It’s been a while since I wrote, and I’d like to blame the oh-so-busy lifestyle I live in Cotonou. And while I do find myself busy a lot, I also find time to spend hours reading other people’s blogs – blogs of friends, acquaintances, acquaintances of friends, and of people I’ve never met before. And in reading these blogs, I shamed myself into finally posting again. If Pioneer Woman can find the time to update her blog approximately 75 times a day while also homeschooling four children and remodeling a house and writing a cookbook and cooking yummy looking food, documenting with gorgeous photographs all the while, then I can take some time out of my busy program of looking busy at work (because I’m procrastinating on all the real stuff I have to do to) to update this silly blog.

I have plans for this blog – I will write a comparative study of different types of moto-taxis. I will do an indepth report on my favorite bar in Cotonou. I might even take you behind the scenes of a tailor’s shop – the gritty underbelly of the fashionably dressed in Cotonou.

In the meantime, I’ll give you a quick recap of the last several months of my life.

I moved to Cotonou! From the tropical paradise of Grand Popo to the congested, polluted, vibrant, exciting big city. I still have mixed feelings about the whole thing, but at heart I’m a big city girl so really, I’ve been pretty comfortable here.

My mom came to visit! It was great. She is a fantastic traveler and only got heat exhaustion once (my fault). Highlights include her egging our guide on so that we could get closer to feasting lions while on safari, and her eye-rolling “do I have to?” attitude about wearing her moto helmet. It’s a wonder I survived past childhood.

I went to Mali! We climbed an escarpment in Dogon country. I was not aware there would be heights involved and had more than one panic attack on the side of a mountain, but I only got heat exhaustion once (not my fault). Mali is beautiful. Ouagadougou, where we spent New Year’s eve, is a great city.

Kate came to visit! It was great. We battled a giant mutant butterfly statue, braved the snake monkey monster lurking in the wilderness of Camaté when we lost the trail, and ate an obscene amount of food (including snails on a stick), as per usual.

And, now, I’m starting to think about leaving – the date is August 9th, folks. We had our Close Of Service conference recently – the first and last time every volunteer from my group has been together since we swore in as volunteers two years ago. It’s a strange feeling…

The scene: A drab electric company office, with chairs hugging the wall. Though it could accomodate over a hundred customers, thankfully there are only about 15 ahead of you. Rather than line up, you take a seat in a chair, in order. But don't get comfortable. Every 3 minutes or so, you must get up and move to a chair closer to the counter, as customers ahead of you are served. You must do this quickly, even if you are juggling a helmet, a cooler, a handbag, a pen, a notebook, and your electricity bill as you rapidly try to calculate your bill to see if there is a mistake in it. You are doing this by hand because your cell phone just died, because it wasn't charged, because your power has been cut for two days.

Me: i think there's a mistake on my bill

société Béninoise d'Energie Electrique (SBEE): no, we raised our prices.

Me: but the bill still lists the old prices on the back.

SBEE: (rolling her eyes) well, you're supposed to look at the front of the bill.

Me: how was I supposed to know that?

SBEE: well, there's a sign posted over there

Me: OK, if I pay, will you turn my electricity back on today?

SBEE: Yes, that will be 3,500cfa additional.

Me: But I was travelling for work and didn't even get my bill until a few days ago.

SBEE: That's too bad. 3,500cfa.

End scene.

(If only it had ended like that and not with me stomping out filled with righteous indignation, holding back tears because I was so annoyed and powerless and right, dammit).

There was a controversial bathroom at Georgetown when I was there. The walls of the girls bathroom on the 2nd floor of White Gravenor were a testimonial to the men to avoid at Georgetown. It ran from the mundane remarks about physical endowments and the like to serious warnings about physical and emotional violence – stay away from so-and-so. People’s opinions on the bathroom ranged from thinking it was a horrible violation of privacy to believing that it was a necessary early warning system for sexual predators.

I was reminded of the bathroom tonight as I was walking Yovo. A woman came up to me and said, “Hey, that guy you were talking to last night? He’s no good. Stay away from him. I live next door to him.” She didn’t go into specifics, but I suspect she wasn’t saying that he had loud parties or was un-neighborly. The guy in question had given me the creeps, quite frankly. I tried to avoid letting on exactly where I lived, and refused to give him my phone number. But he was one of those persistent creeps, who somehow makes you feel like you’re at fault for being creeped out by them. I have been here long enough that my instinct when a man starts talking to me is to brush them off, but every once in a while I feel bad, like I’m closing myself off to friends or conversations. So every once in awhile I actually listen to what creepy guy X is saying, and last night, I chatted with him for a few minutes (despite what they tell us in Peace Corps training, nonverbal communication doesn’t really help – my arms were folded, I slowly edged away, but nothing stopped him from trying to chat me up).

