there don't say 'Yovo' they say 'Annie' when a white person walks by). She has a huge house with two bedrooms, a running shower (with warm water in the afternoons), a HUGE covered front porch and smaller back porch, a living room and separate dining room, expansive kitchen with a running sink and an extra “storage” room for her bike (the size of the living room and extra bedroom together). So, naturally, we packed in at least 15 people the first night and it wasn't even close to being squished. We ate delicious yam pilet with peanut sauce (real chunks of peanut in it) and something like chicken then went to the local bar where we drank for several hours waiting for the party to start.

At around 10 or 11pm the dancing and singing begins as groups of boys, old men and sometimes women from the different communities come around and show off their skills. There were men in bras and skirts, girls singing and drinking your beer, young boys with purple goop sliming out of their mouths (I think it was supposed to look like blood) until 2 a .m. when we'd finally had enough of the whipping demonstrations and drunkeness and went home. The moon was full and the sky was beautiful so I slept indoors to avoid the misquitos and listened to the whistling and singing that did not end until after I had gotten in the taxi to leave the next day. Actually I had terrible heart burn from earlier and was on the verge of being sick from all the beer so I wanted to stay close to the toilet. After an extremely uncomfortable two hours or so on my Thermorest (thank God I brought it!) the house started to rouse itself again for the day's festivities. The whipping begins at dawn and so that really means an hour or so after dawn we were all dressed, ready and waiting in the middle of the street to see where the oncoming parade of feathered, bloodied, loinclothed and whip-ready boys and men where going to begin their ritual. They chose a field and overtook it like a calvary riding down a hill to meet a battle and began circling in a violent congo line singing their victory song to get psyched up for the first skirmish. After a few seconds of this I got pushed down the spectator hill and into the fruckus which was alright with me as my camera had already been broken at Fawgla's and I was now at the mercy of using other people's (the one in my hand at this particular moment belonged to Sebastian). So I circled around with the men in drag, the boys in shorts and the 'warriors' in headdresses and war paint. Then they began to pair off in according “likeness”; the little boys would find another little boy and the warriors another warrior and the men in drag continued to dance around like boozers. There were 'referee' types dispersed within the whippers that would monitor each skirmish and determine the winner at which point he, the victor, would be hoisted onto the shoulders of the spectators and thrust into a new victory circle that was being formed as the skirmishes ended and each victor declared. Women, really little children, really old men, and white people were all spectators that sang and cheered on as several more rounds of skirmishes and victory “psyche-up” dance circles took place. At one point I thought it would be cool to hold one of the whips and dance with it, but quickly returned the whip when I was told that to hold a whip signified I wished to join in the whipping fights. “Here is your whip back, thank you, sir. I prefer water balloons or a good old-fashioned food fight to prove my manliness.” He responded with a blank gaze and a toothless grin. After what seemed hours, and was in fact several hours, the fighting broke up and everyone grouped off into mini-parades that went back out onto the main street and separated; one going West, one heading East and another still going back South through the deserted market stalls and into the bush. I headed back to the porch to nurse my pain and get some water. I was locked out. It sucked. So eventually that day I left. But the fighting and the blood was cool. Enjoy the photos.

BIRTHDAY IN NATITINGOU

The one day of whipping and feting was enough for me and I decided to head out the next day after lunch. Actually, the allure of a carrot cake, Ryan's bad “Happy Birthday” singing and my friend Emma waiting for me in Basila, were too much and I packed up my stuff in an alarmingly fast twenty minutes and set out to find myself a taxi. Once inside the taxi (there, luckily, was one that passed me on my hike along the dirt road) with my knees pressed into my face and my backpack stuffed behind my head (there was no room at all in this thing) I passed out. I awoke to a marché where we were stopping so everyone could get out an argue with the driver. Literally, we all had to get out of the car and stand around and argue with the driver. So I threw in my two cents (in English, of course, as they were all speaking their local language). “And another thing,” I screamed, “Your seats are very uncomfortable and there is a reeking of corn in the back.” In my ranting I didn't stop to notice that three other girls who had left HOURS before I had were standing nearby watching the exchange. “Oh, hey guys!” We agreed that as it was my birthday I should stay with them and take the ride they hitched and go to Natitingou for steak (my original plan was to go to Basila, but .. steak!) So I packed up my stuff, said “sayonara” to my driver (he didn't get it) and loaded my gear up on a truck full of grain that took another forty minutes to go less than 10k, and included a push start on more than one occasion and that really cool, 'run and jump on the back of the truck because we can't stop again' experience. Then we made it to the final hill back into Djougou and rolled backwards down it, then drove back up it and made it (miraculously) on time to catch the last bus to Nati.

Upon arrival to Natitingou I immediately entered the yovo mart (the one with the good, expensive European and Arabic products) and got myself some cream cheese, a Virgin Cola and some peanut M&Ms. I was in heaven! The ticket taker on the bus, a man I sat next to but never actually spoke to, came running in behind me to ask for my telephone number. This is perfectly normal for people to do, by the way. He wanted me to put him in my phone under the name “Coton Bus” (which is the bus line for which he works). Shaking off that uncomfortable encounter two of the girls, Sarah and Yesenia, and myself headed up to the Peace Corps Volunteer workstation. We got ready for dinner and headed back out to the road – and I saw the most beautiful thing! Against the backdrop of a crimon and gold sun setting behind the green and blue hills of Natitingou, down the red dirt road at full gallop comes a beautiful, black horse foaming at the mouth and running for all his life under the tree branch crop of the man standing tall riding him. My jaw dropped and I watched this magnificent creature sprint like the wind from one end of the road clear down to the other side and into the disappearing world beyond the trees. It was the second horse I had seen in three months and the first one that looked ridable; and was being ridden in the most passionate manner! Happy birthday! I had a crappy steak, but meat nonetheless, with some fantastic french fries for dinner. Too bad it was covered in some kind of mushroom sauce (I picked them off – obviously haven't been here long enough if I'm still being picky). The fireworks lightening display brought a ton of rain but we finally made it back to the workstation where I made my carrot cake and watched 'So I Married an Axe Murderer' (all I wanted for my birthday) and the other two passed out on the couches, leaving me to talk with those of you who called (thank you!). All in all, not a bad birthday. Certainly, one of the most memorable.

THE TAXI TO BASILA INTERLUDE

This is a moment to tell you again how terrible the taxis out of Djougou can be. I took a taxi straight from Nati to Djougou for 1500F and it took about 1hour and a half. I got in a second taxi in Djougou and aimed for Basila. It's the same distance from Nati to Djougou as it is from Djougou to Basila but it took nearly three times as long because my crappy excuse for a driver stopped approximately every 7km to pick up more passengers. The ride was never comfortable at its best and at its worst was downright unhealthy. I was suffering from terrible allergies (the north wind blows rough) and had missed lunch due to traveling so therefore was in a particularly foul mood, but the presence of no less than 18 souls (one poor old man was stuffed in the trunk area) and poultry in one station wagon filled to the rusting metal skin with yams and luggage on top was more than I could handle and, after the fourth stop, I began to complain. Admittedly, I was “yovo” placed in the front and therefore the most comfortable position, but there were a few in the back who knew of their rights as passengers as well and would attempt to aide me in getting the chauffeur to stop his incessant pack-rating of clients. We would travel down the road at capacity and he would stop to pick up even more goods and people. I argued with him; I complained, glared, cursed and insulted, but still he would not stop stopping. At one point (when there were 13 people in the car) I asked why the driver didn't stop to pick up the three people waving him down as we could have easily strapped them on the roof next to the goat. When we finally reached our destination I was so livid I refused to pay the full fare and commenced an all-out battle of screaming and arguing in front of many who live in the town. It was ultimately settled that I would pay only 1200F of the original 1500F and I pulled a very American consumer trick and took down his license plate while threatening to call the authorities (whomever they may be). I threw in a “where is the police station?” for good measure and got outta there on a zemi to Emma's house.

