My friend Dave and I weaved ourselves through Marché St. Michel. Heat beat down through the metal roofing making the market mamas even feistier and more difficult than usual. In broken French they asked, “What do you want?” and we said “Todo todo,” the word for turkey in Fon.

We found one quickly. He was beautiful, shiny feathers, large, with an illustrious chin flapping from his beak. We looked at others, but in the end, this one would be our thanksgiving dinner. He would be named America.

Dave had to stay in the city, but fortunately, Carla needed a ride back to Ouidah. America, now stuffed in a cement sack half his size, warmed my back. He was the original turkey sandwich, between myself and Carla, on the back of my motorcycle. Just his head rested outside of bag, his face catching the hot afternoon wind rolling off of my shoulders.

Upon arrival in Ouidah, we jumped off the motorcycle and presented Adrien with the turkey. “It’s old,” he said. I cursed myself for not knowing the difference between an old and young turkey while Adrien snipped off the cords that tied America’s wings and feet together. He stepped out of his sack, fluffed his feathers into full glory and approached is new wife, Lucy, who had all too eagerly been awaiting the arrival of a male turkey in my household. This eagerness was all too evident when, seconds out of the shopping bag, America mounted Lucy, and the poult-making began.

The next days passed all too quickly for dear old America. In addition to a lot of intimate time with Lucy, he wandered around the yard, eating, bothering the other animals, and assuming his position as the largest and prettiest bird in the yard. The ducks would not mess with him, nor would the chickens. The dogs would coyly approach him, and back off as his hissing and gobbling became more furious. Lucy counted the days with eggs, all while fluffing up her feathers to keep his attention.

And then the fatal day came. I sat in front of my work computer, surfing youtube. I found it – how to slaughter a turkey. I watched the video over and over. I made Jacob sit down and watch it twice. He explained it to Adrien. The fattened factory farm turkeys were two times the size of America, but we assumed the process was the same. The deed was done that night. America was no more. Jacob posing with America on the Eve of Thanksgiving America spent his post-life day swimming in a bath of rosemary, sage, and salt. A makeshift spit-oven was created. Lydia and I dug a foot deep hole in the ground. We placed cinderblocks around the hole, and placed a metal basin that would rest in between the fire and America.

At 7 o’clock I woke up and realized that I had slept in! I wanted to start the fire much earlier! All day, I spent sitting around the fire watching the bird cook. Tirelessly I turned the bird on the spit, adding water to the basin to conserve some of the drippings. On and on the day went until 5 o’clock when my guests agreed that it was time to eat.

Lydia carved the turkey. Oh no – red. We were sure the juices were dripping cleanly, but it’s a turkey and there’s a lot of meat to be cooked. She carved off for us to start eating and Adrien set up a make shift grill to cook the rest of it quickly. Lydia and I posing in front of our spit oven.

Nancy Mashing Potatoes. We had it all – sweet potatoes, stuffing, buttery mashed potatoes, beans, and a fruit salad. Thanksgiving has a spirit unparalleled by other American holidays. No one expects anything, but to eat. And everyone helps. This is my fourth thanksgiving in Benin, and I’m amazed by how easy it is to recreate that environment, even when I’m not with family. Wherever you are, you can recreate it.

You might have to raise and or kill a turkey.

You might have to roast it on a spit.

Although his flavor was great, America was tough. But who could complain? It was Thanksgiving.

America lives on in Lucy.

www.revolutionme.net

A few weeks ago I wrote an e-mail to Lynne Rossetto Kasper to ask her what to do about my Thanksgiving turkey. A few days later, I received a call from her and this last weekend (November 19th) the show aired.

Check out the show at http://splendidtable.publicradio.org/ or specifically the podcast here.

www.revolutionme.net

This afternoon, Pope Benedict XIV will arrive in Cotonou, Benin. Tomorrow, Friday, he will visit Ouidah! It's funny being on the outskirts of all this, since there was a time in my life so dedicated to putting on religious events.

Anyway, no I'm not involved. I may be on the streets, so watch coverage of his visit. I shouldn't be too hard to find.

Fortunately, I stick out.

www.revolutionme.net

So now that I’m no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer, my life has changed in some very drastic ways. I can ride a motorcycle, I was able to pick my own house, have Adrien his brother Jacob live with me, and best of all, have poultry!

Yes, that’s right, among the many things that Peace Corps regulates, it’s the ownership of poultry. I think this is a direct result of the Bird Flu, but even that isn’t so clear. Sure, I may have dabbled in poultry before – Adrien kept some Guinea fowl in front of my old house in village. But, now that I’m on my own, it’s no holds bar poultry raising.

Mr. and Mrs. Duck. This is actually the second female, the first one

ironically drowned in yet to be finished/covered septic tank.

It started with ducks. I don’t know why, but this was my first choice. I felt like ducks just seemed right for me. They're not noisy. They like water. Adrien likes to say “When I’m having a hard day, I can just look at the ducks and it all goes away." It also all goes away with the chickens he bought, and the rabbits, and the two dogs.

But in the end there was really just one bird I wanted.

A turkey.

The original idea was to buy a turkey a few months in advance of Thanksgiving to be eaten at the fete. I don’t know what I was thinking. How could I live side by side with a Turkey and then kill it for dinner? Even still, as one of my last PCV friends left me behind, I decided to pass on her name to the turkey. So, Lucy the turkey, is probably going to get the Thanksgiving Day pardon. Her gobble-gobbling all day long brings peace to my hectic life. For me, she's the bird that makes it all go away.

Lucy is the queen of the yard. She puts all the other birds in their

places, and no one eats until she's done.

Shoot. I need to get another turkey! Thanksgiving is coming.

This is Chef. I have no reason to post a picture of Chef in this blogpost,

except that he's really cute. Chef keeps trying to eat poultry feed which makes

his poop looks grainy.

www.revolutionme.net

Dear Friends and Family,

This last year has been crazy! You may have noted that my formerly prolific blog posting stopped quickly after I arrived in Ouidah at the International Center for Art and Music in Ouidah (CIAMO) . I started as a Peace Corps Response Volunteer, and now I've become the director! I'm no longer a volunteer, but rather living a simple expat life in Ouidah.

Even still, I have so much to share! After my long vacation from my blog I'm back! I'll be sharing my work at CIAMO as well as my reactions to life here, to help to give you a feel of my everyday experience.

For the time being, check out some of my own creative work and affairs:

Leni and the Songwriters - I filmed and edited a short documentary on our collaboration by internet with our artist in residence at the center.

Life in Ouidah - My colleague Sarah and I taught film making to a group of high school kids. The kids produced videos on just that, life in Ouidah, the city where I live. Here are a few of my favorites:

At the Heart of Vodun - My friend Wilfrid and I have been working on a blog that documents little by little Vodun (voodoo) ceremonies and music. This is really interesting - Vodun is often misunderstand, and we're hoping to promote a better understanding of it abroad. Check out the blog - http://ouidahvodun.blogspot.com .

Anyway, best to you all, more to come!

John Mark

www.revolutionme.net

I recently traveled to the opposite end of the country with Adrien to see his family in Tangueita, a city in the far north of Benin. It lies right on the border of the well-known Parc Penjari, one of the few places you can go on Safari in West-Africa. This was the second time I had gone there to meet his family. Whereas last time I learned a lot more about Adrien’s roots, this time, a year and a whole lot of experience later, the visit was actually more difficult for me.

I like to pride myself in being well adjusted in Africa. I’m obviously a foreigner, but I try to fit in – eating the food and wearing the clothes, and speaking in an African accent. All this, and I’m still 100% American. It’s a compliment when people call me the “Benino-American,” though I know it’s far from true. I think I’m Benino-American until you take me into a field to poop and I can barely stay balanced as I’m squatting. Not to mention when I avoid taking showers, because the outdoors shower is placed such that everyone can see my naked white torso glowing in the sun. These sorts of things seemed quaint and “good experiences” a year ago when I visited Adrien’s family. This year they were hardships.

I can hardly say that I’m spoiled by living in Ouidah. Constant electricity cuts, cold showers , and getting around on foot still dominate my life, and there’s nothing American about that. But I think living in Ouidah has made me more aware of the enormous class difference between the poorest and the richest in Benin. When you visit someone in Benin, you should always bring gifts. You might bring bread or cookies or candy for the children. When we prepared to leave the city to go au village to greet Adrien’s mother, Adrien wanted to buy none of these things, but rather soap, about 25 cents a bar, something the women in his family can’t always afford.

The hardest part is seeing what the poorest families do to women. I’ve tried hard not to judge polygamy and polyamory in Benin, but as I near the end of my service, I’m losing control. Adrien’s oldest brother has four wives and is looking for another. According to Adrien (I don’t understand anything that say), as soon as his brother leaves the house the women start complaining about him, how they want to leave him, how they’re mad at him.

One of Adrien's Brother's 4 wifes with her Grandmother. At one point, they ranted about him for a few hours and he came back, a little tipsy from a celebration he attended, and started talking about how manly he is, how he is going to find another wife, he even joked that Adrien and I could take a few of his because he wants to get rid of them. He said all this in front of a family with four wives and 13 children. Many of those children have extended stomachs and herniated belly-buttons and don’t make it to school because they’re needed at home.

Adrien's Brother working in his flour mill. I can see polygamy working if it’s a real part of a tradition. I don’t like it, but it might be acceptable if tradition puts men in such a place where they can only have multiple wives if they are able to care for them. Unfortunately, a man is more likely to coincidentally get a woman pregnant on the side, and then because of certain cultural practices, the man takes that woman in as a wife, even if she might be better off to stay with her family.

Another wife. These are all harsh realities about which, I can do little. My reassurance is really Adrien, that with a little bit of my help and a whole lot of his willpower he’s a shining light for his family. From courageous people like him will come a new generation. Adrien's people really are the poorest of the poor in the world. Visiting his family keep my perspective balanced, and whereas it’s often discouraging,

Adrien with one of his nephews. www.revolutionme.net

A conversation i had with a very old man on the street.

Man- You're french?

Me-NO. American.