Anyway, she warned me against him, much like the bathroom wall in White Gravenor has warned hundreds (thousands?) of Georgetown students. It struck me how indirect this method is – passing information after the fact, through informal networks, rather than involve authorities or official capacities. But that’s what makes it effective, and I think necessary – there is no burden of proof, which means it can be abused, but also means that people can share instincts and hearsay. And honestly, I would rather trust someone else’s instincts and hearsay, which confirm my own, than wait for something horrible to happen and have the police confirm it with proper evidentiary procedure. Anyway, sort of a random post, but it really made me think about how networks of women have looked out for each other and found ways outside the formal channels to pass information and try to keep each other safe. I don’t think I’m in any danger from this guy, but it’s good to know to stay away, and I’m glad that woman said something to me.

Sometimes, something happens that just begs a blog post. Really, I am compelled to write about what happened to me today: the Most Awkward Peeing Experience Ever (MAPEE, if you will – truly the mother of all awkward peeing experiences). Surely, you say, nothing could be more awkward than the time the fat Italian baristo had to break down the bathroom door to let you out to a crowd of well-dressed Italians having cappuccino and what not. Indeed, my friend, this tops it.

A few things you should know about Beninese culture: 1) The owner of a bar and his family usually live in a house behind the bar 2) Beninese people pee in their showers 3) People are pretty comfortable with nudity and bodily excretions here. So, today I was at a bar, having dinner with my friend. I ask to use the bathroom and the server leads me through a curtain, past a woman and child taking a nap in a bedroom, and to their shower. Pretty normal so far. Except there is a woman showering there. (Perhaps a 4th cultural note: by “shower” I mean bucket bath). I explained that I could wait until the woman was finished. “Nonsense,” said the server. “Just go over there and do it.” (I’m paraphrasing only slightly). So, I sidle past this fully naked and soapy woman (it was not a very wide shower area) and crouch to do my business. Meanwhile, she just hangs out in the shower, waiting for me to be done. I truthfully had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of the moment. I finished, sidled past again, wished her a “bonne douche” (good shower) and was on my way. I appeared to be the only person even slightly surprised by the situation.

I guess I’ll miss these ridiculous moments when I’m done. In the meantime, let this be a lesson to always wear shower shoes when in Benin.

Can I still call myself a blogger (could I ever?)? Apologies for the six-month delay in writing. I wish I could say I’ve been busy but mostly that’s not true. Instead of chronicling what I’ve been doing, I’m just gonna jump write into a post about sharing…which is hopefully not as lame as I make it sound.

Every time I get frustrated here – feeling like people are just using me for money or status or whatever, something happens to shake me up and make me realize how much I really like Beninese culture. Often, it is the incredible and unexpected generosity of the Beninese, though I remain a bit conflicted about it. The other day, a friend and I were having a beer and the guys at the table next to us sent us over a beer. With no expectations – they didn’t try to talk to us or get our phone numbers. We were clearly foreigners and so they were welcoming us. I was talking with another friend about gifts and giving. In American culture, we have pretty limited and defined terms for gift giving – we give gifts on holidays and birthdays, to our friends and family. Our friends are pretty tightly defined as well – people we have known for a while and with whom we share some kind of bond or intimacy. Here, people use the term “friend” pretty loosely – the woman who sells me vegetables in the market calls me her friend, the student I met on the bus who asked if we could be friends, the little boy in Grand Popo who talks about his Canadian friends (probably the Quebecois nurses who come every year to work at the health center).

But, they also give things away with astounding ease. From buying beer for strangers at a local bar, to sharing your meal with your seat mate in a taxi, to showing up at someone’s house with fruit or vegetables, the vast majority of people I’ve met here take giving as a given. There is usually not an expectation of anything in return – the seat mate in a taxi, for example, might not have spoken a word to me before or after the food exchange is made. A friend invited me over the other day and insisted on sending me home with ice, avocadoes, and fried dough balls she had made that morning. When I tried to return the Tupperware the dough balls had come in, she said, “Oh, is it useful to you? If so, you should just keep it.”

There are times when this generosity of spirit causes problems for me. I find myself confronting my own selfishness at times – is it selfishness or being the product of a culture that prizes individualism and personal property? Maybe I’m just way more of a capitalist than I ever thought. But when people come up to me when I’m buying a snack and say “Oh, you’re going to buy me one too, right?” my reaction is usually “No, why the hell would I buy you a snack if I don’t even know you?” Or when the kids who help take care of my yard come to my house and start pointing at things: “what is this? Can I have it?” my instinct is to shout at them. Because it’s MY stuff, dammit. I bought it, or was gifted it and it’s in my house…I would never go to their house and start pointing to things or asking for them. But in truth, if I did, they would give me whatever it was without a second thought.