BASILA TO BOHICON AND BEYOND

“What name should I put on your luggage?” The sweet ticket taker in the plaid shirt asked me. Foreseeing the complication that would arise I said slowly, “Henderson, H-E-N-D-E-R-S-O-N,” during which spelling the smile faded from his lips and a look of confusion and dread took its place, packed up its stuff, moved North and settled on his forehead. “How about I just put 'white lady' is that okay?” I replied that would be fine. I was on the Shekina Bus line from Basila to Bohicon. My slow journey home from Natitingou was almost at its terminus. My one night stay at Emma's was relaxing and restorative.

Emma's house is located in a newer development area of Basila – much like what we have in America where there will be clusters of new houses set apart from the main city separated by mud roads and surrounded by tall grass, flooding puddles, and dirt huts that have already existed in the 'new neighborhood' for years – the 'suburbs'. It's called “Camp Pioneer” (we get a real kick out of that name). Her house is amazing. She has a guest room; a double bed and armoire in her room. She has a dining room with a table in it; a kitchen that's not located in her bedroom and is fully stocked with ketchup, four different kinds of gourmet teas, and a drying basket for dishes (I use a dysfunctional bidet – no doubt installed by an optimistic, if not altogether misguided, proprietor). She has electricity, but no running water – I'm beginning to see the pros and cons to each scenario. Her latrine is HUGE and clean (claustrophobia is easy to develop when bugs could potentially begin crawling on you mid-urination). Her neighbors are sweet and she has a baby she straps to her back; which I guess is nice, if you like that sort of thing. She is living in the bush and I can't say I don't envy it. Beautiful scenery surrounds her and her standard of living is much cheaper than mine – her bread is cheaper, she has cheese, and her yams are much larger for the same price. She doesn't have butter or other fancy things, but when she goes to Nati every couple of months she can pick up things like olive oil, etc. and does alright for herself. She made me some delicious yam hash browns and fried eggs and their local bread for toast. It was like “Chez Emma Basila, Benin B&B”. Meanwhile, Coton Bus called me and offered to buy me MTN phone credit because he's “just like that.” I politely declined. Flowers would have been nice, though. Another gentleman from the taxi ride to Djougou called just to ask if I was married, I told him I had a boyfriend (it's just so much easier that way and my conscious stays a little more clear), “Ok, thanks,” and he hung up. Men! Why don't they just tell you what they want? Always these games. Haha. I think I'm going to have to start giving out a wrong number when I'm in the North. In the South no one ever has calling credits so it's safe to give out your correct number. In the North, however, where they are much more forthright with their marriage proposals (in the South all they want is to “exchange ideas”), everyone seems to have surplus of credits and the desire to use them calling and proposing to me.

The next morning I waited near the center of town for a bus to come pick me up. One passed me and said that though they had no room (as the woman next to me helped herself on in) there would be another bus coming shortly. As he finished his sentence the bus arrived, with empty seats in sight, and passed right on by. I sat there in disbelief. I was not exactly thrilled by the idea of taking another taxi and so I pouted until a dark horse pulled up along the road and I jumped on. Shekina Bus tours – never heard of it, but it was the right price and I had a window seat; nevermind that my neighbor insisted on interrupting my OBVIOUS reading time and refused to speak audibly so I had to continuously yell out, “I can't hear you. Speak more loudly, please.” In Dassa we stopped again and I ate the lunch Emma packed for me (yea, she's that cute), had a little Coke (I think they still put the real deal in it it's that good!) and talked with Jordan (who was on the Coton Bus from Nati that passed me). A woman came up to me to tell me that she saw me and my husband on Friday when I was lunching in Dassa with another Coton Bus crew. “Yea, that was another white girl, but enjoy your lunch anyway,” I replied. She nodded and went back to eat with her friend; yea, that was all, just wanted me to know she (didn't) see me last time. Got back on the bus and was rolling on my way to Bohicon. Upon arrival, Jordan and I met up and argued for a price with zems for a good thirty minutes before finally walking away (which is the invitation for those afraid to accept the lesser price in front of their brothers – solidarity, you know – to follow us and give us a lift for the price we gave). Riding back to Bohicon was a 40km ride of fun! I need to buy a motorcycle when I get home. It's just thrilling going through that jungle scenery where the clouds above resembled little cream puffs dotted all over (I knew their form would congeal and grow menacing with thunder within hours) listening to Duke Ellington explain how if it ain't got swing it don't mean a thing. Then I was home and Aaron and Tom made me Mexican food for dinner.

Still in Nati on the second trip which began on Sunday and today I am going to the waterfalls in Tanguieta then on Friday will travel back down to Cotonou, will stay the night, do some grocery shopping, then shoot across tomorrow to spend Jordan's birthday in Gran Popo before finally getting back to Azovè on the 11th. Then I'm never leaving again. Until Thanksgiving at Fawgla's with the Mono-Couffo crowd!! OH yea, and I start formations with some photographers on the 13th. There is some work to do!

Love to you from the jungle cruise.

The list again: (should you feel the need to send something to me!)

Good Tea

M&M’s

Reese's anything

Candy bars

Red Vines

Peanut Butter

Trail Mix

Fruit Leathers

Dried Apricots and Craisins

Taste of Thai Curry Pastes (at the grocery store; they last and are delicious over boring rice!!)

Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets – marinades, etc. (Kraft Mac&Cheese powder is almost gone!)

Jell-o and Jell-o Pudding (crazy Cosby cravings; can't imagine why)

Brownie and cake mixes (take out of plastic wrap and put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)

Anything that smells good: soap, candles, incense, sachets of lavender/jasmine, etc.

Drink powders (like little Crystal light and Lipton tea flavors to go)

Super glue

Headbands (not hair-ties)

Makeup/Perfume samples

Cheap Target-like Earrings (nickel-free, I’m allergic! Otherwise I’d buy it here)

Good soccer ball!!!!

Leave-In Conditioner

Heavy duty Conditioner

Any good new reads you've finished (in softback, of course)

Mixed MP3 cds

Little sticky notes (the colored ones that are thin)

Markers

Luna Bars or similar type sports/energy bars (get hungry out on the long bike rides)

Planting seeds for hot/tropical weather

Information or books on gardening/planting – seriously clueless here

Coffee

Candle wicks

Photos!!

Yoga CDs (audio or video)

Allison Henderson

B.P. 126

Azovè, Benin

Afrique de l'Ouest

Par Avion

Send it in a padded envelope (put some religious stuff on it, I guess it helps? Not really sure) and usually it is a good idea to send the stuff in separate Ziploc bags (in case of any explosion accidents)

THANK YOU!!

Hope life is going well for everyone. I heard about the fires in San Diego and I pray everyone is safe and that too much damage doesn’t occur. You are in my thoughts, please be careful.

Hope you all enjoy this for now:

LIGHTENING STRIKES

Africa really is the beginning of all things. The root of all humanity and creation. All things began here. Forces of nature are stronger here than I have ever previously seen. For an even stronger connection with the natural beauty of this country I decided to clean out an area behind my house to contain a warming water tank (a huge black, plastic bucket that could house about four showers' worth of water to be warmed by the sun throughout the day and maintain a little heat for the shower at night – it's not running water, like inside, but it's warm and it's under the stars) and “shelving” (stacks of bricks) for bottles and soap and candles for lighting (no outside lights). It already is equipped with a clothesline so I can hang my towel and other things so they do not rest on the ground. It really is ideal, so I'm hoping it all works – the bricks breed animal habitat and the concrete floor is actually the lid to my septic tank (having a flushing toilet unfortunately doesn't mean I won't get stuck in a 'latrine cloud' every once in a while). While creating this gem of a douche (shower) I spotted some lightening. Quickly moving my bike undercover I stopped only momentarily to recognize that I could see the moon and stars; this is not very usual if lightening is present. Taking another glance around I realized the lightening was coming from an isolated point north of my house. It was just a floating cloud of light flashing through the sky. The half-moon and the stars were out, well illuminating my area as I brought a chair outside and enjoyed a cup of Chai tea (thanks Clare!) and the fireworks display. Literally, it was one large cloud that flowed by as slowly as clouds do but was flashing inside like a rave party for the Gods. Once in a while a bolt would escape the festivities and streak across the sky surrounding the cloud. The Adja term for this is loosely translated to mean “second moon” and I find this to be a very fitting name for what was taking place in the sky that night.