Man- Oh, but you're handsome.www.revolutionme.net

January 10th in Benin is a National Holiday celebrating traditional religions. Benin is an especially pluralist country, playing home to a variety of religions. Of course you have the Christians and the Muslims, but there are also many other minority religions that play a huge role in Beninese society. There is, of course, Voudon (Voodoo) which is largely practiced in the south where I live now, and is seated in Ouidah, where both myself and the supreme chief of Voudon live. There are a lot of other little groups too, for example the Celestial Christians that combine traditional religion with Voudon and there are also the Tron, a type of traditional religion that includes some Muslim elements. On top of that you run in to a large variety of others as well, imported from the US or elsewhere – Eckankar, Rasta, Jehovah’s Witnesses, etc.

It can easily be said that though a majority of Beninese people are Christian or Muslim, but most of them still practice traditional religion on some level. This might be as simple as “gris-gris” charms bought from a talisman to protect their home or family or as complicated as ritual sacrifices. When I attended Catholic Mass in my old village, this was a constant complaint of the priest. This clearly overweight man claimed he didn’t have money to eat, and at the same time, people were spending all their money on charms and rituals.

The January 10th date was chosen, because of its significance to those who are members of Voudon cults. This is the time of the year, if I understand correctly, that they manifest their faith and ask for protection for the coming year. The event takes place in Ouidah, more specifically on the beach. I found myself on the stage of officials sitting behind the U.S. Ambassador to Benin. Our administrator W., was the MC for the entire event, which hosted thousands of Beninese and probably a few hundred Europeans and Americans.

The event consisted of several speeches and unfortunately, the authorities were whisked away before the actual Voudon ceremonies took place. “The mayor is having a reception, want to come?” the Ambassador asked me. “Sure,” I said. I don’t’ think the ambassador realized that it was a sit-down luncheon, at which there was most definitely not a place set for myself, or our administrator who came as well. We ended up eating anyway, and even managed to get a few glasses of champagne.

Throughout the week after, individual family clans have their own events. Many of them have their own Voudon convents where selected Children are raised to speak their secret languages and dance and sing ritual songs. My understanding is that each family has its set of divinities that it is responsible for adoring and preserving. One family with whom I’m pretty close, for example, adores a series of divinities related to fire.

This is really a festive season in Ouidah. The Voudon Festival was accompanied by an International Dance Festival “AGOGO” and an International Film Festival “Quintessence.” It’s been really interesting to see how different events and activities are executed and it has given me a lot of ideas for my work.

A new type of poll dancing.

The delegation of the supreme chief of vudon. www.revolutionme.net

The idea of doing something for Christmas seemed almost impossible. We debated whether or not it was worth it. Only in our 2nd month of existence, surely it was too early to showcase our work in Ouidah, but at the same time, people might expect us to do something.

In the end, we settled on a little Christmas Camp. It was three days long and on the last day the students produced a 45 minute variety show with traditional and modern song and dance. It turned out to be a lot of fun.

We brought in four local artists, one traditional dancer and singer, two percussionists, and one artist who dances, sings, and plays the guitar. We selected a group of 8 dancers and invited the choral that was already in place to do the singing. We had some minor attendance problems, and by the time we actually had our variety show our presence was down to 20 (this is mostly the result of communication problems with parents, we’re working on it!).

Wednesday and Thursday morning, we divided up time between the different activities. The dancer, Stanislas worked with the dancers to teach two dances, and the choral to teach the accompanying song. Sim D, a local artist and student, worked on choreography to “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and I worked with the kids to prepare Il Est Né (unfortunately, the soloist didn’t show up the day of the concert, so I had to sing the verses) and Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen (not all of the music was Christmas music).

Working with children on a performance always causes frustration here and there, but the real trophy is the time of the performance, when the children become 100% serious and really pull off the event. I’m including a few pictures here of the show. Happy Holidays to everyone with love from CIAMO.

Here are a few videos:

www.revolutionme.net

I'll try to write more about the huge success of our Kaleta workshops. In the mean time, here are some videos I thought everyone might enjoy. John Mark

www.revolutionme.net

From CIAMO

“Getting a project started is always the hardest part.” This is something that many people have said to me in French and in English since I made it back on the African continent. This gives me a lot of hope for the future of CIAMO, but unfortunately that hope is no cure. What we’re doing here requires a lot of hard work. The past two weeks have been crazy. I’ve been wearing two hats, one as the Interim Artistic Director and one as the Professor of Music. I like both hats. . . a lot. On the Artistic side, I’ve been working a lot with our administrator to get the program up and running. We’re starting an association called ArtForceAfrica, an association committed to the use of the arts in development. CIAMO will be a project of this association. The administrator is also doing a really good job maintaining contacts, and forcing me to be a part of that. We’ve had several meetings with people at ministries and in various offices/foundations around Cotonou. I’ve been Cotonou several times a week for the last several weeks. It’s a headache getting back and forth, but I’m getting a lot of work done.

This project requires a lot of dreaming – seeing the big picture in 5, 10, 20 years. The biggest headache is taking all the dreams that everyone in the team has for the project and identifying and simplifying those things so that we can actually make them happen at the center. The building built for CIAMO is already starting to look small for everything we want to do! Most challenging for me is the teaching aspect. I only get the kids for six hours a week, each class about an hour. I’m learning with them, reading books and doing research on how to teach music to kids. Every class is a big challenge for me. I have the six classes of students. Since they’re all blank slates in term of music education, I have to start from the beginning with all of them. To make things easier, I’m dealing with 3 lessons plans a week, one for CI and CP (Kindergarden/1st Grade), one for CE1 and CE2 (2nd, 3rd grade and one for CM1 and CM2 (4th, 5th grade). They’re all learning similar things, just at different paces. From CIAMO This week, I put the first musical notes in front of the eyes of my oldest students (CM1 and CM2). I explained the difference between a note and silence. We clapped to simple phrases – We are Beninese (Nous sommes Beninois) – and then I added rests in the sentence and had them try to read it. They caught onto it like they were born to understand. We moved from those simple things to measures of beats, where we clapped and played rhythms using percussion instruments. It’s amazing to see students, in 30 minutes, going from seeing a round circle with a line on it, to seeing a note noire and silence soupir.

This experience was inspiring for me and tells me that I can move a little bit faster with the older kids. I’m looking forward to when they can really read simple melodies so I can start teaching them recorder. With the younger kids, we’re focusing on repeating rhythms, maintaining steady tempos, and recognizing the difference between fast and slow, high and low, loud and soft. The kids seem happy to come to their lessons and greet me with a lot of excitement, even on the street. In the area around the school, I’m no longer “Yovo Yovo” I’m “Teacher! Teacher!” What’s coming up? In the next few weeks, we’re developing private piano lessons, a chorale, and hopefully by January we’ll have dance and drumming lessons as well. In January Sarah comes, our art teacher, another Peace Corps Response Volunteer, this will start up the whole visual arts portion of the project. Anyway, we’re having fun in Ouidah. Every day is a challenge, but the project is really taking off so I can’t complain!

From CIAMOwww.revolutionme.net

At my going away party in village, I had to give a little speech, thanking everyone for their hospitality during my two years there. Of course, I had to include Adrien. “He doesn’t just wash my clothes and sweep my floors. Everyone jokes that I’m an ambassador of the US. Honestly, he’s the ambassador, who has helped me more than anyone to understand and accept culture here in Benin.” I’m sure that my relationship with Adrien confuses people. No he’s not my boyfriend, he’s too old to be my child. He’s my best friend in Benin – a relationship that is uniquely itself. Within 24 hours of his arrival, I was making new friends. He was chatting with my neighbors, playing with their dogs, making his way through Ouidah like a star. My quality of life is definetly better when he's around, but now he's on his way back to village where he needs to stay the course and finish the first cycle with a passing grade. He'll be back down for Christmas. That's not too far away.

www.revolutionme.net

Though I brought a lot of materials back to Benin for our project, we certainly didn't need to buy drums and percussion. When I first got back to Benin, I asked someone where you go to buy drums, and he told me about a village near Porto Novo that specializes in percussion.

It's normal here for villages to have a trade - but usually it has to do with a specific crop. This reminded me of when I was in Ghana and there was a brass casting village, along with a village for several other royal crafts.

Anyway, for a small chunk of cash we got about 8 drums! This was a really cool experience and I hope to go back there before I leave to buy some drums for myself. Here are some pictures.

Guitarist Leni Stern, Filmmaker Herve Cohen, and CIAMO Administrator Wilfrid (who got us pretty amazing deals!)

We stuffed the trunk with instruments.

The Village. www.revolutionme.net

Friday was an incredible day for me. Since I've been here in Benin, I've attended a handful of ceremonies that are similar. Peace Corps things, Camps, Awards Ceremonies. I can honestly say that I have never seen anything as wonderful as what we produced yesterday.

Authorities came from the Ministry of Culture, of Primary School Education, the Mayor, Peace Corps, and the American Embassy. Usually at these sorts of ceremonies, people talk forever, reading a speech prepared for them, without passion or enthusiasm. For one of the first times, yesterday, I saw a group of authorities that was actually excited about the project. I think it's something new, something different. You get tired of inaugurating school buildings and wells and hospitals (all of which are desperately needed). This is a new idea, new inspiration. A simply worded goal, to improve arts and music education in Benin, is not a simple task. People are excited about it and that gives me energy to push forward.

A delegation of Americans came, the founder and her best friend, amazing electric guitarist Leni Stern, and filmmaker Herve Cohen. During the week, we had a lot of serious meetings about the school and what it will take to get it up and running and successful. What we want to do is so much bigger than our current mission in Benin, but teaching kids art and music is always going to be at the base of what we do. We're hoping to have international artists come to the center to teach the kids and to help professional artists to develop their crafts. We also hope to make arrangements with schools in the US - study abroad, j-term, that sort of thing - to encourage cultural sharing. This is all very exciting and I can't express enough how privileged I feel to be a part of this. Here's the last week in pictures.

This is a display table with some of music supplies we're using.

This is for real.

Sarah helping out Herve shotting the kids doing the Torrance Test of Creative Thinking

Myself with Wilfred our new administrator

This is the entourage.