And maybe that’s where I have trouble with the whole system: In the States, I feel like I would give anything to a friend in need, and I would know in return that my friend would do the same. I would expect a friend not to ask for something unreasonable and I wouldn’t ask them for something unreasonable. Here, though, I’m still learning the rules and the expectations. It seems the lines of friendship are much looser and sharing and giving are an obligation of living in society, rather than a choice you make based on a shared relationship. And, it’s hard to say no, knowing that I have a lot more than many of the people around me, and that on the whole, my community has welcomed me with extraordinary generosity – feeding me, inviting me out, and looking out for my well-being. I’m still figuring out how to deal with those little cultural situations as they arise – sometimes I buy a snack for people, other times I make a joke or an excuse and get out of there. I’m hoping that I come back to the US a more generous and open person, but it’s amazing how deep this cultural training runs – I just hope I can find a middle ground between the reactionary-Republican-dismantle-the-welfare-state attitude and the sure-I’ll-let-you-have-ten-dollars-why-don’t-you-take-my-credit-card-too mindset. In the meantime, I’ll go on enjoying the occasional free beer and muddling my way through daily social interactions.

Lest you think that life in the Peace Corps is one big frustrating, hot, bug-filled waste of two years (in dark moments, I sometimes think this), I share with you today’s (well, Friday's)awesome story of success.

The local artists (think hand carved wooden statues, beaded necklaces, and batiks) are in the process of forming an association. They were struggling a bit with getting started, so I offered to step in to facilitate meetings. Last week, we talked about what a good association looked like and what the qualities and responsibilities of the association’s leaders should be. I was pretty pleased with how it went, especially when they asked me afterwards to continue in my role as facilitator for the next meeting, where they would elect their officers.

The Ministry of Artisanal Crafts, Tourism, and Culture has a complicated, decentralized structure with representatives at the village, commune, department, and national level, covering all the different métiers covered under “artisinat.” I’m not entirely sure how to translate “artisinat” but really, it just means anything made by hand – from cheese to furniture to clothing to salt. Each métier has an association and then each association sends representatives to the commune level, which sends reps to the department, etc. I don’t quite get all the different pieces of it, so I invited a very cool old lady to come in and break it down for us. She is a couturier by profession, is the former president of the artisans collective at the commune level, and was just elected as an advisor at the department level.

I was nervous – I invited her this morning, without consulting the guys in the group. I wasn’t even sure she was going to show up. She’s a talker, and can be hard to reign in once she gets going. And, I didn’t entirely know what she was going to say. Once she had the floor though, she was incredible. She had such as command of the room and an incredible gift for storytelling. She ended up talking for over an hour (which I hadn’t quite predicted) but in the end it was clearly worth it. The newly elected officers took the membership (there were a grand total of 7 people at the meeting, including the officers) to a back room and conferred. A few minutes later, they came back and bashfully offered up a 2000 CFA bill, to cover “transport and to buy a soda.” We promptly donated it back to the association. But it was so cool that they felt like they got that much out of the meeting that they wanted to pay us back some how.

As if that weren’t crowning achievement enough, Madame then gave a little closing statement, entirely in local language. She turned to me and said, in Mina, “And now we should also thank Big Sister Elizabeth for getting us together.” And I understood! Not just the gist of what she was saying, but actually the entire sentence – the vocabulary, sentence structure, everything. When I responded, “You’re welcome” in Mina, they burst into applause. Not to toot my own horn or anything (my Mina is pretty awful usually) but I was really freaking proud of myself at that moment.

There’s still a long way to go before I can say that the Association is a success – for all I know, people lose interest next week and the whole thing folds. But, in any case, I did a good thing at this meeting and I’m pretty jazzed about it. So jazzed in fact, that I baked a chocolate banana cake, which I am now going to eat. (And I wonder why I’m gaining weight here…). So, TTFN in the words of Tigger (or Pooh? Ugh, can’t keep my Milne characters straight).

Sorry for the long delay. Now that I’ve been in Benin over six months (holy crap, how did that happen?) things seem more normal and so I don’t always know what to write about. Recently, I’ve been having some work setbacks, based on the fact that there is NO COMMUNICATION between anyone, anywhere. For example, my English club was ready to go (you will remember that I blogged about this months ago), and two days before it’s supposed to start, when 350 students had been informed of this start, I found out about a bureaucratic hurdle I hadn’t cleared and I had to cancel the first meeting. Nevermind that my coworkers had heard me talk about the club since October…you would think that at least once in the intervening months they would think to mention these kinds of things. But, have no fear, the students of Grand Popo will have all the English they can stand starting this Wednesday. Those random kids with me are Ado and Grido, the kids of my counterpart. They are actually really sweet kids who seem to genuinely like me, but they are pulling Beninese picture taking faces so they look like they've never heard the word "fun" in their lives.

Meanwhile, Yovo puppy continues to grow at an alarming rate. She must be at least 3 times as big as when I got her. Her favorite activities include chewing things up and jumping on my face when I’m trying to sleep. She also dabbles in tracking dirt throughout my house and not listening to me when I tell her not to strew my underwear around the house. Unfortunately, she is so very cute and has a tendency to curl up on my feet when she’s tired. So I guess I can’t get rid of her.

Hmm…in other news I’m planning my trip to Burkina Faso for FESPACO (first week in March), the largest film festival in West Africa. Apparently, Ouagadougou is the film capital of West Africa (who knew?) and the Burkinabe love movies. It’s supposed to be a pretty big deal. Right now, the plan is to take an overnight bus from Cotonou to Ouaga, which is supposed to take about 20 hours. I suspect it will be a memorable voyage. I have heard rumours that the trip can take as long as 35 hours, what with breakdowns etc. There better be some damn good cinema at the other end of that ride.