It was after following one of these bolts with my eyes that I spotted a cluster of fireflies dancing along the perimeter of my concession. It was no “Pink Floyd Laser Light Show” but as I sat, sipping my tea, contemplating the party cloud and the fireflies sparking around my empty concession I realized how magnificent it was that I had the time for, and newfound devotion to, doing such simple things as enjoying my surroundings. I know that even if a floating lightening cloud had passed by me in San Diego I probably wouldn't have taken the time to bring out a chair and dedicate two hours of my evening to watch it pass. Patience is not only a virtue, but a blessing and I pray I can learn this in my two years here and maintain it for the rest of my life afterwards. I think I'm off to a good start already.

CLOSING THE FRONTIER

This morning I went out to buy some bread. The price had increased by 40F – which is a lot considering I can buy lunch most days for 50F total (that's rice and beans for lunch with some oil, spicy fish sauce and gari – crunchy flour – sounds good, but after everyday for two weeks it gets old and fattening, but I've given up on trying to avoid the latter anyway). So I said “no thank you,” and walked away. This was after yesterday when there was no salt bread to be found and the only reason anyone could give me was “because it isn't here,” literally, “it isn't here,” so I had to buy the one other type of bread. I tried to look at the brightest of sides; at least I have bread at all in my town. Aaron, my postmate in Jack City , has to come to Azovè or wait until a marché day to get bread in his town (only 10km away!).

At the 'yovo mart' (supermarché) French butter went up by 100F . This was painful enough but then I went up North and discovered it was 300F cheaper! I was outraged and demanded an explanation from my grocer as to why these prices are increasing. Aside from the obvious reason that the CFA is experiencing some inflation, he gave me the “frontier is closing,” as an explanation. “For which reason?” I asked incredulously. “For the holidays,” he said with a straight face. “The holidays? In December?” (I could think of no others, but yet I am not Beninese so maybe there was something I was missing) “Yes, Christmas and those others,” he replied. “But it's October!” “Yes. It takes a while.” That was it. It was that simple. The boarders need to be closed down; the border to Togo especially it would appear (across which all the wheat is made into flour) as the bread and butter prices have increased and who knows what all else. Normally prices fluctuate with season, assuming you can still find the products when they are out of season; the price for the most delicious oranges you have ever tasted will increase to two for 25F (or the equivalent of 6 cents in the U.S. ) instead of the five or so you can get when they're in season. Same goes for peanuts and tomatoes (peanuts cease to exist at all, let alone for an increased purchasing prices, out of season and therefore peanut butter can become quite the commodity).

The problem then arises that while the borders are being secured in anticipation of a crazy Christmas Eve, Benin starts feeling the squeeze of having close to no ability to provide for itself. Sufficient means for milling wheat enough to supply the country does not exist in Benin and therefore they have to look Westward to Togo . Frightening as it is, this is the reality in Benin and is one reason countries in the midst of development find it so difficult to become self-reliant when their very breakfast is contingent upon their neighbors and the upcoming holiday festivities. Poor organization is also to blame; despicable infrastructure and pervasive corruption in the government only compound an already painful problem of moving goods across borders and intrastate. As a result, naturally, the price at the Douane (toll) and import taxes increase and, especially heading northwards in Benin , then is augmented more once it gets to the areas for distribution. By the time the product actually hits the shelves the Beninese could be paying anywhere from 20-30% more for their products. These money worries are not entirely unlike the pain many in America are feeling as a result of the credit market so I guess for now I'll just bite my tongue and cough up the extra 40F for the good salt bread. Butter, however delicious, is unnecessary and I'll think twice before reaching in and putting another 100F across the counter. All I gotta say is there better be a good freakin' Christmas party for all this.

AN AMERICAN ASIDE

As just a little side note I wanted to make a statement regarding how nice it is to not read food labels anymore. Not only because they don't really exist or even because when they do I can't figure out the conversions from kilo Joules or grams into Calories and 'percent daily values' fast enough to tell myself not to eat the entire carton of whatever I just picked up at the yovo mart, but just because I don't have to. The older, married men LOVE fat women and think it's just lovely when you gain some weight and the younger, more threatening ones, are a bit turned off by it so I get the best of both worlds! Younger men tend to think twice before walking over and asking me for my number and older, taken men who pose no threat of marriage or harassment (theoretically) flatter me. So while I might have to work really, really hard once I finally get home (and you will all have to work really hard to not let me know just how big I've gotten) I am going to enjoy the next two years of guilt-free eating. It is definitely an interesting and new feeling to eat only when hungry, follow what my body tells me it is craving or only what's available and to eat only until full (because it's usually pretty nasty or boring food) to get enough nutrients to sweat profusely for the next four hours while I do manual labor just to survive and maintain a clean house. So maybe I won't be getting all that large after all; but at least I don't spend two hours in the grocery store anymore reading labels and thinking “if this is 75% fat free does that mean I can eat 75% more of it and still have the same outcome as the normal, better tasting alternative?” It has been difficult, however, reading my body and trying to determine what certain stomach aches and body pains might be telling me I need to add (or remove) from my body!! All the multivitamins in the world probably won't prevent me from getting anemic so it's good to keep on the lookout all the same; if only my entire body came with a label and some nutrient gauges.

The new list: (should you feel the need to send something to me!)

Good Tea

M&M’s

Reese's anything

Candy bars

Red Vines

Peanut Butter

Trail Mix

Fruit Leathers

Dried Apricots and Craisins

Taste of Thai Curry Pastes (they last and are delicious over boring rice!!)

Sauce, Dressing and Spice Packets – marinades, etc. (Kraft Mac&Cheese powder is almost gone!)

Jell-o and Jell-o Pudding (crazy Cosby cravings; can't imagine why)

Brownie and cake mixes (take out of plastic wrap and put in Ziploc bags w/ instructions cut out)

Anything that smells good: soap, candles, incense, sachets of lavender/jasmine, etc.

Drink powders (like little Crystal light and Lipton tea flavors to go)

Super glue

Headbands (not hair-ties)

Makeup

Cheap Target-like Earrings (nickel-free, I’m allergic! Otherwise I’d buy it here)

Good soccer ball!!!!

Leave-In Conditioner

Heavy duty Conditioner

Any good new reads you've finished (in softback, of course)

Mixed MP3 cds

Little sticky notes (the colored ones that are thin)

Markers

Luna Bars or similar type sports/energy bars (get hungry out on the long bike rides)

Planting seeds for hot/tropical weather

Information or books on gardening/planting – seriously clueless here

Coffee

Candle wicks

Photos!!

Allison Henderson

B.P. 126

Azovè, Benin

Afrique de l'Ouest

Par Avion

Send it in a padded envelope and usually it is a good idea to send the stuff in separate Ziploc bags (in case of any explosion accidents)

Thanks and love you!!!

Lobogo was incredible. It is a village full of personality and an alarmingly large population of English speakers. I don't know if it is to the credit of the English club Ryan, another volunteer, started and has maintained for the past year, or because of the overwhelming population of Nigerian immigrants, but there are a lot. In fact, I heard less French than English or the local language (both of which Ryan speaks passably well). Friday I arrived in the heat of the marché after an hour and a half in a taxi and another half hour on a zemi. We spent hours walking around, looking at goods, then got separated. His dog, Murphy, stuck with me as I went around terrorizing little children who hated dogs (a lot of people are afraid of dogs here and you don't see many roaming the streets – although there were three times as many in Lobogo as in Azovè). He actually knows how to cook so I ate meat three times while I was there, including pork on Sunday – what a treat! Saturday we spent time in his garden which I hope to replicate and surpass in a plot of land the papa of my maman gave me next door to their house. I have to get going on that, however, as the hot season is going to be starting up soon. The only problem is that of security – it will take me several days just to get the land ready to work, but assuming I am able to do that in time to plant anything I have to also build the fence to go around it and protect it from wandering animals and humans that will steal anything without a sign on it; and sometimes even with a sign. He has a massive orange tree in the middle of it while also growing green beans, lettuce, eggplant and is currently making an attempt at California Poppies. I am going to see if I can't get a few more things going, such as carrots and cucumbers but, after doing some heavy package reading, I am not so sure I'll be successful as the weather conditions aren't exactly optimal and I don't have the proper indoor germinating equipment – heck, I don't even have the proper outdoor germinating equipment. I am going to stick it in the ground after rain, try to space them out as suggested and pray for good sprinklings and lots of sun. We'll see what comes up from that.