More pictures to come. I'm having trouble uploading. www.revolutionme.net

The center I'm working at is just being finished. They did the painting this last week, furniture is on the way, and we'll have our opening ceremony next week. They were originally going to build it at ground level, but than the mayor protested, saying the kids need place to play. In effect, the center is on cement stilts!

Voila the space for children to have sport class. I hope they don't whack their heads on the cement pillars!

We brought in some local artists to teach the kids some song and dance for the inauguration.

They like it a lot www.revolutionme.net

A few of my friends pointed out this article on yahoo. What it reports, from what I've heard is true. The rains have been a really big problem this year, all over Benin. Adrien even tells me that in my former village, a lot of houses (probably mud constructions) have fallen and a lot of people are looking for houses, which made the cost of renting go up significantly.

One funny think to note, though, is the picture on this article. Clearly a stock photo, Yahoo took a picture of Ganvie, a stilt village located ON a lake, to illustrate the flooding taking place here. Go figure, they chose a picture of a village that is flooded 100% of the time to show what's taking place. Honestly, maybe they did this because they would have had to go au village to see the flooding.

AP File

www.revolutionme.net

You Gotta Know the Territory. . . I’m going crazy here in Benin, trying to plan the Grand Opening (Inauguration) of our new building. Everything that I’m required to do here is completely against my American, Anglophone, simple sensibilities. What would you do if you were having an event like this? You would print out invitations, and give them to people, including the important people, that you want to come. Simple right? Not in Benin. First, you have to have the permission of the Mayor of the city you’re working in, especially if he’s invited. No problem right? Dear Mr. Mayor. I’m very happy to inform you that we will be holding our opening ceremony. . . etc. . . Your presence would be very much appreciated. Not so much. . . Try this. . . “Mister Mayor, I have the honor and the respect to come to you to inform you that the official ceremony of the opening of the Center. . . le 29 Whenever 2010 a . . .. Mister Mayor, the founder of the center personally brings this to your awareness and thanks you in advance for all of the availability that your offices have taken in the creation and the work of the said center. Mister mayor, in hope that we will meet you before the date of the ceremony, I beg you to receive my most sincere salutations and my very high consideration.” Let the love fest begin! Anyway, after you’ve formally invited the mayor you can proceed to invite other important people to your event. Maybe a minister. Remember, Benin is the size of some large American cities, but you’re still required to treat a minister as a minister, a national head of a national department. You send him a very similar invitation AND a description of the project, so that if he comes, or one of his mignons comes, he knows exactly what project he is supporting, and his people can write a speech for him for the occasion. If someone can’t make it, you might get a letter back from them, like this: "Mister, I have to the honor to inform you that we have received your letters, in which you stipulate the opening of your center on the, etc etc etc. Mister, we are in regret that we announce to you that the (insert very important person here) will not be able to honor in his person the ceremony. In effect, the important person is out of the territory until the end of October. We're counting on your understanding, please agree, Mister, the expression of our most distinguished salutations. Signed, the assistant of the very important person." When you’re done with invitations, you have to get to work planning the actual event. That is to say, which important person will speak first. Usually the most important person speaks in the last place. Who is more important a minister’s representative or the mayor or the director of your organization. . . etc, etc. Every important person comes with their speech, that you pretty much prepared for them by giving them the description of the project, and they are all treated with immense respect. Everyone begins their speech with Cher Monsieur le directeur de corps de la paix, Cher Monsieur l'ambassadeur de belgique, Cher Madame la directrice de circomscription, etc etc, before they actually begin their prepared speech. I'll be sure to take lots of pictures and keep you informed. This event is going to be exciting! (weak smile).www.revolutionme.net

Here we go again. . . It seems that I’ve developed a bad habit of putting myself in lonely places about every two years. It’s always difficult to go somewhere where you don’t really know anyone. You become an island hoping for the sea of loneliness to recede connecting you with dry land elsewhere. I know that sounds obnoxiously metaphorical, but I’ve learned it’s really true. Pretty much everywhere I’ve gone in live, I’ve put myself in an incredibly boring and lonely situation. The difference is that in college I didn’t realize that it really gets better. In graduate school I had my doubts. In peace corps I was hopeless. Every time, I ended up finding friends that I love, so now I sit here in my bright yellow living room, waiting, knowing it will come in good time. My time home reminded me how much I love my family and my closest friends. When you’re away so much, you learn to treasure quality time. Sometimes you even get upset at the people who don’t have time for you. Shame on them for having lives and jobs! I enjoyed a lot of time with my mother and father, who are in an interesting stage of their lives, having retired only a year ago. I enjoyed a variety of activities that I now consider to be quite cultural. Eating out, going to the parade and county fair, boating, shopping in huge stores, just to name a few, all the while accompanied by wonderful people. Mom, Dad, and I drove the minivan across America. We spent quality time with my sister Ann and her beautiful baby, Eliza. We moved on to New Jersey, where I spent time with my other two nieces and my sister Maria. It’s so weird living abroad, and coming to home to see that all of my siblings have such grown up lives with houses and husbands/wife and children. Thanks to Maria’s stellar location, I was able to see a lot of friends in both D.C. and N.Y.C.. It was quite a challenge to see all the friends I’ve collected from undergrad, grad school, and Peace Corps, but I pulled it off. I flew out of JFK with five pieces of baggage: two for myself, one filled with recorders, one filled with music stands and tennis balls, and one box with a brand new 88key digital piano tucked inside. I spent a lot of time worrying about whether or not they would accept the luggage, but they did. After a long flight to Brussels, a half a day in the dingy African terminal with no food (go figure the most expensive flights fly out of the worst terminals), I arrived in Cotonou at about 7:30pm. I automatically threw my sweatshirt in my baggage. No more cold! I should mention that I spent a large part of my last 24 hours in New Jersey under a blanket because it was so cold there. I didn’t have the energy or the clothes to get used to it. After a day of paperwork, a fon lesson, and chasing various people around the office, I was sworn in at Peace Corps staff meeting. I was taken to Ouidah where I met the directrice and directeur of the primary schools and saw the Centre International d’Art et de Musique de Ouidah (CIAMO) which is on the grounds of said primary schools. It’s kind of a crazy building. It’s lifted up on big cement pillars. They wanted to build it on the ground level but in the mayor wanted it lifted up so the space below could be used for sports and activities. It is a nice building, with fans and modern plumbing. In the coming weeks the furniture and painting will be done, just in time for our grand opening at the end of the month. My house is also really nice. I was very disappointed to see that it was on one of the most travelled highways in Benin, if not west-Africa. This is the coast highway that connects Nigeria to Benin to Togo to Ghana and beyond. I was surprised that they could even put me here with PC regulations, but they did I’m going to live with it. The house is in a closed concession with a big garage door that opens up to the highway. Normally the concession is locked, so it’s not too bad. The bright side is that I have a kitchen with a sink and a bathroom with toilet and shower! It’s weird getting up in the middle of the night and not having to leave my house to go to the restroom! I am very lonely here, but just like the last couple times I put myself in this situation, I know friends will come along. I’ve also learned that the friends you rush to make are never your closest, so I’m taking it easy and enjoying some down time before the project really takes off and my life becomes busier than I was in village. Anyway, turn the page. This is a new experience in Benin. I’m practically in a different country. These are different people speaking a language that I can’t even greet in. This project is very new to me. How am I going to teach these kids music? Music like what Miss Morgan taught me in elementary. I remember hating it, but secretly loving it at the same time. I’m excited for the potential that this project has to offer. Now to get started! Stay tuned to my blog for more about life in Ouidah and the project. www.revolutionme.net

Since I've been home, I've listened to two "Speaking of Faith" episodes that reflect heavily my feelings about aid in the developing world. One thing that Peace Corps Volunteers learn really quickly is that there is good aid and there is bad aid. Good aid is helping people in developing countries to make sustainable progress towards their development goals For example, what we do, bringing in a native English speaker to teach and to help teachers to improve over a 6 year time period. Bad aid is the quick fix, where money is thrown at a problem, buildings are built, and the aid is finished. For example, Project Play Africa, who raised funds to bring a shipping can full of soccer balls to Benin, not assessing need, and with no long-term goals or implications. Sure, people loved getting free soccer balls, who wouldn't, but as soon as Project Play left, the volunteers on the ground to teach English, help businesses, and improve health and sanitation, were fielding more requests for free balls than for help in any of our own work. Who doesn't want a free ball? By helping students and teachers, we are hopefully encouraging improvement in English education. By dumping balls in Africa, they're getting lots of smiles, warm fuzzy feelings, and wasting hundreds of dollars.

In the episode, "A Different Kind of Capitalism," Krista Tippet interviews Jacqueline Novograts about her Acumen Fund, which encourages donors to invest money into projects. Investors don't get returns, but rather, returns are reinvested. Ms. Novograts very aptly point out that if a present is given to someone, they'll fuss over it, even if they don't like it. They'll bring it out and put it on the mantel when you come by, and put it back into storage when you're not around. I see a lot of presents in Africa, things that say "From the American People," the Danes, the EU, and others, that are not in use. This could be something as simple as a broken water pump or a locked up and unused outhouse. Surely, when the donors come to see their work, they spruce things up, and make a big scene, but as soon as they leave, these things go back into disuse.

This was especially present at the Catholic Mission in my village. The church had received money to construct a library and formation houses from Italy. They built beautiful buildings and neither of them are really used. The Italians get a warm feeling, and the local Catholics, a sense of pride that things were built, but for what?

Novograts invests money in companies and then sends international consultants to help them to develop plans, and they end up being more successful and even creating jobs. In my time in Benin I've seen various international projects come and go. People get jobs with NGOs, but as soon as these projects are finished, they're out of a job again. Meanwhile telecommunication companies and transportation companies are managing to grow quickly in West-Africa and bringing a lot of jobs along to accompany them. Capitalism is really not a bad thing for Benin. Anyway, listen to this conversation at Speaking of Faith

The second speaking of faith episode was called the Ethics of Aid. It was an interview with a rather pretentious Kenyan, Binyayanga Wainaina. He's a well known author and columnist. He talked a lot about the face of Africa presented in America. He comments that NGOs find pictures of the poorest, hungriest, dirtiest children to help raise money for their projects. In his satirical essay, "How to Write About Africa," he advises: And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the 'real Africa', and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. I think this really runs in tandem with the Novograts episode. Africans don't really need pity money, they need investment and good, sustainable aid. Aid that comes from honest, dedicated, and long term relationships between the developed and developing worlds. He talks about how, contrary to the previous paragraphs that I've written, the Catholic Church does a lot better job than other organisations because they are more permanent and on the ground. They have a strong sense of the needs of the community, because they live in the community. If we really want to help we need to be on the ground, living every day life with the host country, and constantly reassessing needs.