On a sadder note, my Finnish intern friend is leaving, which is a bummer since we have become good friends (and he’s my dogsitter). However, we’ve had several days of awesome (and inventive) food as a result, including last night’s creation: pineapple-mango-coconut curry with couscous and mashed sweet potatoes. Delicious. But, Jaakko, you will be missed in the ‘Po.

On the docket today: calling Finland for a local artist; getting the key to the American Corner library (where we will be holding the club); drumming up interest for a training on forming a good association among local artisans; and talking with the condescending Chamber of Commerce rep about the Tourism Information Center. While that doesn’t seem like it could occupy a full 8 hours, I am doubtful I will even get to it all today. But, on that note, I should at least get started.

P.S. The title of this post is a reference to the extremely obvious questions that make up about 90% of my interactions. It's rude to walk by someone without saying something, but often there isn't anything to say. So instead; you can just ask something to the effect of "are you there?' and the person responds "yes, i'm here". You could also just ask them a question based on what they're doing. For example: "are you typing?" "yes i'm typing." "are you riding your bicycle?" "yes i'm riding my bicycle". It used to annoy me until I realized that I never had to struggle to make conversation again.

Me and my new puppy, Yovo, wish you all a very merry christmas. It was a quiet affair here, filled with a very boring church service in Mina, Annie's Mac & Cheese, and an unexpectedly depressing bollywood film. Oh, and glug and cookies with the Finns. All in all, not half bad.

Though, if you tried to call and couldn't get through, blame the fog that apparently screws with the cell networks this time every year, making my phone think it's in Togo. Hopefully it will all be better soon.

Hey gang - I just posted some pics to facebook. Really, facbook should allow me to create a feed to blogger but they don't seem to (does anyone else know how I could make that work?). In the ;eantime, here's a preview for you to entice you to check out the pics next time you're on facebook. That's me dancing in Togo and the sunset in grand popo, at the beach across the street from my house.

There have recently been requests from my loyal readership to offer a bit more insight into my daily life here in the GPo. At the risk of boring you all to tears, here goes.

Right now, I’m trying to start an English club and a book club, both projects I’m pretty excited about. Today, I met with the English teachers of the local high school to get them on board with the English club, which was my first real experience with a Beninese style meeting (think lots of protocol and hierarchy). Overall, it was a successful meeting, though we did spend about half an hour talking about ways that previous English clubs have failed. I think that was to help us avoid pitfalls but it did seem a bit fatalistic at times. All in all, I think the English club is going to be fun – I have visions of playing Hangman and Scrabble and Simon Says. I’m also going to try my damndest (sp?) to get my hands on some “Schoolhouse Rock” so if anyone has it and can burn me a copy of some choice episodes, let me know.

Right now I’m working my way through a Ziploc of brownies that the PC Country Director made. She’s visiting all the volunteers and she always brings baked goods on her visits (awesome!). On account of the ants, I have to eat the whole thing tonight (this is not difficult).

Hmmm…took a break to read the SELF magazine the CD left with me. Am realizing now how terrible Peace Corps is for the health. Lets see…fresh vegetables limited to tomatoes, onions, occasionally carrots and cabbage. Oh, and okra and eggplant. Yum. Abundantly available are yams, cassava, white rice, and other calorie-laden starches. One of the main dishes here is pate, or cornmeal paste. Oh, and everything is cooked in oil. Deepfrying is a favorite cooking technique. At least I’m eating local. I’m resolving here and now to try and eat salad at least once a week and to attempt Pilates or some other time of exercise a few times a week. Though I bike everywhere, Grand Popo is completely flat and I’m pretty sure I’m not getting much of a workout. As I am not known for my willpower, we shall see how long this lasts.

Finally, my official project here is to work on stuff with tourism with the Mayor’s office. I wish I could be more specific, but alas, I’m not sure the Mayor’s office has a more specific idea in mind. For the moment, I’ve been talking to just about everyone and trying to get a sense of what is happening in Grand Popo already and what people would like to see happen. So, a typical day usually involves going to the Mairie for an hour or two, then heading off to pick up a survey from one of the hotels (I’m surveying them on their needs and perceptions of the role of the Mayor’s office in tourism). In the afternoon I will meet with a guide maybe or go to greet some official I haven’t met yet. It’s a slow moving life. Right now, I’m working on figuring out what it will mean to me to be “successful” so I can start figuring out if I am working towards success.

I don’t know if that clarified anything for anyone but I’m going to try and post less about bugs and more about my life in the future. Bugs are easy because I usually have a very strong and visceral reaction that doesn’t require much processing. But for you, dear readers, I shall attempt to dig deep and give you something interesting to read.