Sunday Ryan and I went to church at the request of one of the little kids that lives nearby, Prudence. This kid was smart as a whip, speaks English fluently (so what if most of his response to most of my questions was "Nothing"), and can dance the pants off the best. For the past year Ryan has been repeatedly asked to come to church and one member of his English club went so far as to suggest that he could easily be killed because of his attendance. As you could imagine, that would have an affect on someone, but still after much deliberation, Ryan ultimately consented and I went along because I wasn't going to make it back in time for my own congregation. Literally, Thank God! Church was insane. It was some all-Lokossa commune deal where three different priests from neighboring villages came to give mass in the local language of Mina and Yoruba, the language of Niger. After and hour of normal mass (including the three baskets of monetary gifts) divination began. Another two hours of singing, crying, shaking and candle-stick making took place and my emotions passed from annoyed to stunned to scared and, finally, jubilant! This was a Catholic church where people were screaming in the middle of the priests' prayer and then wailing commenced and people were carried by ushers to the front of the church where they squirmed and danced and screamed and sweat for all the congregation to see; while the priests just stood behind the altar in patient understanding. The two hour melody that went from wailing to heavy drums and clapping and back into wailing was intoxicating and I couldn't help but sway along with the women and men of the choir who were busy doing the chicken dance. I even picked up one of the bean shakers and made as much noise as arms could handle; at which point one of the twenty kids that had gathered around us took over. Prudence stood on the bench behind me and, with his hands on my shoulders, guided me into a two hour Soul Train rehearsal. Finally, finally, it was over and the inhabited were again picked up and carried through the church to the back sacristy where they continued to call out their faith in God and his corporeal possession. I was hankering for a drink of water, but we had to make our hellos out of the church; which took another twenty minutes during which I asked a man in a hat how the end of Ramadan was – so unaware of what just transpired that it didn't occur to me that we had been in a Catholic mass and the man to whom I had posed this question was indeed NOT Muslim. Luckily, Ryan wasn't around to be embarrassed and I quickly made my goodbyes and skeedaddled out of there. My church requirements have long been fulfilled – at least for the next week or so; and certainly enough to make up for the debauchery I have planned for this upcoming weekend at the beach (somewhat of an early birthday celebration since most of the people in my region will be gone up north for the "whipping fete" - which is exactly what it sounds like, coming-of-age boys getting whipped in a row by one another in a display of manliness).

I ended my stay in Lobogo by waiting two hours at a bar for the zemidjan who promised a half hour wait then finally taking another one that had to be sought out at the center of town. My return to the goudronne (the highway) was welcome and I was even accompanied by two men who remembered me from Friday while waiting for a taxi to take me home to Azovè. I waited all of ten minutes before being crammed into a car with six other men, a backfiring exhaust pipe, hot floorboards and a metal bar up my butt (parallel, not perpendicular; although I'm not sure which would be more enjoyable). We stopped in Djakotomey to get my house key (Aaron was watching my dog – did I mention I got a dog? Another story) only for me to realize I had no idea where Aaron lived in the dark, but his neighbors guided me to the right place only to tell me that Aaron had gone to the market for dinner. I caught up with him (the taxi long gone and four marriage proposals down the drain) and he didn't have my key anyway – it was still at the supermarche next to my house where I had sent the chauffeur (Dieudonne) who drove me to Zoungbonou (the town you have to stop in to get to Lobogo) with the key because I had forgotten to give it to Aaron – yes, life works that way here. I would trust the Beninese with my firstborn child – heck, I would trust them with YOUR firstborn child. So I took a shady zem back to Azovè (he wasn't a zem at all, but I was too tired and angry with the real zems who refused to call me anything but "yovo") where I was promptly invited to marry another group of men who were partying outside the supermarche. I have just taken to telling them all I have no heart and I am a robot and therefore would make a terrible wife. Some get it, some don't, either way I just start to talk in robot language and move my arms very stiffly and they slowly back away.

Today, Tuesday, Jordan and I went around to the local Hospital, the national Army post and the local Police to let them know we were here and didn't want any trouble. We asked them repeatedly for their radio frequency to which they replied we could simply use the telephone if we had a need of them. To which I replied, and what if the lines are down. "Well, use the portables then!" they laughed – what an idiot I am – like the fact that their networks were all just down for six months had nothing to do with my legitimate fear that their cells phones might not work in case of a national emergency. I just smiled and made them promise they'd look for my bike should some pagailleur (hoodlum) come around to steal it when I was out on one of my runs in the bush (don't worry, I keep a machete with me at all times). In other news, I am extremely tan. The sun here is brutal! You are out for an hour and come back singed. There is something to be said for that equatorial crap. It really does require some looking after. I'll be sure to steer clear this upcoming weekend... Or not! I'm fulling planning on laying in a hammock, reading and eating all the chocolate pudding they can feed me for 100 F (so not much).

On Saturday afternoon I went to a magical place called Lalo – which is about 16kilometers southeast of chez moi. It's a tiny village where the gas station never has any gas and the roads are sometimes too ruinous to pass over. After heavy rainfall Lalo becomes its own island and only the richest travelers could entice the zemidjan drivers to risk their baby motos through the muck – and even then sometimes they refuse. The way is long and 16k could very easily take more than two hours (as it did on my way home Sunday night). When I arrived with Ryan (from Lobogo, a town about 40k away if you go through Dogbo-Tota; 60k if you go through Lokossa)from Azovè Tom and Aaron had already had their share of sodabi from the voodoo fête in which they were invited to participate. Girls aren't allowed to participate so Liz, another SED volunteer in the Mono-Couffo (yes, there are five of us), was hanging around outside with some of Fawgla's friends from Cotonou. Fawgla needs a proper introduction now. He as adopted several years ago by an ancient Peace Corps volunteer and is now Tom's close friend. We were in Lalo for this particular instance because Tom has been building rabbit cages for Fawgla's growing rabbit-selling endeavor. At first I couldn't remember his name; so I called him "Glasspaw" and, sadly, the name fits. Although he is not a Russian nemesis of James Bond with a left arm made of glass from a freak glass factory accident that he breaks on tables and uses at a weapon frequently, I still think it works well for him – especially when he gets the crazy "sodabi eyes". When Ryan calls out the challenge "Segwo" (Check spelling) Fawgla get all twinkly and squiggly and feigns confusion – 'Tu segwo?' "You're taking a shot now?" he asks innocently. Ryan insists and Fawgla cannot back down, "I am not a bitch," he cries out in broken, slow English; thick with a the heavy village accent from his Fon heritage. Then Fawgla takes his faded Las Vegas shot glass – courtesy of Liz – and sips through his shot; almost a savoring at a level of comfort with the vile poison that I could never hope to attain. His eyes bulge, his lips pucker, his bare and hairless chest inflates with manly pride. He can stomach this; he has the force. "Ah! Tu es fort!" Then Ryan has his turn. You cannot give a shot without taking one yourself. For if then, you are just as good as a woman. I am okay with that – I don't like the sodabi. I send a petit out for a 'grande sucrerie' to chase my shots – what a glutton, they all think, to have a giant coca! It's just not done here. But I'm white and I do what I want, and you'll hear that more than once from me.