Anyway, both of these programs are worth a listen. They're very reflective of my view of development. Check it out.

www.revolutionme.net

Some of my favourite students talking about life in Benin. Ignore my atrocious villegoise accent.

Bariba Dancers

www.revolutionme.net

In these last couple of days in Benin, I'm trying to reflect on what I like and dislike about Benin and how the two compliment each other. Its a way to prepare myself for another year.

Like: Idle Time

One thing I've really learned to love about life here is that you can spend large amounts of time doing nothing and no one judges you. Often in my house I would get really bored. I couldn't read anymore, I couldn't write anymore, I couldn't watch anymore episodes of whatever it was that I was watching on my computer. After about 3 months in village, I discovered that there are a lot of solutions to this idle time. I often would go and sit with my friend Raouf who sells gas out of liquor bottles on the road or my friend Chijoke who sells motorcycle parts near bye. Sometimes we would chat about life, love, politics, and sometimes we would just sit in silence watching the cars passing by. This was how I really got to know my village, sitting silently and observing.

The walks were good for me too. Taking long walks alone or with Sarah, sometimes with Adrien, were always relieving and fulfilling. I loved the quiet of the orchards, greeting people passing by and meeting their confused looks about what I was doing "au champ," and the indepth conversations I shared with Adrien.

I really enjoy

Dislike: Gift Giving

Il faut me donner. From the minute I unpacked my taxi in village to the minute I stuffed my stuff into the taxi to go to Cotonou to finish my service, people have blatantly asked for presents. Not in a polite way, literally, they say "You most give it to me." It's not necessarily a class thing. Even my landlord, who is filthy rich and who knows I don't like him, asked me for my running shoes twice. I hated to take my camera out to take pictures, ride my bike in village, even go to the market and buy food sometimes, because people would almost invariably say, "Il faut me donner." If it was raining and I had an umbrella, "Il faut me donner." When I had my going away party, people with whom the only conversations I have ever had included, "Il faut me donner," asked why they didn't receive an invitation. When you do give, there's a lack of gratitude, so you really don't feel good about your gift giving. Even the people to whom I'm closest, if I give them something, they might mention the gift's deficiencies.

There are really two reasons. First of all, gift-giving is a part of their culture. If you travel, even if it's just to the local city, you're expected to bring back something. They'll often even say "What did you bring for me?" or "You must bring back good things for me." Secondly, years of free, senseless giving to west-Africa has left many people here with the idea that that is what we (westerners) are in Africa to do. Now that development has changed to focus on sustainability, eg, send me to a village and help students and teachers to learn to communicate better in English, it's really quite a pain that we spent all those year giving. That's what they want. They realize I can do good things in their village, but in the end there's really no "legacy," because I didn't build or give anything.

What I've Learned about Myself

Gift-giving is NOT my love language. I never read the book about love languages, but I'm pretty familiar with it thanks to my mother's and sisters' obsession with it. I don't really like gift giving. If I did, Beninese people would probably like me more (I'm not saying they don't like me, but they must think I'm rude for not giving). At the same time, I AM a quality-time person. Even if there's not a whole lot of communication, I'm happy when I'm with people. During my service, when I catch myself feeling down, I make haste to get out of my house, and find people I enjoy being around. My worst days were when none of those people were available to me.www.revolutionme.net

Saying Goodbye

As I started packing up and ending my village life, I couldn’t help thinking, “here I go again.” What I’m living right now, I think, is the life of a 20something. I’m liminal and unsure but at the same time more active than I’ll probably every be.

Peace Corps puts you in an interesting situation because in the end you end up with two sets of solid friends. Your friends from the country hosting you and your fellow volunteers who support you, hear you out, love you, and hate you throughout the two years. You’re in it together. You end up with a lot of people to home you need to say “au revoir.”

Last week I set out to throw my own going away party. I’ve had a few going away parties in my life, and I see now that having people throw a party for you is the way to go. Here in Benin, if you have a reason to celebrate, it’s you that needs to make it happen.

I sent Adrien to the market where he bought us a sheep to slaughter. The creature baaed unceasingly and even managed to escape right before the slaughter. I was impressed as Adrien and some other villagers reduced the living creature to a pile of meat and bones. I told him that if you put an animal in front of an American and said, “this is your dinner,” the American would probably starve.

There was uniform for the evening, bright blue tissue with bows and hearts, and several teachers bought it so we could have matching clothes, as is the festival tradition here in Benin. I bought the supplies so that Mama could make riz au gras, jollof rice, to accompany the meat. That evening, about 40 people came, many uninvited. They ate well, drank well, said thank you and went home.

Three days later I was packing a taxi with mattresses, my bike, furniture, everything that I wanted to bring to the south for the next stage of my life. Since I had the free taxi, thanks to Peace Corps, Adrien joined me for the trip. We spent two days enjoying Cotonou. Awing ourselves with huge super markets, big houses, and good eats. We went to the beach so Adrien could get his obligatory saltwater to prove that he really did make it, and invited a photographer to take our picture, soaking wet because of the rain, on the beach. Saying goodbye to Adrien wasn’t that difficult, knowing that I’ll see him again.

A lot of my volunteer friends have already left. Now I’m in Cotonou a few of my friends who are left, waiting to close my service (COS) and getting nervous about my trip home on Friday.

See you soon.www.revolutionme.net

As I near the end of two years in my village, I still run into things that are shocking - things that I would never expect. Many of these things I can’t comprehend or really even deal with, at least at first. The other day I took off all my clothes, went in my showering area, and touched the water in a bucket. I jumped and quickly got out of the shower.

At this point, I thought I might really be going crazy. I touched it again. Same thing. “Something must be in the bucket,” I thought, “an electric device, and electric eel, and electric something.” So I picked up my shoes and used them to knock over the bucket to see what strange things that spilled out. There wasn’t anything visible, so I decided to at least take a plastic bucket and fill it with water. I figured, “Well, I’m not sure what’s going on, but at least plastic doesn’t conduct electricity.

I jumped in the shower, scared to touch the water. Bravely I dipped my hand in to take the cup, without a problem. “That’s right,” I thought, “I can handle this.” I poured water over myself, and reached to grab my soap. “Ouch!” My soap shocked me too. My feet were also getting a little electricity.

“I really must be going crazy,” I thought, as I grabbed my cell phone and called Adrien, who was working au champ at the time. “Adrien,” I said, “There’s something strange here and I think I’m going crazy. Come home!” Shortly after he arrived, sure to himself that I was losing it. He went in the shower, touched the water, nothing. He touched around, and finally, “oh!” he got a really shock too.

We went outside and were staring at the exterior of the house. Maman was there too and we were brainstorming what we were going to do when a vieux came along and asked why we were staring at the house. Maman explained in Bariba, and he said to her, “The same thing happened to me. It turned out that a loose wire was electrifying the ceiling. Somehow electricity came through the cement and shocked me.”

Needless to say, we called the electrician. He came, claimed to fix the problem while I was out, and took off. It turned out he hadn’t fixed the problem, he had left my house completely disconnected from the electricity. After a few days of calling him, and getting shocked by my house, we finally got him to come. He climbed up into a cubby hole in the ceiling and shortly after the problem was resolved.

Since it’s the rainy season, the walls were especially humid which would explain why they were conducting electricity. Honestly, I have never been shocked in my life as much as I have been shocked in Benin, and I know many others who have other similar and bizarre stories. Just yesterday I was with a friend when a power strip randomly caught on fire. Fortunately, these buildings are mostly made in cement so the risk isn’t that huge. No electric eels, no I’m not going crazy. I’m just living in Benin.www.revolutionme.net

Last year when I attended my first girls’ camp, CAMP GLOW, a regional camp that took place in Parakou, the major city close to where I live, I realized that these camps were a really important part of our work here. A really difficult part of living here is seeing the treatment of girls on a daily basis. The mama in my concession, the wife of the richest person in my village, sends her daughter out to sell frozen juices on her head. My teacher friend calls his daughter an imbecile for not greeting me when I entered the house. Sweeping, pulling water, cooking, taking care of babies, these things are the girls’ work. A week of camp not only gives them a chance to learn important information about their health and wellbeing, it also gives them a chance to see what life will be like when they’re in control – when they are on their own.

So with my chaperone from last year, I started planning Camp Courage, and over the past year it slowly came together. Money left in Kate Puzey’s name was donated to the cause of camps. At the same time a local success story who works in Cotonou wanted to help out. Slowly I went from a budget of $100 to $500. I bore most of the load in terms of work, as my chaperone became pregnant and had other things to worry about.

Finally last week, CAMP COURAGE happened. After hours of writing letters, requests for supplies, and planning sessions, it happened. It was a fantastic week! Here’s a run down of the five days of camp.

Day 1.

Too many girls showed up! I had given each invitee a form to fill out and told them to bring it back to me. 4 or 5 girls who did not give the form back to me showed up to the camp, form in hand. I had already replaced them. I didn’t have the heart to turn them down, and I had my fingers crossed that there would be money left in the budget. So, we began our week with 34 girls, 3 chaperones, and 3 volunteers.

We started the day off with typical get-to-know you activities. The girls really enjoyed these. Many of them already knew each other, but it was clear that there were names to be learned on all parts, including my own. Several of my favorite girl students where there, but there were also many I had never seen before I invited them. Their invitation was solely based on their hard work at school.

After, I led a session about clean water. This is a workshop I’ve done about 4 times over the past two years. We emphasize choosing clean sources of water (tap water vs. river water), and the use of purification methods, especially a product called Aquatabs, which is a very cheap pill you put in a 20 liter tank of water to chlorinate it.