Yesterday, I went to Togo for the first time. It literally is over the river and through the woods (or rather, palm trees). It’s actually pretty cool – we went down this little path I have always seen but didn’t know where it led, and suddenly there was a tiny river, maybe 20 feet wide, and a little boat ferrying people back and forth. I maintain that it couldn’t be that deep and you could probably walk across, but I did not take up my friend’s challenge to try it.

We went to Agba Na Ke, which is where the king lives. Though he’s in Togo, he is the monarch for the people of Grand Popo. GP is a weird little inlet on the map into Togolese territory, and it was only at independence that it was really considered part of Benin. So, as is the story with so many former colonies, the Xwla and Xweda people were divided between two countries, though the language, culture, and religion are the same and they are separated by 20 feet of water. There are some who now dispute the monarch’s authority in Benin, but most people acknowledge that Agba Na Ke is an important site in the history of the people of this area.

In any case, we did not go to see the king. Instead, we went to what I thought was a funeral, but might just have been a party. It was very cool – It can be hard for me to access “traditional” Beninese culture in Grand Popo because there are so many tourists and so people either assume they know what foreigners want to see or they just ignore my presence. Plus my house is situated in a pretty barren stretch of land – mostly hotels and overpriced restaurants directly around me. Anyway, it was cool to be able to experience a little bit of the fete culture of Togo. For example, when we arrived, they poured a little bit of alcohol on our feet to welcome us from our voyage. Hosts always offer water, so we took a sip of that. Then it was time for a shot of gin (at least it wasn’t sodabe). And finally, a plate of food (nevermind that it was only an hour or so after lunch).

Then, someone brought out a small statuette and I got excited – maybe I was going to see a real live voodoo ceremony! He then brought out baby powder and sprinkled it in what looked like a very ceremonial and occult fashion. Then, he very seriously placed the statue in a bucket and a towel over the blanket. The ceremony began…and ended with him miraculously pulling candy out of the statue. What I had taken to be a ceremony imbued with meaning was in fact a magic show. He proceeded to do tricks making money appear and disappear. He did a really gross trick in which I had to spit on my hand and then he made the spit move to the other side of my hand. I just hope that it was my spit that we were working with the whole time (I think saliva is gross…this was not my favorite trick). It was almost comical because he took himself incredibly seriously – one would think that David Blaine himself was there. In the end, he finished up and left and we all danced (including me – shocking, no?). Americans automatically look dumb dancing to traditional music. No two ways about it. But it’s a great source of entertainment to others so I swallowed my pride and flapped my arms with the rest of the women.

And that is the story of my afternoon in Togo. Borders are still strange to me because as Americans, we think of borders as things that are really far away and/or sites of heavy-handed state control and/or places of illegal activity. But borders can really be little strips of river that people don’t really pay attention to (except for the time change between here and Togo, which seems ridiculous) and crossing can be as normal as going to the weekend market on one side of the river or the other. Ok, enough philosophical musing. I’ve gotta go do real work (meaning reheating my dinner from last night and hoping I don’t give myself food poisoning…food storage is a bit tricky without a fridge in 90+ degree heat).

If I’ve spoken to you in the last two months, I have complained about the ants. Dear Lord, I have never hated something so small, so much. They get into never before been opened jars of peanut butter. They infiltrated the Tupperware with my sugar in it. They swarmed my freshly baked cornbread. I swear to God, I found an ant inside the screen of my cell phone. They are everywhere. They can even walk on water.

For a while, I thought I was outsmarting them – I would open a can of sweetened condensed milk, and (not having a refrigerator) I would put the can in a bowl of water. This was after putting a piece of cardboard in the hole and putting the can in a Ziploc bag failed to repel the ants. For a while, the system worked. Then one day I awoke to a can swarming with ants. I concluded that either they had divine help, or they were sacrificing some ants and using them as an insect bridge from the edge of the bowl to the can. The problem is that I am utterly powerless in the face of both scenarios. If God is on their side, I should just let them have the damn milk. And if they are so organized and masochistic so as to literally walk on the backs of their fallen comrades, well then, I don’t stand a chance.

At first I was angry – I threw things, screamed, and cursed at the ants. Then I was resigned – I tossed the sugar, stopped buying condensed milk. Next, I was defiant – they were not going to take my fancy (and expensive) granola bought in Cotonou away from me, even if it meant that I had to eat ants. Now, I am trying a tactic of all out guerilla warfare. I have an array of insecticides, all most likely illegal in the US and causing unknown harm to myself and potentially my future children. One is called “RAD” which stands for “Read a Dream” which not only is nonsensical but also has nothing to do with insects. It promises, “One touch kills vermin in the whole room!” It works well in the moment but doesn’t have the long lasting preventive power I’m looking for. So Sister Francisca (not really a nun, but it would be funny if she were) gets me some white powdered stuff called “Commando” which has the Ghana Standards Board seal of approval. It is multipurpose: you can use it on your garden, in your house, in your latrine, and to delouse your dog or fowl. Some volunteers from Burkina suggested filling cans with kerosene and setting them under the table legs. This might work, though I’m afraid that frequent power outages (and subsequent match/candle usage) might not mix well with open containers of kerosene.