After several rounds of sodabi challenges we move on to the eating. A bowl is passed around with water and a ball of soap at the bottom. We all take turns sharing the soap and the water and then rinse with a second bowl. Then, when the pate (flour and water stirred into a gummy, flavorless consistency – if it's pate blanc or noir – or has a hint of chicken and spice if it's pate rouge) is at its most boiling and painful peak of heat we plunge our "feeding fingers" - the index and middle together in a fleshy scooping apparatus – and commence with the scooping, dipping, scraping and gulping; dripping and spilling all the way around. When someone loses their piece between the pate and the sauce it becomes a forfeit and anyone can retrieve the piece. This is especially favorable to those who have already callused their fingers or habituated themselves to the heat of the food and can more easily excavate the lost morsels. It was in this manner that I lost several choice pieces of chicken to the fray that was dinner time that night. It didn't help that my sight and motor skills were slightly retarded as a result of the intoxication. After sufficient stuffing we sat around for a longer period of sodabi, yelling and challenging. The entire transaction was a mixture between Spanish (one guy studied in Cuba), French, Fon (the native language of the region) and African English (yes, there is a difference and it's as big as the Pacific). One guy from Cotonou I had met previously at a Chinese restaurant – even in Africa, it's a very, very small world. But the common interests ended there and we didn't really talk anymore. Another guy, named Justin, promised me a horse and a cd. I told him I'd marry him if he got me a horse. We were exhausted after all this, so we retired to the one mud-walled room complete with crowing and clucking chickens, noxious fumes-leaking motorcycle, two windows, hot tin roof, one straw mattress and one foam (I think), petrol-filled lanterns (also leaking noxious fumes), and five whiteys and four Africans. Within twenty minutes all of us sober enough to realize how hot and uncomfortable we were and spent the rest of the night complaining about the heat, the noisy rain on the tin roof, the smells of the motorcycle and one of us (the least fortunate) was stuffed underneath the exhaust pipe of the actual motorcycle as a result of being on the more comfortable mattress, but with two other people. Myself, I was victim to the leaky roof and woke up to the pit pat of raindrops literally falling on my head. So I scrunched down and ended up "sleeping" twenty minutes at a time in the crotch of my neighbor. At 5:30 the first rooster in the room started to crow. The Africans and drunks can sleep through anything so Liz, Ryan and I were forced to deal with the rooster ourselves. I suggested just trying to sleep through it; Liz was too upset about the ants that were eating her and the exhaust pipe in her face (and has a fear of chickens) so she suggested just letting it be as well; Ryan, ever the adventurer, wanted to tackle the rooster head on. His first swipe at the chicken caused a lot of ruckus, but not a lot of solution. When the rooster continued to crow Ryan escalated in kind. He ran straight for the chicken which took off behind the motorcycle and around formed a flight path straight towards Liz. She, maneuvering to deflect the chicken from its fowl trajectory, pulled up the pagne she was wearing to use as a cover. The chicken, nonplussed, attacked like a bull towards a red flag and the pagne created a lock down situation from which the poultry could not find an escape. Liz kicked and screamed and twitched until she ultimately knocked the chicken loose and flung it in my direction. Like any good girl I screamed and ran and the chicken was finally free to run out of our area. Then we went back to sleep to await the what the next day would bring.

Sunday morning brought sunshine after the rain and more sodabi. We ate a breakfast of beans, pasta, macaroni noodles, fish and spicy sauce all together, family style, like all the meals. Then came sodabi for some; catching up on lost sleep for others. Unfortunately, the tin roof just made the room swelter and the door remained shut for light and chicken keeping purposes so I really just sat and sweat for four hours that morning. Eventually I raised my body to eat again, all around the table we gathered and ate delicious fried yams that came with a bowl of omlette. It literally was a bowl of cut up and fried yams accompanied by another bowl full of scrambled eggs with tons of oil, some tomatoes, piment and other afterthoughts like onions. Usually that's how meals go; a big starch that acts as a dipper to whatever sauce you created (usually includes red palm oil, fish, okra or, evidently, eggs and lots of piment). After digesting that intestinal nuclear missile I went to find someplace a little cooler – maybe with a breeze and under the trees; plus the rabbit cage making was going crazy (wood and red mud everywhere) and there was an old man who got drunk off sodabi and began teaching all the kids in the area lessons in mathematics and English spelling. It was pretty hilarious, but I was tired and hot so I went to the nearby soccer pitch to sit under a wide open tree. After two minutes of that I was playing with the kids and Ryan came to join. My team was far superior and I was AMAZED at how selfless the little kids are when it comes to soccer. On more than one occasion my goalie would throw his body through the air to stop a goal. My jaw was rarely lifted from the floor with how impressed I was in their skill and agility. Ryan's team ended up winning because they were cheaters and had six shirts on the field for half the game when I only had five and one little guy who couldn't remember if he was playing or not. I felt more like the team mom/coach than a player (which was probably best since the only good play I had was stopping the ball from the goal with my face). So I didn't cool off and I was forced (really, really wanted/needed) to take a shower at Fawgla's. His house is really au village, like what you would imagine in Africa, so I was "bathing" in the toilet area which is really just one slab of concrete with two holes (one bigger than the other for poop) and walls of straw-like substance that has plenty of peepholes for prying eyes. These most adorable little girls went and got my water, soap and sent to bathe in an area that smelled like crap, literally. I don't imagine you'll believe it when I say I actually did feel cleaner afterwards – latrine proximity withstanding. My boyfriend from the night before, Justin, was there and he and just about every other man sitting around the concession, offered to bath me because they know how difficult it can be to rinse off with only one hand. He was pretty upset when I told him I didn't want to be his girlfriend – horse or not – and I didn't want him to bathe me either. So then he suggested the next most likely thing; pick someone else to bathe me. I looked at Tom and Ryan and had to laugh. I live in a country where men can fondle one another while walking down the road because they're friends, but homosexuality doesn't exist, where women lift up their shirts and put their babies to the feeder while they talk to you, but if you catch a glimpse of their belly beads (a necklace around their waist) you caught them in the most mortifying situation, and men and women do not hold hands or show affection of any kind towards one another in public. Just the thought of asking one of them to come help me rinse off was enough to send everyone into giggles – so I just went to the see-through shower and heard them all tell me what they thought of my bathing techniques. Oh, Africa.

After a SPECTACULAR dinner of pate rouge (which is the flavored pate!) with tomato jus (a savory, hot salsa) and chicken and two more shots of sodabi (these were infused with cinnamon and raisins) it was time to head home. I had to get back in time for dinner with another family that was the former volunteer's host family. I didn't think I was going to make it in time due to the roads being ruined from the rainfall the night before and not entirely dried out from the day's sun. So I took off for Toviklin (which is one of the two towns you could pass through to get to Lalo – the other being Klouekanmey) with Ryan as there were very few zemidjans who would give us a decent price to go anywhere out of Lalo. In Toviklin we split up and he headed South to Dogbo while I went West to Azovè. I found a zem who gave me the right price to get home, but first made him stop under a tree in the local primary school because that's the only place in town where you could find a cellular network other than Libercom (I have MTN). So we sat under the tree and I tried to warn the host family that I wouldn't make it in time for dinner, but of course, I was out of credit. So we took off like a bat out of hell; for two kilometers. Then we had to stop for gas and a creepy dude on a black moto asked the little kid gas station "attendant" if would ask my permission to marry me and take me to Azovè himself as his wife. I, respectfully declined, explaining that I already had a capable zemidjan and "maybe next time". Then we took off out of there for another 6 kilometers. Then the zem's moto broke down and we were stranded in a tiny town that, for some reason, only had junior high to high-school aged boys in it. They all gathered around and talked to me while my zem tried to go out in search of someone to take me the rest of the way. After fifteen minutes, the sun starting to set and my anxieties starting to rise, guess who he found? My potential fiance from the gas station! Realizing that it was getting dark and that he had been the only moto even close to passing through the entire time we were stalled I took the chance to ride with him. I also took my zem's driver's license as a precautionary measure and promised to relinquish it to the dark rider upon our arrival to Azovè. I just needed to get home before too late because then the bandits come out onto the roads and who knows what could happen then! (Peace Corps has some great scare tactics). So we were on our way for another ten minutes or so when HIS moto breaks down! I swear, at this point I was on the verge of tears with fear of what could potentially happen in this situation. I realize that, for the most part, the Beninese are the most trustworthy people I have ever encountered and that there was no real indication this guy was a creep, but I wanted to be on the safe side anyway and it was absolutely dark at this point (8pm). He got the moto going, barely, and we barged our way through the countryside with the throttle wide open over some pretty rough roadways. I can't tell you what a relief it was to make it back to my home; to talk to the lady with the fried bean balls on my street and to talk a shower with real walls and running water. And let me tell you; that was one hell of a rabbit cage, too!!