In the afternoon my friends Claire and Sarah led sessions. Claire introduced them to the wild world of yoga while Sarah taught them a lesson on drawing using point of view and perspective.

Day 2.

The second day was dedicated to the fight against HIV/AIDs. To start out, though, we took all the girls outside, gave them toothbrushes and gave them a tooth brushing presentation. We lined them all up on the veranda of the school building and they spat together in the dirt after singing the alphabet two times while brushing.

The local midwife led most of the sessions this day and she was excellent. She had the girls jumping, laughing, and crying. She started with a session on reproductive health. The girls were wide eyed, many of them having no idea what their cycle was, that it was coming, and why it happens. Directly after, the midwife talked about STIs and HIV/AIDS. She showed pictures and talked about how it really is possible to fight these diseases. At the end there was a condom demonstration.

In the afternoon, we worked with the girls to design large posters about HIV/AIDS to be posted at school next year. We used the back of empty grain sacks and permanent markers to display our messages. The girls chose messages such as “Let’s be faithful,” “No condom, no sex!” “My diploma will be my husband!’ and “AIDS won’t pass through us.” The idea of this part of the week was to give them a chance to put their knowledge into action, and I think the girls really got it. They’ll be proud next year to see the posters hung up at school.

Day 3.

Nothing went as scheduled on Day 3, but it was still a success. We started with “The Life of a Model Women,” and a university student, a woman who works for a literacy NGO, and another women who works for women’s rights, all took about 20 minutes to talk about their work, the difficulties of being a woman in the work place, and being a working woman at home. The girls were very interested, posing a lot of questions along the way.

After this there was a short session on sexual harassment. The women mentioned in the last paragraph gave this talk, and it was a bit dry. Fortunately we had a plan to rehash some of the ideas on the next day. We took our group photo and had our lunch. That afternoon the girls finished working on their posters and got a chance to play a little soccer.

Day 4

Today we had a variety of sessions which were all very useful. First, my friend Kendra did a presentation on Paludisme, Malaria. She told a story about a child who got Malaria, and along the way, the girls had to deduce what the person did wrong. This was a well planned session, since the girls already know a lot about preventing Malaria. It was a good way to get them thinking about it.

After, the midwife came back to tell her model woman story. She couldn’t come the day before because of work. Her story was deep and touching. She was the daughter of a military colonel who had 8 wives and about 30 known children. She was spoiled as a child and then as she grew, she was treated poorly as the result of jealousy between wives. Even though she was the daughter of a rich man, she often went hungry and suffered at school. She forced herself to stay in school, and eventually got some meager financial support from her father to go to midwife school after she had finished high school. The midwife was often in tears, as were some of the girls, I’m sure. This kind of story is all to common here for the girls, and I think hearing this story had to have given at least one or two of those girls the courage to keep going. That same morning, the midwife did free hiv/aids screening for all the girls. Fortunately, they were all negative for hiv/aids and herpes.

I also led a session this morning on “Strategies against Sexual Harassment at School.” As I’ve mentioned, teachers harassing girls is a real problem here in Benin. Every year there are cases of harassment, rape, and pregnancy at many schools, including my own. We talked about how to avoid teachers advances, for example keeping a distance, not greeting them, not wearing tight uniforms, etc and after we talked about what to do if you are approached by a teacher, or anyone else who makes unwanted advances. It was interesting to let the girls role play and to see that they know exactly what the teachers say, because they see it every day.

In the afternoon we did cultural “exposés.” Because I’m in such a unique spot in Benin, there were about 5 ethnic groups that were really well represented among the girls (Peuhl, Bariba, Nagot, Fon, Ditamari). Each group responded to questions about their culture and presented this information to the girls. Each group also did a dance and/or song. Kendra and I presented on “European-American” culture, which included a stunning rendition of “The Battle Hymn of The Republic.” To the girls’ disappointment, we didn’t dance.

Day 5

The cultural exposés prepared the girls well for a trip to the Museum of Plain Air in Parakou. We packed ourselves in to five taxis, and every girl got a chance to see the museum with a guide. The museum included a lot of things that we talked about the afternoon before – traditional clothing, foods, and ceremonies. The girls really liked it. Most of them had never been to a museum before.

That afternoon, we had our closing ceremony. It was well attended, with the girls there were about 75 people, including the assistant-mayor (chef d’arondissement), the headmaster, many teachers, the president of the PTA, and an assistant director of Peace Corps who is from Tchatchou.

I welcomed everyone and the girls sang their camp hymn. Each important person had a chance to talk. The director gave the girls a very encouraging speech, which is rare here. He congratulated them on their good work, and encouraged them not to let our work be in vain. We finished the ceremony with the girls dancing and singing after which they were given certificates, sodas, and sandwiches.

In a few weeks, I’ll leave Tchatchou, and a new volunteer will come to replace me. Honestly, after having such a successful week of camp, I have no problem saying that this, after teaching, is one of the best things I’ve done here. The most worthwhile. The most impact. My greatest hope for whoever replaces me is that, besides teaching, she manages to make Camp Courage 2011 happen.www.revolutionme.net

Camp GLOW - Girls Leading Our World took place last week. Thank to all of you that donated. This is one of the coolest things we volunteers do all year. We bring shy, quiet girls to camp and by the end of the week they're energetic and open.

During the week they learn about reproductive health (they don't even know why their cycle exists), clean water, the environment, computers, and they get to do fun things like go to the musem, the TV station, and play sports. Here are some shots of the week:

From More Africa

From More Africa

From More Africa

From More Africa

These are the 4 girls, 1 junior tutrice, and 1 tutrice that I brought to the camp.www.revolutionme.net

Exit Strategy: Don’t Exit. . .

Despite my education, I’m not a very spiritual or religious person. I do like the idea, though, that “Where God closes a door, somewhere God opens a window.” Whether it’s God or fate or karma, I’m glad that this adage is often a truth.

My heart was broken when I didn’t get into the France English teaching program. That door was shut. The more I think about the job situation, the more discouraged I become. I want to go back to school, but I can’t do that immediately because I missed application deadlines. I would essentially go back to the states, find a job for a few months and then go back to school. It didn’t seem worth it.

When I came down to Cotonou last month for the close of service conference, I had in my mind that I would investigate doing Peace Corps Response. This is a program for returned PCVs that have special skills. They serve shorter terms, usually less than a year. I thought that I could help with a teacher training program in another country or teach English somewhere else. At our first session at the conference the programming manager let slip that there would be a Peace Corps Response position in Benin this year. For what? The Ouidah International Center of Music and Art. What do they need? A music teacher.

Window opened. Go figure.

What now? Ten more months in Benin. Crazy. I was so ready to move on, and then this came along. A completely different opportunity. Music education doesn’t even exist here, and I will be the founding teacher at a music school for primary school kids. The challenges will be many, but I’m really excited about it.

The community along with a donor from the States has built a school on the grounds of a primary school. They have requested an art teacher and a music teacher. If all my clearances go well, I should go back to the states on the 27th of August, and come back at the end of September to spend 10 months here. This way I can go directly back to grad school with no inconvenient in between time.

Ouidah will be a very different place to live. It’s known as one of the oldest slave trading ports on the Slave Coast. It has a museum and one of the first monuments to slaves, “The Door of No Return.” These things combined with it being the center of voodoo make it one of the most popular tourist attractions in Benin. It’s a different language and a different culture. I’ll be leaving “Bature!” for “Yovo yovo bon soir!” If I have the time, I’d really like to learn the local language, Fon. My living situation should be a little bit classier (fingers crossed). Since I’ll be in the 10th largest city in Benin I might even have modern facilities.

Anyway, I’m really excited about this. I’ll share more as I learn more about the project!www.revolutionme.net

It's really cool to see the kids show of their cultures at our yearly cultural days. This year I helped our school organize the days around a theme of girls education. Here are a few photos.

A group of teachers:

From More Africa

Bariba dancers:

From More Africa

Peulh Dancers:

From More Africawww.revolutionme.net

The English faculty at my school. I'll miss them. Students, the people in Benin I'll miss the most. Adrien, naturally, the person in Benin I'll miss the most.

Once again I find myself in a situation where I’m facing a future full of unknowns. First I went to college, then grad school, then Peace Corps. This time it’s very different. This time I really have no idea what I’m going to end up doing with my life and this uncertainty is weighting very heavily.

One thing seems pretty certain is this: August 26th. My official close of service (COS) date. The date I will no longer be a Peace Corps Volunteer and will become unemployed.

Our COS conference was refreshing. Peace Corps put us up in a nice hotel right on the swamp in Cotonou. *** It was our last time together as a group. Two years ago we came here, in fresh new clothes, bright eyed, and ready to move mountains. Now, we have a lot to talk about. Having a COS date makes the end more certain and makes us all a little more nervous, at least those of us who don’t have a concrete plan.

After coming back to post I started catching a lot of “lasts.” I finished writing and editing my last round of exams for my school. I proctored my last exams, had what hope will be my last fight over English in Benin*, today I start to correct my last exams, and in the coming weeks I’ll teach my last classes, say goodbye to my students (my favorite people in Benin), and take girls to my last girls camp. In less than two months, I’ll have to say goodbye to village all together.

Time is going fast too, frighteningly fast. I have two more weeks of school. Then the camp in Parakou. After that, I have to make what will be my second to last trip to Cotonou for my exit medical exam. In July, I need to get really serious about planning my girls’ camp in village. I have the money, which came from the Kate Puzie Memorial fund,** and I’m ready to do it, it’s just been hard to motivate myself early because people don’t think very far in advance. Thus it’s hard to get commitments from various people.

I’ll try to write and post more over the coming weeks. It’s been especially hard for me, because my computer is broken. Before, I did most of my writing at post. Now I have to wait in line for a computer at a workstation, where there are usually people waiting to use it after me. As a result the quality of my blog has gone down a bit. With school finishing, I’ll have more time on weekdays to come into the city. We’ll see how things improve.