So we’ll see whether these new plans work out. If not, I might need professional help by the time I’m done with my two years (sometimes I sing to them: “I hate you little anties/ yes I do/ you’re the worst creatures in the world.” You can make up the tune as you go along.) In any case, you don’t need to worry about me getting enough protein.

I used to dread seeing a big, red box from my grandmother beneath the Christmas tree. Grandma hated sending money or gift certificates, but she also hated shopping at the stores I liked. Grandma subscribed wholeheartedly to the “it’s better to give than to receive” philosophy. She loved giving gifts, but only gifts that she herself would want. My mother, bless her heart, tried every year to convince Grandma to take a gander at Urban Outfitters or Anthropologie, but to no avail. Grandma’s favorite store was Talbots. The last present she gave me was a red boiled wool jacket from there. Because I’m a terrible person, I returned it without her ever knowing (I’m banking on a lack of Internet in the afterlife to save me from Grandma finding out posthumously). I got a hefty amount of store credit to a place I was sure I would never find anything for me.

As I began packing for Benin, I realized that my wardrobe was heavy on moth-eaten sweaters, skinny jeans, and holey t-shirts. Somehow none of those things seemed right for business casual in Benin, so I went shopping. My wonderful and amazing Aunt Joan came into Seattle for the day, and we hit the mall for modest, practical clothing. This could be Talbots’ tag line – I finally needed them! Despite my embarrassment, we managed to find some lovely things, which is exactly how my grandmother would have described them. In fact, she would have been so happy to go with me to buy these lovely things. I sent a silent prayer up to her as I handed over my store credit to the cashier.

I haven’t yet described laundry here, but it is an intense process, a physical workout that leaves me drenched in sweat, with blistered hands and sore muscles. It is a tripartite system – everything gets soaped and scrubbed three times, paying extra attention to collars, crotches, and armpits. [Tripartite is the wrong word I think…Someone who knows about these things come up with a better adjective please]. Granted, now that I’m on my own there is no one to enforce laundry standards, and I could just slop my shirts around in the bucket and call it a day, much like I hand wash delicates in the States. But I am here to integrate into the culture, dammit, and I will kill myself to do laundry like the Beninese if that’s what it takes. Plus, if Estelle in Porto Novo (who taught me to do laundry) found out I was skimping she would be horrified. Compounding the problem of rigorous washing, the detergent apparently errs on the side of caution and tries to remove everything, including all color, from your clothing.

So, my clothes have been subjected to this intense and damaging process for three months thus far. And all my adorable hipster T-shirts and skirts are desperately faded and worn (which is a look I would normally go for, but Beninese are pretty clothing conscious and it just doesn’t do). But my three Talbots T-shirts are in incredible shape – holding up in color and construction. And I finally realized that Grandma wasn’t just stubbornly buying me what she wanted me to wear (though that was part of it) but also that she really wanted me to have a wardrobe of good things that lasted. Though she wasn’t thrilled about the Peace Corps idea (she had long harbored hopes that I would join the Foreign Service and become the Cultural Attaché to Finland) I know she would be glad that I am at least well equipped. Thanks, Grandma.

Today I found the largest bug I’ve ever seen with my own eyes (because I’ve seen with other people’s eyes??) inching its way towards my shower. It looks like it’s capable of flight so I didn’t want to anger it, which rules out killing it. It also is large enough that I’m not sure I can kill it – there are lizards smaller than this bug, and I would never kill a lizard. In short, it’s too close to being a sentient being. Plus it would make a huge and disgusting mess, which I will inevitably leave there as long as possible, if my treatment of the giant cockroaches I kill on occasion is any warning. I had people over for dinner yesterday, and I realized then that I should probably take more care to remove the bug carcasses from my house before inviting guests.

In other news, we had the longest power outage of my sejour in Benin – almost a full day (from about 6pm to 10 am the next day). On the plus side, it meant that my guests only saw a couple of the dead bugs in my house. I also learned a nifty mosquito catching technique – put a candle in a tin can, hold flame to mosquito, mosquito jumps into tin can and dies. We caught one that was full of blood, and you could see its distended, red belly glowing in the candlelight. Pretty disgusting.

UPDATE: the giant, unidentified bug can indeed fly. I vanquished the evil beast though - it landed on a broom which I promptly threw out the door.

Strange, Larium induced dreams last night; the strangest was probably one where Dell had set up a large tent about 20 feet from my door and the four people working it were Gtown people…Even stranger was that I wasn’t surprised to see them, or a Dell tent in the middle of my street in Benin. Of course, I was busy trying to get home with wads of cash with a bunch of sketchy people following me.