Every "jour du marché" brings with it surprises and excitement – what's coming in from all the surrounding villages and how many oranges CAN he fit in that station wagon? The answer; a lot! It's no surprise, then, that you'll usually be coming home with something a little extra in your bag. Today it was a wiggly, flea-ridden little guy named "Cal." God, I seriously hope I didn't get lice from him. Jordan and I went to the "meat market" which is at the end of the cobblestone street from the road to Aplahoue. Chickens, dogs, rabbits, cats, goats, ducks, turtles and other wonderfully edible animals sit in sad cages waiting for haphazard Americans to see a pet in one of their cute little faces and take them home. First, of course, we weighed the options of dogs (there certainly were plenty) and finally settled on saving one little main course for the tidy sum of 1.000F CFA (about two dollars). Afterwards we went immediately to the veterinarians where we paid for a rabies vaccination we then had to administer ourselves. Cradling our little bundle of joy all the way home Jordan and I fretted about the potential for lice, potty training, and what to do when we're both out of town and don't want our puppy to end up dog food himself. We gave him a nice Pantene Pro-V washing and began picking away at the fleas. After a while we gave up and put him in a box surrounded by concrete blocks I pried from the side of my house. He had a tasty dinner of soggy bread and water – hey, it's no Iams, but we're in Africa for Christsake! I hope he doesn't end up being a whiny dog that poops all over the place; I hope he does what I had intended, which was eat malevolent lizards and other gross things in my yard and keep a watch out for creepy people climbing over the walls of my concession. If not, I could always just open the door and look the other way. I doubt he'd get very far before meeting the same fate as his mouton neighbors. In less appealing news, the surprise my neighbors came home with from marché today was some sort of cross between a rooster that crows constantly and a peacock during mating season. It's been a real treat to listen to and I hope they have their feast or ceremony or wedding or whatever soon because I need to get some sleep.

CHURCH BASKET

Church today was a little weird. Yes, Mom, I've been trying to go and, in fact, have only missed two Sundays since coming to Africa (and went an extra Friday for Adoration, but that's another story). It took a good two hours just to get through the Communion part. Afterwards came the second basket collection. Yes, I said second, and normally there are three! Now, this just isn't the normal type of basket collection either – oh no, true to Beninese queueing style everyone gets up at the same time and stands in a motionless line through the center of church where they can parade themselves down to the collection basket. If you even hesitate to let, say, an elderly person into the fray you risk losing your entire slot and being relegated to the back of the stampede. As the choir goes nuts with off-key singing and weird "accompaniment" people make big displays of dropping their change into the baskets ("flinging" it is a more appropriate word, really). And this takes place not once, but three times during the course of a normal mass. This, however, was not a normal mass today. In fact, ten golden dragoons to whomever can tell me what was the holiday for this specific Sunday because I had to pay an extra 50F get some maroon and yellow ribbons pinned to me in celebration of the "fete." This particular fete meant that we did not have three collection baskets but only one large one then a second, more particular one in which two ladies with fantastically large hats on stood at the front of the church dancing and swaying and sort of clapping as one by one, the richer people in the community came up to "testify" to the church and give money which was then counted in front of the congregation. I saw the first one and that was enough – I was outta there. It wasn't enough that more than half the mass was in Adja, or Yoruba, or something other than English or French and that the parts that were in English were incomprehensible Nigerian English – it was easier to understand the French. Unfortunately, I knew I was only getting the "small, small" mass because the English and French parts were about 1/6 of the length of the parts in Adja and with a lot less enthusiasm (like reading from notecards) and it took three different priests to give the entire sermon and two other idiots with microphones (I think I previously explained the Beninese technological incompetence) to get money from people in the crowd. It was disheartening to realize that I would be attending church in a place where spirit really is not the richest currency, but where money is more important than even out on the streets. A show of wealth and status in church was the last place I thought I would see it; but, there it was, right beneath the off-center crucifix and diorama of Jesus and God having a conversation in a cave.

AMERICANA

Walking back from church is a painful, but sometimes, happier time. I can tell what kind of Sunday it will be based upon whether or not the constant "yovos" and ignorant name-calling can pierce through that "goodwill towards all brothers and sisters" feeling I created in church. Today was almost an even draw. It was almost pushed over the edge, however, when I got my first "white woman" call. That's right, it wasn't even a didn't-know-any-better "yovo" but a straight up, "White Woman, How Are You?" I title it in that manner with capital letters because that was very much how it felt. I never really acknowledged, but it's nice how in America you really can be from almost anywhere and no one would ever know the difference and, arguably more importantly, even if it were noticeable, people would not be so inclined to point it out to you on the street in such a blatant manner. You can walk by, unnoticed and not bothered by the people in the street. You are safe in your anonymity. Here, however, I am "White Woman, How Are You?" and it stung. I know it's probably not easy to imagine something so trivial hurting, but I definitely flinched at this seemingly archaic address and if, perhaps, I were a sociologist I might say the reaction was a cause of the blatant prejudice that accompanies being address ed in such a manner that pinpoints the difference in your skin from those that surround you. I would argue this is the case if someone should call out, "Rich Man, How is the Day Going?" to someone that is obviously affluent to all who surround him but in a neighborhood where perhaps being so different in that manner is not considered an asset. That is what being white means in Africa – that you are inherently considered to be more wealthy than those you pass on the street and it is told by the color of your skin; not how you behave, or what you buy, or how you eat or what you wear, but the color of your skin alone. When your whiteness is acknowledged it becomes an open address for the flood of groundless questions that follow,"how do I get to America with no money;" "Will you take me to America with you when you go back;" "Can I have money;" "Give me a gift; give me your clothes;" "I love you, will you marry me? At least give me your phone number." The list of pointless, painful interrogation goes on. Therefore, being called, "White Woman," carries with it all the prejudices and presumptions the Beninese have of what being "white" means to them. So I yelled back, "It is all going well, Black Man." I think by the time I reached my door the day was declared a draw.

AMANDA'S SIZE 13's

When "Chocolate" showed up at my house to do my grocery shopping in exchange for eating the food she brought and I paid for and then prepared I thought I was going to scream. She was the third or fourth visitor in a week that felt it necessary to come to my house, wait for my return by the door, or knock incessantly during the repose to ask me to be Amanda all over again. "But Amanda and I were friends and I would come over and we would amuse ourselves," she explained, sitting on my couch ready and waiting for me to commence with the amusement. At the time I didn't really have the strength or the cultural wherewithal to explain that I am not here for her amusement, I am not Amanda and, even worse, I didn't know her and quite possibly might never become the same friend to her that Amanda had been. So I caved and had a girl I didn't know promising to return with her sister in the morning to take down a grocery list, my money, and go to the marché with the full intent of returning to have me make her dinner and eat it all together – the three strangers sitting in my house with my belongings and my deep-seeded fear that everyone from the streets of Azovè is out to take full advantage. I am feeling, more and more succinctly, a pressure built upon the foundation of Amanda's work that I am expected to behave and continue in the same, exact manner as Amanda had. Again, another way in which we are all considered to be white and the same. I am a white girl, Amanda was a white girl. We're both Peace Corps volunteers. Therefore, in their reasoning and logical conclusions I will, naturally, want to have the same friends coming over to eat my food and the same weird kids coming by asking for my used Possotome water bottles and magazines; that I will want to have the same creepy man on the corner shake my hand for an unendurably long two minutes while he smiles and asks me questions about my house, my work, my husband and my kids (that he knows I don't have, but asks daily all the same). Once my Peace Corps-issued backbone comes in through the shuttle system (it goes once a month now from Cotonou) I can, calmly, explain that while we are both girls and both white we did not, in fact, come from the same factory in Detroit and therefore things will be a little different with this volunteer and, heck, she might not even do the same projects as the last one because them's the terms – two years and then "time's up!" Sorry, but I'm here to do my job to the best of my ability; not Amanda's (amazing volunteer!!).