*Sometimes English teachers here get ridiculous ideas in their heads and there is nothing you can do to convince them otherwise. There was a small correction on the exam and I was going around and informing the students. This teacher, who was proctoring the exam, pulled me aside and told me to correct the question: “Who always celebrates Christmas on December 25th?” The problem, he says because Christians is plural, we should say “Who always celebrate Christmas on December 25th?” What? I knew he was 100% wrong, but I didn’t know why, so I had to look it up when I came home.

**The family Kate Puzey, the volunteer who was murdered, has started a fund to finance girls’ camps in Benin.

*** I found out the other day that cotonou means “Mouth of the river of death,” in Fon.www.revolutionme.net

So I've been a little slow on the blog front. When I got home, I returned to a no-longer-working computer. This is especially depressing for me since two activities that give me the most pleasure- writing and watching movies/tv are no longer possible. On the bright side I've turned back to reading. I'm just about done with Harry Potter 7 and then I can move on to finishing "Guns, Germs, and Steel," a book I would really recommend to anyone who is interested in development.

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Now about the money, several of my fellow volunteers and I are in the process of planning a large summer camp for girls from our villages. The cost of the camp is several thousand dollars, and we have posted a PCPP request on the Peace Corps website. We really need your help! We still have over $4000 raise and the camp is in next month! I took four girls to the camp last year and it was an excellent experience. Several have gone on to do very well in their third year of College. Anyway, to contribute try to click here . If you belong to church groups, social groups, etc, please consider asking the group to donate. It will be a big help for us! At this point, we might be at risk of canceling the camp! If that doesn't work go to http://www.peacecorps.gov/, click on donate now, and search for Benin. We are Camp GLOW Parakou. Thanks in advance. And shoot me an e-mail so I know you contributed. Otherwise I won't know to thank you!

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On another note, I wanted to quote a friend's blog. I found this story hillarious.

I ended up leaving the party early and traveling to my friend Kendra’s nearby post for the night, hoping to come back the next day for more funeral festivities. The next morning, I woke up and went to pee in her latrine. It was by far the shallowest latrine I had ever been in, so the sunlight illuminated all the sludge underneath, and I was sort of casually peering in after I had peed, and what did I see? Not a snake, not a scorpion, not a cockroach… no…. a GOAT. He looked up at me and blinked, and I realized I may have just peed on his head. The door on a neighboring latrine had fallen off, so apparently this little goat had just wandered in and fallen down the hole. I woke Kendra up and together we went and looked in at the little guy. Since it was a Sunday, her neighbors were all away at church, and we had to wait several hours before anyone came around to help. The latrine was just deep enough that the goat would be out of reach, so a young man made a noose out of a rope, let it down the latrine hole, captured the goat, and pulled him up by his neck. The poor little goat was tired and covered in muck, and since he didn’t belong to the concession, no one there wanted to wash him. He got himself to his feet and sadly started walking out of the concession; get this, with a piece of toilet paper trailing off his hind hoof. You can check out Jessica's blog for yourselves here.

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In general things are going fine. I'm often reminded that my time is coming to an end by people and by events. I think by August, I'll be really ready, though sad, to leave all the stress that accompanies my life here in Benin. My students are doing reasonably well. I'm especially in love with one class of second-years. They are so anxious to learn and curious about what I have to teach. Often people ask for things, gifts, foreign aid, etc, things that I can't give and that I am happy not to be able to give. These excited students remind me that my work here isn't in vain. They seem to "get it." They understand the value of my presence here at their school. Sometimes I'm not even sure my director gets it, especially since he likes to remind me that I'm not building classrooms or bringing any substantial money to village.

Our finals have been pushed back to the beginning of June. I'll probably teach up until the finals, but since I taught during the strike, I won't have to teach after. This is good, since I'll be busy with the girls camp (please donate) in Parakou and a smaller, low-cost girls camp in my village. I

I've also started to look at jobs. I know it's a bit early, but I figure it can't hurt to get my resume out there and start networking. I am really hoping to move to the NYC area. There's the possibility of living with my friends Erica and Ellen, along with being close to my sister Theologian Mom. I still want to pursue teaching, so I figure the best bet is to apply for music teaching positions in charter and private schools along with other positions in the domain of education, for example, non profits that help get students apply for college and monitor their success. That sort of thing. If anyone has any connections or ideas, please send me an e-mail!www.revolutionme.net

Where are we? Part III. . .

After a day of brass casting, Angelina and I went and got a tro-tro (mini-van taxi) to Cape Coast. We didn’t have reservations and ended up staying at the standard Oasis resort, which is down the beach from the Cape Coast Castle. It was charming, if not a bit run down, but we still enjoyed having our little cliché round hut that faced toward the ocean.

I was taken aback right away by the aggressive nature of people in Cape Coast. Up until this point, it seemed pretty relaxed. As whites in an African country our presence was pretty much ignored. Now all of the sudden we were at one of the premier tourist spots in Ghana and the obnoxious “I’ll tell you a good lie and you can give me money, and if you don’t you’re a racist” type.

The first night we walked around a little bit and had a good dinner at the hotel. I was very interested by their fishing practices along the shore. The men go out in giant canoes and cast very large nets. After a few hours, what seems like the whole town comes to literally pull the nets in using a giant rope. As the net comes in, you begin to get an idea of the harvest. I assume the fish is sorted later to be smoked and sold.

The next day we went to the slave traditing castle, one of the sites that Obama visited last year. It’s never a very pleasant experience to visit one of these places, but still the history is fascinating. Our guard liked to remind us of the irony – a church placed over a slave dungeon - and of course of the terrible things that were done. In addition to the basic abuses of slavery there’s rape, torture, and mutilation. We saw the dungeons with no light and hardly any air. All the slaves’ waste simply accumulated and our guide told us that in research and excavation they found evidence of what you would expect – bones, blood, vomit, menstruation, urine, and excrement.

The castle was a big, grand building, much nicer than what we saw in Ouidah and much more fortified. It was large and whitewashed, as are many buildings in Africa, so even though I’m sure it was painted for Obama’s visit last year; it’s already starting to look old and tired again. Anyway, as could be expected, the visit served as a good reminder of the atrocities that humans can commit.

That afternoon we took a very air conditioned (this excited us) van to Krokrobite, which is just west of Accra. We spent two nights at Big Milly’s Backyard where we enjoyed the beach and a little bit of pause before heading back to Benin. The resort was nice, but there were lots of westerners. We even went out in the village to get a little street food and to save a little money. It was a good reminder that we were still in Africa.

After two nights in our hut in Krokrobite, we took a tro-tro back to Accra, and a van to the Ghana-Togo border. The difference was immediately noticeable. “It was like a decent into hell,” I joked with Angelina. We exited the Ghana departure customs, which were in a nice air-conditioned building with lots of camera and equipment that you would expect into a hallway where a police was yelling at someone. We passed and walked into what was literally a shack held up by logs and covered by tin. We stood there and waited for a Togolese customs officer to process Visas for some other Americans, that you’re not even supposed to be able to get at the border at a cost about $20 less than we had paid in Cotonou. Finally I got annoyed, and started giving him a hard time. All he had to do was stamp our visas and let us leave. He got a little mad at me but stamped us through. We immediately entered Togo to be heckled with cries of “Yovo! Yovo!” and “Les blancs! Tu es en afrique maintenant!”

We went to get our Taxi to Cotonou and some taxi driver “stole us” from another driver, even though it wasn’t his turn. They started fighting over Angelina’s bag, and finally the driver who stole us won. Shortly thereafter the other driver left with a full car. Had we been in that car we would have arrived in Cotonou before dark, but because of the jerk driver, we ended waiting almost two hours to leave.

Anyway, we rejoiced a little when we arrived in Benin. The officers were nice and much more professional. Just by the difference between Benin and Togo’s borders, I can’t help but think Benin is in much better shape!

Unfortunately, I checked my e-mail in the car as soon as my phone started to work on a Beninese network. I found out that I wasn’t accepted into the France Teaching Assistant program. I’m not sure what I did wrong, because I know people with a lot less qualifications are often accepted and I’ve never heard of a PCV not being accepted. I think I must have messed up my application and/or they didn’t like that I didn’t have any French in college.

This wasn’t a very happy note to end my trip on. I have to evaluate everything and figure out what I want to do with my life. It’s added stress to an already pretty stressful life. That aside, my trip to Ghana was amazing. Angelina was great to travel with and I feel like we saw a lot of the important sights in Ghana. It also impressed me as an example of development in Africa. I understand that Ghana is not that rich, but just the infrastructures of roads, transportation, and taxing seemed really well implemented. Go Ghana!

Check out angelina's blog here. www.revolutionme.net

When Angelina was at the University of Michigan, she worked with one of her history of art professors to prepare and design an exhibit on the Ashanti Brass Casters of Ghana. Since we began planning this trip, Angelina has made it a goal to visit these artisans in the village of Krofrom just outside of Kumasi.

We had an incredible experience, seeing every step of the process from the forming of the mold to the actual casting. I’m going to try to recount the process and when I have good internet access I’ll include pictures.

First a wax mold is made using bees’ wax collected from bee keepers in the north of the country. Some molds are already made with cement and wood to help give the wax basic form or Ashanti symbols. These casters were working on a frogs and bottle openers with faces on them.

Next, a milky clay made with charcoal powder is used to cover the wax. It’s left in the sun to dry and then shortly after covered with another layer of the same type of clay. When these molds are dry, they put layer of thick mud clay mixed with palm tree fiber in them, leaving strings of wax that connect to the outside.

After the molds are dried, they are held over the fire. The wax melts out; following the paths made by the wax strings, and shortly after the brass is poured into the mold.

After the cast has cooled, they start chipping away at the mud and the charcoal clay until you arrive at the final product, which in our case was a porcupine, apparently the symbol of the Ashanti Kingdom.