So I’m blaming the Larium for my weird dreams and restless sleep, but it could well have been the Sodabe I drank last night with dinner. The family at the Methodist church near me invited me to eat with them. I was excited – I’m really trying to befriend families because I’m so sick of the only people I know being young, single men (what kind of parallel universe am I in? Six months ago at the Evans School I couldn’t even fathom that thought…) Anyway, I guess I went in with lots of assumptions – I was prepared for the sisters to be slaving away and the men to be sitting watching TV. Instead, it was the oldest son directing the action of the preparation; his sister made pate (pr. “pot” – white paste made from corn flour; actually quite yummy with good sauce); he cleaned fish and fretted over the sauce; his brother chopped onions. He explained every step of the way: “Now I’m adding tomato paste in addition to the fresh tomatoes because I want the sauce to be really delicious.” (He might have said “to be really sweet” because the slang word for delicious (or cool) is also the word for sweet, much like in English). Then the real surprise – I expected that the family didn’t drink at all because they are religious but that is just not the case. Apparently, you take a shot of sodabe (local moonshine) before eating. Mama, bless her heart, knocked hers back like a champ while I was gagging a bit (though I think they gave me more than others). Next, a strange cocktail of citronella, sodabe, sweetened condensed milk, sugar, and ice. I felt a little bit like I was drinking mosquito repellant, but it worked to keep me from being bitten at least. Finally, wine in a box. We sat in the courtyard on mats and ate from the same bowl with our (right) hands – I felt like I’d finally arrived in Grand Popo. Though, I am pretty incompetent at eating with my hands apparently, and managed to drip red oil all over myself and drop bits of pate everywhere. Despite the mess, I went home contented that I had successfully navigated my first dinner invitation. Now to find a way to keep the invitations coming so I don’t ever have to cook for myself…

(Sorry, this Benin-themed pun thing might have gone too far with that title...it doesnt even make sense really, but I'm hungry and short on time)

A very smart lady just chastised me in a letter for not updating my blog, so here we go. Not that I have any readers left, since I’m sure you’ve all got better things to do than check if I’ve gotten my act together and updated this thing.

As I turned on my computer to write this, the power cut so I’m typing in the dark by lantern light, which is all a bit strange. I just came back from an art opening at the Finno African Cultural Center – an exhibition of the cover art of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, in English, French, and Finnish. What it has to do with Finland or Benin , I’m not quite sure, since the books are by a Scottish guy raised in South Africa and all take place in Botswana . But these are the little mysteries that keep my life interesting (like why the heck is there a Finno-African Cultural Center across the street from me?)

Life in Grand Popo goes well. I’ve been here three weeks, and I think I have received nearly 100 marriage proposals so far. At this point, I’ve woven an elaborate tale of the fiancé I’ve left “la-bas” (back home), who was sad to see me go but understands that this is what I need to be doing right now. He’ll probably come visit, so if anyone wants to pretend to be my fiancé, I could really use some help before two years is up. It is a bit frustrating though – no matter who I talk to or how un-romantic our conversation seems to be, it always turns to whether I’m married and whether the person can drop by sometime to see me. The poor, stuttering water meter reader got the brunt of my frustration the other day as he struggled to hit on me despite his speech impediment. I rolled my eyes and said “Do I owe you money for my bill? Because if I don’t, you should go.” To his credit, he did turn around and go. Hopefully he doesn’t jack up my bill as a result (really, if I’d been thinking ahead, I could have gotten free water for the rest of my time here. Hindsight…)

Despite the marriage proposals (or maybe because of them?) people here are really welcoming and generally helpful. For example, the woman who sells me fruit every week stopped me as I left the house last week and essentially said, “You’re wearing that shirt with those pants?” She phrased it as, “When a sister sees another sister making a mistake, she has to say something.” I went back in and changed. Now that I don’t have Kate or Sophie to tell me when things don’t match, I’m at a loss, and must rely on the kindness of strangers (or fruit sellers…this fruit seller is actually a midwife from Ghana who couldn’t find medical work here and so has to sell fruit instead…I’m overwhelmed sometimes by the unfairness of life).

Now, I’m waiting to head out to a Ramadan party, or rather, an end to Ramadan party. There aren’t many Muslims in Grand Popo, but apparently they go all out for the end of Ramadan. And it’s a national holiday, so the mayor’s office wasn’t open and I got to hang out at home and do laundry and go to bizarre art openings across the street from me. So all in all a good day, and as good a place as any to end this update. Continue to write letters and emails and make phone calls, if you all can afford to in the wake of the economic disaster that apparently is the US right now. I only hear the worst, so you should call to reassure me that I’ll be able to find a job in two years when I get back (or will I be better off learning how to work the land here instead?)

Clockwise from the top: the ocean at ouidah, me with a snake around my neck, the door to the pythn temple that the snake came from, and a rooster, looking very pleased with himself.

It has been exactly one month since I left the States, so it seems a fitting time to offer something of a State of the Liz address.

I am trying something new today, to encourage my writing: typing on my laptop in my room and uploading when I’m done. This setup is contributing to a weird sense of displacement; I’m listening to a KEXP podcast as I write, but I can hear the drums and singing of an African church service in the background. I’m not sure if I should have a cup of coffee and a bagel next to me or rice and red sauce to keep me going. But that is a lot of what this past month has been – odd juxtapositions of old and new, Western and African (recognizing that both those terms collapse a whole lot of diversity into one word), and in some ways, good and bad.