18 September 2007

Tissue; Abomey Tech Visit; Gran Popo and the Equatorial Sunshine; Dr. Savage and the Longest Day

I am slowly acclimating to the heat and humidity over here. I went to the beach town of Gran-Popo and spent a day or two in a hammock on the beach and fully realized the effects of having an equatorial sun. I have quite the tan now, after just one day. My hair is in a perpetual state of frizz and curls (send some hard core conditioners!!!) and I leave the shower area and my house to be immediately coated in sweat – actually it reminded me a lot of exactly the way I felt when I visited Genevieve in New York during the summertime. Except with no air conditioning… EVER. My bed sheets are constantly damp from the humidity and all things wood (including my rosary and necklaces and food packaging) are covered in mold. It’s really impressive how short the shelf life is of most things here without the aid of air conditioning. Luckily, since it’s not the hot season yet (ha, ha!) I can sleep pretty well at night with the windows open and breeze blowing through, but a lot of other people have had to take some time to get accustomed to sleeping without a sheet on top – most nights a pagne is sufficient for a sheet/blanket which makes traveling a breeze because you use the almighty pagne as a towel, dress, beach blanket, and sheet to sleep in!

Now I want to step back for a moment and address an issue that was brought to my attention – the issue of tissue. I am going to explain how tissue works a little bit. Amazingly, almost whatever you could possibly want to wear you can make here and it only takes an impressive amount of patience, photos, pen, paper and at least one or two translators – no matter how great your French skills are. I have seen people have Banana Republic quality trousers and collared shirts made; girls with stretch fabric babydoll dresses; and boys that have Bumbas (like ponchos) with hoodies over long shorts. First step is to find a fabric you like – and they can get pretty crazy. I’ll start taking pictures to show you examples, but just for a taste: I’ve seen cuckoo clocks; spindles; typewriters; wallets with money falling out; UFOs; pictures of the president of Benin, YAYI Boni; Jesus, etc. all in patterns covering someone’s body in the most ridiculous and obnoxious of color schemes. It’s a game for most PCV (Peace Corp Volunteers) to see who can find the most bizarre or ugly of tissues and make it into something great to wear. So, once you have found the tissue you like and have argued for at least a good twenty minutes over the price, you take it to the tailor or couterie (if you’re a girl). The big difference being that a tailor can make pants and a couterie can make dresses and the two rarely ever cross over to the other. I have had four outfits made so far and that probably one of my favorite things to do: we’ll see if I have a future as a fashion designer. I’ll send you more photos as they come. It takes a lot of time to make sure that the seamstress really gets what I want down and that the measurements make sense (my weight has already fluctuated so much since arriving), but it’s so rewarding to have something flattering and made perfectly tailored to your body and needs (i.e. riding a bike in a skirt or hopping on the back of a zemi with a tight dress on).

Last week from Thursday until Friday I was in a town called Abomey located in the middle of the southern part of the country. It's rich in Beninese royalty history and was once the home to all the great mud palaces of the Beninese kings. In fact, it is in Abomey where one can see the “walls made with human blood,” which is actually tiny and in a weird museum that it was expensive and painful to get into. Basically I had a rough time of it all. Our group of 14 was split into groups of 4 (who went to the beach town of Ouidah), 5 (who went to the beach town of Gran Popo), and 5 (who went to the crapshoot of Abomey). We were going for “Technical Visits” which was our time to visit a location and witness, first hand, the tourism industry in Benin, it's advantages and shortcomings, and use our findings to write a recommendation on how to ameliorate those shortcomings. First of all, the three men we were scheduled to go see (the Director of the Department of Tourism for Abomey, the Mayor, and the museum curator) either weren't aware that we were coming and weren't there when we arrived; didn't know what we were supposed to be doing and so didn't allow us entry to the sites; or didn't know when exactly we were coming and didn't set aside sufficient time to speak to us regarding the matter. We spent a lot of time walking around in the hot, hot heat, not really seeing anything and being angry that Abomey was so poorly organized even if we had wanted to see some tourist sites we couldn't find them if we tried. We, as Americans, were expecting brochures, easily viewable hotels with signs, knowledgeable staff (our hotel couldn't even tell us where to eat or how to get to the Mayor's office), and a curator whose office was located inside the museum. None of these were present and it made for a very frustrating two days. I did, however, visit the marché at night (one of my new favorite things to do) and got some awesome pictures of the mosque and other sites in Abomey (attached). Friday night we all went to the awesome marché in nearby Bohicon and got stuff to make dinner back in Azovè. After a very, very hectic discuter session with a taxi driver and his two friends (no one really drives back to Azovè from Abomey and it's usually necessary to take a zemidjan the entire hour long trip) we finally got our goods back to the house and made a wonderful dinner (“what's at the marché is in it” casserole). My baking hands are still going strong, too, and I presented a delicious apple tarte for everyone afterwards. Then we went to Gran Popo and the real fun started. If anyone actually plans on visiting, this place is like a real resort to visit. Complete with delicious chocolate mousse that tastes like brownie batter and real steak! Peace Corps paid for it, so I enjoyed every bite. All the stagiaires remaining in our original group of 60 were there (well, 59 as of Philadelphia) and we had a great time hanging out on the beach. Pictures of my post mate and others in my stage are included.

This past Monday was my last day of administrative mumbo-gumbo. I still have to figure out the banking system, but I have no more health, safety and security, or “this is a cultural exchange” junk to listen to! I am finally, seriously, really going to be a volunteer in two days!!! Part of the administrative day in Lokossa (a nearby town to Azovè – about an hour away), was the regional medical officer's talk. Dr. Savage, yes, that's his real name, went into a lengthy discussion of how Peace Corps Benin is actually considered the “Posh Corps” and that we're big, whiny babies compared to the volunteers in Mauritania. The only real reasons he could give for why was because Mauritania is an Islamic republic and therefore alcohol is not allowed at all and it's the desert. I personally think Peace Corps is Peace Corps and it can't be all that easy for anyone – but I guess, seriously, we have it a lot easier than some other country's volunteers. Working as a Small Enterprise Development volunteer means I am in an ever better position that most of the volunteers within Benin itself. Even after saying all that, I have to say Dr. Savage's talk was a little harsh at times. It was to the point, which is necessary concerning health issues, but then he launched into a full frontal attack on the previous years of volunteers having “thick dossiers” in the med unit. Meaning, we complain a lot, as a country. He read through an anonymous file and I have to admit, a lot of it was superfluous, but by the time he was done talking I felt like going to Cotonou (the med unit) for my intestinal bacterial infection was a sign of weakness and that perhaps I wasn't fit for the Peace Corps. Yeah, it was that rough. He even told us there was a very, very small percentage of “Super Star” volunteers that you see at swear-in and never hear from again because they've adapted into their community, are doing well on their own and having tons of success in projects and work. He said yet another small percentage is “unfulfilled” volunteers that go home early and he credited them with having the inner personal strength to see that they just weren't fit for the Peace Corps and that they should go home. The in-between, he said, was the rest of us; the volunteers who just kind of get through their two years partying and doing some work and mainly just wasting resources. I think I talked to three people after that talk to convince them not to early terminate (E.T.). The man had a great sense of humor; he mentioned that he would love it if we all contracted some great sexually transmitted diseases that were curable (“Get Syphilis, make my day”) because it makes it more interesting for him and they're really easy to cure. The context was in encouraging us to not contract Hep C or HIV – two slightly less curable diseases. All in all, very painful day – glad it's over.

My new address, for all your wonderful, wonderful people out there sending me Reese's pieces and M&Ms and other goodies, is:

HENDERSON, Allison

B.P. 126

Azovè, Benin

Afrique de l'Ouest

Be sure to put “par avion” on your letters because it makes it easier for the postal workers to see that it's going to need to get across the Atlantic Ocean,too.