This process can take over days and the product can vary from small things such as intricate brass beads (the mold made with wax strings wrapped around cow poop) to big things such as candle holders, masks, and statues. It was a once in a life time experience! As soon as possible I’ll add lots of pictures.www.revolutionme.net

April 1st Angelina and I began our trek across West Africa to see what we had been missing over the past year and a half. We had bought our visa to Togo and Ghana in advance, so we waited about an hour for a bush taxi and we were off. Travel was easy enough. The border crossings were strange. It seemed like anyone could just walk across, but not wanting any trouble we followed the protocol. The first taxi was only to the border between Togo and Benin. We didn’t see much of Togo for the 25,000 (roughly $50) we had to spend to get there. The destination was Ghana. We crossed the Ghana border, filled out the forms, and moved on to finding a bus.

It was quite the mess – Togo and Benin both use the West African Franc (CFA), but as soon as we got to the Togo and Ghana border, we were harangued by money changers who wanted to give us pretty rotten conversion rates to the Ghanaian cedi. In addition we were accosted by a variety of taxi and tro-tro (mini bus) drivers and were so confused that a police man came up to us and helped us (in English!) to a bus, which was not our planned method of transportation, but it seemed to work out.

Obviously, the first noticeable difference was the English. We went into the customs office and the two ladies were behind computers and chatting in English about how to speak French. “Where are you going is ‘tu vas ou,’” she informed the other. The second noticeable difference was that there were computers and they were actually entering data that we had given them into them, along with taking our photos. Neither Benin nor Togo seemed to care much about the forms they forced us to fill out.

The four hour drive to Accra was long and tiresome. As we approached the city, our eyes widened. We started traveling on a four lane interstate. Minutes later we started going under overpasses and seeing big modern looking buildings. Everyone was driving cars, lots of official looking taxis, big cars, and little cars. We passed the Mall on our left and headed into the center of what looked like a modern American city.

“Where are we?” we thought, only a few hundred miles from Benin. How could development exist like this so close to where we live? Malls? Movie Theatres? Over-passes? Garbage cans? We found ourselves taking pictures with said objects – Angelina with a Garbage can, John Mark eating sushi. Pictures that will probably make you readers think we’re crazy.

We checked into our hostel, Pink Hostel, which was nice enough – Single beds, private room and bathroom, and AC. We cleaned up after a long day of travel and went out to what some call the nicest restaurant in Ghana, Monsoon. We ate sushi, noodles, Japanese grilled meat, drank frozen daiquiris and almost fell asleep at our table.

The next morning we headed to the Mall. Because it was Good Friday many stores were closed, but hundred of people were there – walking, eating, and browsing the stores that were open. There was a huge bookstore with a lot of American books and a lot of restaurants and fast-food joints. It was weird to see these really modern Africans. There were little children speaking English and families sitting together. One father would pull out his digital camera and take pictures of his kids while the mom would go order the pizza and diet Cokes. It was surreal. There was an apple store with an internet café and people were readily using the computers.

In the afternoon we went to see Clash of the Titans in a real modern movie theater and in the evening we ate dinner at Champs, an American-style sports pub. We ate nachos and burritos and ran into some Benin US embassy staff we met recently. We had a few rounds of beer and in the end they treated us, which was quite the gift since we’re on a shoestring budget.

Now on to the second part of our journey in Kumasi. Right now I’m in the Kumasi Peace Corps Workstation. I have a feeling now we’re going to see the real Ghana that exists outside of Accra. Even still, everything is very clean and seems so much more developed. Many Beninese say that the French were bad colonialists and the English were better at it, which is why countries like Nigeria and Ghana ended up so much richer. I think their resources are just better, but I haven’t done much research.

Anyway, that finishes part 1. More to come.www.revolutionme.net

A year after the death of fellow TEFL volunteer, friend, and mentor Kate, a lot of questions continue to go unanswered. I feel pretty safe here. I tell myself that what happened to Kate was a very isolated situation – a perfect example of how the volunteer experience can go disastrously wrong.

In the end Kate was protecting girls in her village that were being exploited. The exploiter had a lot to lose. The rest of the story could be a bit of mystery, but we’ve filled in the blanks with pieces of information that we’ve heard and internal events that have taken place. In the end it’s a lot of hearsay and little evidence. The tongues of Peace Corps, Benin, and the US Government are tied. Me too I guess. I feel like I can’t really share what I’ve pieced together as long as I’m a volunteer.

When the assistant-director for TEFL called me to tell me about Kate, she said that “Kate has died.” I think when my friends and I heard this, we all wanted to think the best, if there is “a best” in such a situation. She had some health problem that we didn’t know about. Some emergency situation – a snake bite, bike accident, etc. In those first few hours, we never would have dreamt that someone could murder Kate – the example volunteer. When news finally came down from the Peace Corps and from national media that she had been murdered, we didn’t know what to think. What happened? Are we safe?

Within two days, most volunteers were headed to the south for a memorial in her honor. We hoped for more information, too – peace of mind. Really, what was happening? Would they send us home? Were we all at risk? Did Peace Corps have anything they could tell us that could make us feel better. No. They couldn’t tell us anything. Just that she was killed while she was sleeping. What did that mean for us? Sorcery? Ethnic motivations? So many possibilities and Peace Corps couldn’t ease our worries. They could just say that we were safe. Many have struggled with this since. Are we safe? I’ve moved on pretty well, but what happened to Kate is always in the back of my mind.

We remembered Kate as best as we could in the situation. It’s a hard mix – that selfish worrying for your self and the remorse of someone you know and love being brutally killed- That’s something that most Americans live their whole lives without experiencing. A few of us sang “Your Long Journey,” a blue-grass song, Amazing grace, people spoke, a slide show was shown. We knew only one year of Kate but there was still so much to share. My friends and family back home were not there for me. They couldn’t have been, even when they tried. The distance is too much. The only real consolation I found was in being with the people I had grown to love in Peace Corps.

Now we’re here again. We’re in the same room. The same picture of Kate is placed on the same table. Candles are lit as Kate’s own writing and a short obituary are read. The country director, the Ambassador, everyone speaks. We sing, we watch the same slide show. It’s more real the second time around. We’ve processed, we’ve moved on as we can. But everyone still cries when it’s over. Hugs. Moving on.

The Peace Corps experience is such a bipolar experience – one that I have no regrets about sticking with. Some days you’re mad as hell and some days you sit and smile and thank the spirits you’re where you are. I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in my life. At the same time, soon I’ll move on. I wish that my two years of service weren’t so dominated by Kate’s death. That can’t change. All the good things, even knowing Kate, learning a language, making friends, teaching, they never would have happened if I weren’t where I am right now. It is well.www.revolutionme.net

Last weekend I finished my February break by going to the Capitol of Bariba Country, in northwest Benin. The town is called Nikki, and getting there involves a few hours in bush taxis on dirt roads. Since it’s the dry season and these 1980s cars don’t have AC, I was covered with dust by the time I arrived. Well worth it! I stayed with my friend Nora who lives in a nearby village. It was especially comfortable for me, because there are so many people in Nikki, that by the time we were done, it was nice to escape back into quiet village life.

We arrived in Nikki in the morning. There were thousands of people there, clogging the streets, scanning booths of African goods and crafts, and dancing in public spaces. Although it is a festival specifically for the Bariba (Batonum) ethnic group, everyone shows up, and on the streets, you’re just as likely to see dancers from the 60+ other cultures in Benin.

Nora’s friend and coworker took us around the town and even fed us some of the best yam pilet I’ve eaten in Benin. The big events took place in the afternoon. We relaxed and drank lots of water, and waited to head to the royal court.

When we arrived at the royal court, Nora’s friend guided us to the area labeled for “Tourists,” which might as well have said, “White People.” While other people stood in the hot afternoon air, white people were offered comfortable chairs in front of them. I’m not sure what they considered the other 100,000 people there, if they’re not tourists. Sometimes in Benin, you’re offered special services just because you’re a white person, and in 100 degree heat, who am I to say no?

The symbol of Bariba royalty is often the horse, which, I’m guessing, was brought to them by the Muslims. They spent a lot of time fleeing Muslim inquisition and eventually succumbed to their pressure, and became Muslim as well, and took a few Arabian horses while they were at it. There were probably about 20 horses there, draped in flashy blankets and saddles. Each driver was in full Arabian costume as well, turban, long bumba, etc. Eventually the king came out of his palace on horse back. He looked ancient. At this point, the team of horses accompanied him around town where he visited several sacred sites – the tombs of dead kings where he offered libations for a good new year, sacred trees, and apparently to a place with two very large clay jars. The jars are filled with money, grains, and knives. The king reached into the jars, and what he pulled out would foretell the wellbeing of the kingdom in the coming year. They didn’t actually announce what he found.

After that, the king and the kings’ men returned to the royal court, where we were eagerly awaiting. I thought there would be more ceremonial, but actually, the king just went back into his palace, and we sat around and watched the kings’ men showing off their horses. In the group was one French man. I’m not sure how he got involved, and one jester porting around a fake horse. We waited around for about another hour, and when it seemed clear not much was going to happen, we went to the taxi stop and waited for the next car.

Vigilante Justice. . .

On the way home from Nikki something strange happened. Our taxi passed a man with his family on a motorcycle. This isn’t that strange to see here – a whole family, 4 or 5 people on one motorcycle. It’s not safe, but what is, right? A few minutes later, the taxi slowed a bit to avoid a pothole, and the motorcycle passed us again.

The driver passed him again, and waved him down. He and a passenger got out of the car, ripped the key out of the moto’s ignition and slapped the man back and forth, chastising him for irresponsibly driving so fast, with two women and two babies on the bike.

As Nora and I were processing what had just happened, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of irony, as we were packed in a station wagon, with 15 people and no seatbelts, and a driver going faster than any other vehicle on the road. Sure, the guy on the motorcycle was being stupid, but isn’t anyone who even approaches a road in Africa? Nora, who was in the previously mentioned bus accident, would probably agree!

The mouse ate my homework. . .

So Adrien went to the doctor because his kidneys had been bothering him. I gave him 3000 francs and headed to the Ganni festival, telling him to give me all the change. When I called him during the weekend, I asked if everything was alright.

“There’s a little problem,” Adrien said, “a mouse ate the money you gave me.” Suspicious right? I really do have complete confidence in Adrien. He’s been nothing but faithful since he’s been around me. If I send him to the market to buy something, he always brings exact change, and tells me as prices change. But shouldn’t I be suspicious? Who has ever heard of a mouse eating money?