First of all, there is stage (pronounced stahje), which is our training period and is a bit like summer camp and middle school all rolled into one. There were great times in both, and also horribly awkward, why-can’t-I-do-anything-right times too. We’re in class from 8am (that’s right, folks: I get up at 6:45 every morning and I ride my bike to school) to about 6pm (with a 3 hour lunch break in there so we can take a nap – I’m a big fan of cultures with institutionalized napping). Mostly language (French) training but also a fair amount of cross cultural (e.g. what is sodabe?), technical (e.g. accounting for illiterates), and practical (e.g. how to fix a flat tire).

[By the way, the question of what to eat has been answered – someone just knocked on my door and offered me a plate of rice and red sauce. Guess I’ll have to wait a couple of years for that bagel and coffee.]

Living with a host family has also been awesome but definitely takes adjustment – to a new schedule and a new group of people. Though my French is miles better than what it was, it’s still hard to communicate entirely in a different language. The kids are 3, 9, and 12 and they are adorable and awesome if way too energetic at times. The food is delicious mostly (with a few things thrown in that I’m still adjusting too – the infamous “sauce gluante” which has a bit of a mucus-ey consistency). I’ve resigned myself to the fact that women gain weight here and men lose it. Must have something to do with all the carbo-loading in the diet here. There are many fried things here, so I’m happy about that. AND, someone said that in the region I’ll be posted in has a lot of tofu. So I should be set.

On to that bit of news – After swearing in as a volunteer (until you finish training you are, appropriately, a trainee) I will be living in Grand Popo, pretty much as far Southwest as you can get with out being in Togo (which I can walk to Togo apparently). I’m excited because I will be on the beach, literally. Grand Popo is a resort area and poor fishing village (again, that juxtaposition) and probably one of the more developed tourist areas in Benin. This will be a mixed blessing – people will be used to white people, but as tourists, not volunteers. Also, everyone else will want to visit so I will see lots of people. In any case, living at the beach for two years can’t possibly be all that bad. No word yet on what kind of house I will have. I would much rather have electricity than running water I’ve decided – check back in a few months of hauling water and see if I’ve changed my tune…

What else to say, other than that the Beninese are incredibly welcoming and generous? The other day, we were buying oranges and a priest came over to talk to us and ended up buying the oranges and some sugarcane for us. In Beninese culture, for example, you should always have food in the house in case someone comes to visit. When you first arrive in anyone’s house, they bring out a cup of water for you (which, so far, we’ve had to decline since it’s not treated). So, while I’m nervous about integrating into my community, I’m not worried that people will be mean or unwelcoming, as long as I put in the effort. And on that note, I end. Anyone who writes me a snail mail letter will get one back (but I can’t promise the same for email).

The big day is finally approaching - I leave tomorrow for Philadelphia, where I will meet up with the other folks in my cohort. On Thursday, we get on a plane for Benin! (well, technically to Paris, but then to Benin).

I've been trying to sort out how I'm feeling about leaving, and the truth is, I don't know yet. I have a feeling I won't know until I get to Benin, and maybe not a for a few months after that. I'm incredibly excited, but in the way you get excited before Christmas when you have absolutely no idea what you could possibly be getting as presents. It's hard to focus my excitement, since I really don't know exactly what I will be doing. I'm also very caught up in the minutiae of packing and leaving - how many pairs of underwear do I have? am I going to get a freaking shortwave radio? how do I drop 5 pounds from my suitcase without sacrificing an "essential" item? So I haven't thought much about actually being there.

Which is not to say I don't have plans for Benin. I am going to keep up this blog. I am going to write letters (proper, pen-and-paper letters. You will get one too if you write to me). I am going to try my hand at gardening. I am going to teach myself to crochet. In terms of being in my community, I am going to learn how to cook Beninese dishes. I am going to attend a voodoo ceremony (Benin is the home of the voodoo religion). I am going to ride my bike lots of places. I am going to get over my fear of motorcycles and get around on them. I am going to make a fool of myself trying to speak French and whatever local language they speak. I am going to try to dance (omg...me dancing? hilarious). I am going to work on my meeting new people skills. I am going to find out about Beninese NGOs. I feel a bit Stuart Smalley about the whole thing, but I think it's important to have some goals, and these seem like pretty manageable & concrete things to work on.

Oh, I realize that you might not even know what I'm going to be doing. As it turns out, I don't really either. I am a "small enterprise development" volunteer, which apparently means I could be working with local artisans, local entrepreneurs, an NGO, local government....the list goes on. I'm guessing that I will be in a town or semi-urban area and working with an NGO. Potentially I'll get to do some technology stuff (and use TTGO?!) as well. I would LOVE to work with an NGO that had some gender empowerment aspect to their work. It would be so cool to learn about what Beninese feminism looks like and how it plays out in organizational work. But

In a few days I will have much more interesting things to say and report. 'Til then, stay cool and wish me luck!