Hope all is going well, please send some recent photos, or just photos in general as we spend a LOT of time looking at them and describing loved ones at home with one another and it's just a lot easier with pictures.

I am slowly acclimating to the heat and humidity over here. I went to the beach town of Gran-Popo and spent a day or two in a hammock on the beach and fully realized the effects of having an equatorial sun. I have quite the tan now, after just one day. My hair is in a perpetual state of frizz and curls (send some hard core conditioners!!!) and I leave the shower area and my house to be immediately coated in sweat – actually it reminded me a lot of exactly the way I felt when I visited Genevieve in New York during the summertime. Except with no air conditioning… EVER. My bed sheets are constantly damp from the humidity and all things wood (including my rosary and necklaces and food packaging) are covered in mold. It’s really impressive how short the shelf life is of most things here without the aid of air conditioning. Luckily, since it’s not the hot season yet (ha, ha!) I can sleep pretty well at night with the windows open and breeze blowing through, but a lot of other people have had to take some time to get accustomed to sleeping without a sheet on top – most nights a pagne is sufficient for a sheet/blanket which makes traveling a breeze because you use the almighty pagne as a towel, dress, beach blanket, and sheet to sleep in!

TISSUE

Now I want to step back for a moment and address an issue that was brought to my attention – the issue of tissue. I am going to explain how tissue works a little bit. Amazingly, almost whatever you could possibly want to wear you can make here and it only takes an impressive amount of patience, photos, pen, paper and at least one or two translators – no matter how great your French skills are. I have seen people have Banana Republic quality trousers and collared shirts made; girls with stretch fabric babydoll dresses; and boys that have Bumbas (like ponchos) with hoodies over long shorts. First step is to find a fabric you like – and they can get pretty crazy. I’ll start taking pictures to show you examples, but just for a taste: I’ve seen cuckoo clocks; spindles; typewriters; wallets with money falling out; UFOs; pictures of the president of Benin, YAYI Boni; Jesus, etc. all in patterns covering someone’s body in the most ridiculous and obnoxious of color schemes. It’s a game for most PCV (Peace Corp Volunteers) to see who can find the most bizarre or ugly of tissues and make it into something great to wear. So, once you have found the tissue you like and have argued for at least a good twenty minutes over the price, you take it to the tailor or couterie (if you’re a girl). The big difference being that a tailor can make pants and a couterie can make dresses and the two rarely ever cross over to the other. I have had four outfits made so far and that probably one of my favorite things to do: we’ll see if I have a future as a fashion designer. I’ll send you more photos as they come. It takes a lot of time to make sure that the seamstress really gets what I want down and that the measurements make sense (my weight has already fluctuated so much since arriving), but it’s so rewarding to have something flattering and made perfectly tailored to your body and needs (i.e. riding a bike in a skirt or hopping on the back of a zemi with a tight dress on).

ABOMEY TECH VISIT

Last week from Thursday until Friday I was in a town called Abomey located in the middle of the southern part of the country. It's rich in Beninese royalty history and was once the home to all the great mud palaces of the Beninese kings. In fact, it is in Abomey where one can see the “walls made with human blood,” which is actually tiny and in a weird museum that it was expensive and painful to get into. Basically I had a rough time of it all. Our group of 14 was split into groups of 4 (who went to the beach town of Ouidah), 5 (who went to the beach town of Gran Popo), and 5 (who went to the crapshoot of Abomey). We were going for “Technical Visits” which was our time to visit a location and witness, first hand, the tourism industry in Benin, it's advantages and shortcomings, and use our findings to write a recommendation on how to ameliorate those shortcomings. First of all, the three men we were scheduled to go see (the Director of the Department of Tourism for Abomey, the Mayor, and the museum curator) either weren't aware that we were coming and weren't there when we arrived; didn't know what we were supposed to be doing and so didn't allow us entry to the sites; or didn't know when exactly we were coming and didn't set aside sufficient time to speak to us regarding the matter. We spent a lot of time walking around in the hot, hot heat, not really seeing anything and being angry that Abomey was so poorly organized even if we had wanted to see some tourist sites we couldn't find them if we tried. We, as Americans, were expecting brochures, easily viewable hotels with signs, knowledgeable staff (our hotel couldn't even tell us where to eat or how to get to the Mayor's office), and a curator whose office was located inside the museum. None of these were present and it made for a very frustrating two days. I did, however, visit the marché at night (one of my new favorite things to do) and got some awesome pictures of the mosque and other sites in Abomey (attached). Friday night we all went to the awesome marché in nearby Bohicon and got stuff to make dinner back in Azovè. After a very, very hectic discuter session with a taxi driver and his two friends (no one really drives back to Azovè from Abomey and it's usually necessary to take a zemidjan the entire hour long trip) we finally got our goods back to the house and made a wonderful dinner (“what's at the marché is in it” casserole). My baking hands are still going strong, too, and I presented a delicious apple tarte for everyone afterwards. Then we went to Gran Popo and the real fun started. If anyone actually plans on visiting, this place is like a real resort to visit. Complete with delicious chocolate mousse that tastes like brownie batter and real steak! Peace Corps paid for it, so I enjoyed every bite. All the stagiaires remaining in our original group of 60 were there (well, 59 as of Philadelphia) and we had a great time hanging out on the beach. Pictures of my post mate and others in my stage are included.

DR. SAVAGE AND THE LONGEST DAY

This past Monday was my last day of administrative mumbo-gumbo. I still have to figure out the banking system, but I have no more health, safety and security, or “this is a cultural exchange” junk to listen to! I am finally, seriously, really going to be a volunteer in two days!!! Part of the administrative day in Lokossa (a nearby town to Azovè – about an hour away), was the regional medical officer's talk. Dr. Savage, yes, that's his real name, went into a lengthy discussion of how Peace Corps Benin is actually considered the “Posh Corps” and that we're big, whiny babies compared to the volunteers in Mauritania. The only real reasons he could give for why was because Mauritania is an Islamic republic and therefore alcohol is not allowed at all and it's the desert. I personally think Peace Corps is Peace Corps and it can't be all that easy for anyone – but I guess, seriously, we have it a lot easier than some other country's volunteers. Working as a Small Enterprise Development volunteer means I am in an ever better position that most of the volunteers within Benin itself. Even after saying all that, I have to say Dr. Savage's talk was a little harsh at times. It was to the point, which is necessary concerning health issues, but then he launched into a full frontal attack on the previous years of volunteers having “thick dossiers” in the med unit. Meaning, we complain a lot, as a country. He read through an anonymous file and I have to admit, a lot of it was superfluous, but by the time he was done talking I felt like going to Cotonou (the med unit) for my intestinal bacterial infection was a sign of weakness and that perhaps I wasn't fit for the Peace Corps. Yeah, it was that rough. He even told us there was a very, very small percentage of “Super Star” volunteers that you see at swear-in and never hear from again because they've adapted into their community, are doing well on their own and having tons of success in projects and work. He said yet another small percentage is “unfulfilled” volunteers that go home early and he credited them with having the inner personal strength to see that they just weren't fit for the Peace Corps and that they should go home. The in-between, he said, was the rest of us; the volunteers who just kind of get through their two years partying and doing some work and mainly just wasting resources. I think I talked to three people after that talk to convince them not to early terminate (E.T.). The man had a great sense of humor; he mentioned that he would love it if we all contracted some great sexually transmitted diseases that were curable (“Get Syphilis, make my day”) because it makes it more interesting for him and they're really easy to cure. The context was in encouraging us to not contract Hep C or HIV – two slightly less curable diseases. All in all, very painful day – glad it's over.

My new address, for all your wonderful, wonderful people out there sending me Reese's pieces and M&Ms and other goodies, is:

HENDERSON, Allison

B.P. 126

Azovè, Benin

Afrique de l'Ouest

Be sure to put “par avion” on your letters because it makes it easier for the postal workers to see that it's going to need to get across the Atlantic Ocean,too.

Hope all is going well, please send some recent photos, or just photos in general as we spend a LOT of time looking at them and describing loved ones at home with one another and it's just a lot easier with pictures.