So I got home, and he showed me. Yes, a mouse had definitely eaten the money beyond recognition. Apparently, our next door neighbor had lost 10,000 francs in a similar experience. Anyway, Adrien discovered the remnants of money in a mouse nest they had been building behind my clothing shelves. They had, in fact, munched on the clothes a bit too, and stolen Adrien’s extra cell phone sim card. They seemed to have an affinity for clothes pins, bouillon cubes, and used crystal light packets as well. Go figure.

We bought some poison and mixed it with some acassa and fish and left it in their inside the nest. Sure enough, over the next 2 days, we found 6 dead, and sometimes smelly, mice. They’re not all gone though. Yesterday, I caught another one wandering around my closet room. I chased it, called Adrien to help me, but it got away. I guess we’ll be poisoning again this weekend. Silly creatures.www.revolutionme.net

I know I haven’t written as much lately about my life. I suppose the things that I used to think are interesting have become a little boring. The second year is like the first year, only you understand what everyone is saying. Here is a little mosaic of my life. - comment elle se passe maintenant.

My Trip to Nowhere. My friend Angelina (link) were planning a trip to Ghana during the February break. Another friend who was planning a trip called us and said, “Do you think the elections in Togo will affect the travel?” This was a reasonable question, since we have to pass through the southern part of Ghana to get to Togo. Having already had our vacation approved and reservations for hotels made, we asked the Safety and Security officer if there would be any problem. He hadn’t really considered it yet, and a few days later an e-mail went out forbidding travel to or through Togo before and after the election. Glad we informed them!

Anyway, so we’re planning our trip to Ghana during Easter break and hoping that if there is any post election violence, it will have calmed down and we will be free to pass through (really, it’s only a couple hundred kilometers!).

And so starts my trip to nowhere. This week, I spent a few days in Parakou, a few days in village. Adrien and I have been hanging out, going on walks, drinking cashews, and cleaning the house. Shortly I’ll head back to Parakou where I will meet up with my friend to go to the Ganni Festival, a big cultural festival in the northeastern part of the country celebrating the Bariba (batonum) heritage.

Peace Corps. The whole idea of the Peace Corps is to send volunteers into peaceful countries to share skills and culture. Unfortunately, the peaceful part isn’t going so well in West Africa. Since I’ve come here, there has been unrest in Guinea-Bissau, Gabon, Mauritania, al-queda kidnappings in Mali, and a president turned dictator and resulting coup in Niger. In addition to this, there are the upcoming elections in Togo which are likely to go poorly, since the current president was more of an heir to the last president. In Nigeria they put in place a new president (who’s name is Goodluck, by the way), because the current president was sick and seeking care in the Middle East. Now he’s back and no one is sure what’s going to happen.

So here I am, in a bastion of peace surrounded by countries of unrest that I’m forbidden to go to. It’s a weird feeling because Benin is so small. Nigeria, Togo, Burkina Faso, and Niger are all 5-10 hours away at most, but I’m forbidden to go to all but Burkina Faso, for the time being anyway. I’m really thankful that I ended up where I did. I’m thankful for the African experience – being in one of the poorest countries of the world, but at the same time, not having to deal with the civil unrest. They have enough killers here – HIV/AIDS, Malaria, traffic accidents, hunger, etc. Civil unrest isn’t going to help them.

Volunteers in other countries get consolidated, and often evacuated. They have to start their volunteer lives over in new countries (Several of the Guinea volunteers came to Benin), some times with only a year or a few months left in their service. I really am lucky to live in such a stable country. Thanks Peace Corps!

Now about that traffic. There’s a lot of grace going on in this blog post. I’m especially grateful that my 4 friends on a bus going south didn’t die in the horrific accident they went through last month. The bus was barreling down the road when there were two cars stopped on the road ahead of them. The breaks were not working well, so he drove into the other lane in which he encountered a semi truck bound for the opposite direction.

I’ve always been suspicious about these busses that the companies buy from China. I think they might not be made well, and I know they aren’t well maintained. After a few months of use, it’s already visible to the eye that they are falling apart. I suppose an American vehicle could do the same thing, but we would at least repair it quickly or preemptively.

The front of the bus smashed in. The seats broke off from the floor. Pictures of the bus make it look like it was sliced with a knife, its fiberglass body having cracked. Unlike the 10 dead from the accident, my 4 friends walked away with very minor (or no) injuries.

Traffic accidents are really one of our worst nightmares here in Benin. I live on the most heavily traveled highway in the country. It’s too much. Instead of putting used cars on trailers, they send them up north from the port 200 cars at a time, passing through every village like missiles or bullets ready to destroy. Being a major port for landlocked Niger and Burkina Faso, huge trucks loaded with boat crates pass through too. They go too fast, and it’s clear they’re destroying the road, and killing people along the way.

At the same time Beninese people are more mobile then they have ever been. Every day, probably 20-30 busses pass through on the road. This is how most of us get to Cotonou when we need to. It’s still the safest mode of transportation – I’m convinced. However, seeing the safest mode of transportation crippled, ripped in two, is most unsettling.

The Trial of the Century. Last week we concluded our first semester with the End of the Semester Council. This is where the teachers gather with the administration to discuss the results of the end of the semester and in general how things are going. At the end there is always a “divers” section, in which anyone can bring up any problem or concern that they have. As you can imagine, in a culture where people seem to like making meetings longer than they need to be, it’s good to bring a book or magazine.

This time, however, there was a trial. A girl had been accused of cheating. During the schoolwide exams, one of her teachers (not her English teacher), had slipped her all of the answers to the English test. I heard about this a long time ago, because it happened in Adrien’s class. I didn’t say anything because, frankly, it’s not my business and I didn’t want to involve myself.

When my colleague and I were sent to calculate the grades for Adrien’s class (note: teachers are sent out randomly to different classes to calculate the general grades for the semester, sort of like a GPA. The grades are read aloud and the teachers and students calculate. The idea is to prevent fraud. Get a computer!), we found the girl’s English grade uncalculated. I went and asked the director what we should do. He told me that the girl had denied it as well as the teacher. We ended up not calculating the grade.

Then came the trial. At the end of the council, the director brought up the case. Witnesses were called, including my colleague and friend who had caught the cheating. The teacher originally denied knowing the girl, but then they took the girl’s cell phone and quickly found the teacher’s number had been called many times from said cell phone. After that, the teacher said he called her to order cheese and eggs. Right. The girl took the test again, getting 13 out of 20 instead of 19 out of 10, even after the teacher had already given all the correct answers in class.

This was all grandiose. The teacher was there the whole time, denying that he had done it, making up stories about where he had gone when he left the room. Teachers got mad and yelled. Eventually the accused walked out. A vote was called, and the teacher was found guilty. As a result he’ll be excluded from end of the year moneymaking activities. In the US he’d be fired. I guess we’re not in the US.

Of course, the investigation is finished. Everyone considers the case closed. No one is going to look into his teaching and/or the clearly inappropriate relationship he had with a pretty, 17 year old female student. Like I said, we’re not in the US.

So long friend. Since Sarah’s first litter of beautiful puppies was born, 3 of the 5 have died. One was hit by a car and the other two died within the last week. One of them was my favorite, Sammy. She lived right next door and spent most of her time with Mama Sarah. She was a delight, well behaved and never snapped or barked. You could pick her up by her tail and she wouldn’t even squeak. She would curl up under my chair and keep me company while I would be reading on my front porch.

I came home to find her on my front porch. She had just drunk and vomited water and I’m pretty sure she was lying in her own urine. She had pimples all over her lips and her tongue was swollen in her mouth. I called the student over and made him carry her back to his house. “If she’s going to die, she’s going to die in your house, not mine,” I said. The veterinarian supply vender (no really vets here) had no advice and she died the next day. I’m guessing she probably got into “gris-gris,” some kind of a poison or sorcery intended to kill rats, people, or maybe even her.

I never really knew the other puppy that died. He was in the neighborhood but was kept inside the compound of the teacher (the same one who caught the cheating) who took him. It sounds, though, that he puppy got into something it shouldn’t have as well.

Fortunately Sarah seems to be doing well, so I think we can rule out transmittable disease.

L’advenir! Many of you have been asking me what my plans are. First of all, even though the school year ends in June, I can’t come home until September, because it’s a two year agreement. I’m trying to pack my summer with lots to do. I’ll be involved in several girls’ camps, including a week long camp that I’m planning for the strongest girls at my college. I’m also thinking about doing an intensive English summer school during August when other teachers are doing summer school as well. The goal would be to take about 10 of the best English students of 2nd and 3rd forms, and give them an active learning environment to really practice speaking, writing, and listening to English.

I’ve also applied for France’s English Teaching Assistant program, known to many volunteers as “Peace Corps France.” I would live in France for 7-9 months and teach English in there academies. The money is terrible, but I figure it would be a good chance to transform my French into something that is useable outside of West Africa. I’ve hit a bit of a learning block here, where often if I try to speak in complex phrases or vocabulary, the average folk don’t really understand me. Anyway, I should know if I’ve been accepted in April.

I’m also starting to research graduate schools that have M.A.s in Teaching English as a Second or Learned or Foreign Language. I’m looking at several schools in the New York City and Washington, DC areas – GW, NYU, Columbia. Applications are too much work nowadays if you don’t have a good internet connection, so I figure, if I get in to France, I’ll have all year to work on my applications.

Anyway, that’s a slice of my life here in Benin. I really love hearing from you all, in comments and in e-mails! Don’t hesitate to contact me. I usually write back!www.revolutionme.net

I’m surprised to see how some foods have grown on me since I’ve been in Benin. The first Beninese food that I really liked hit me right away in training. My host family would often give me pate rouge. This is the boiled corn flour mixed with a tomato sauce. It wasn’t until about my first year anniversary in Benin that I actually tried to make it myself. Thus began the slippery slope into Beninese eating habits. If you can’t beat ‘em, join em. Right? In this case, there’s a reason the people here eat the foods that they eat, and it’s that the ingredients are readily available.

Shortly there after, it was yams. We started by frying and boiling them, and eating them with a salty, oily tomato sauce. That got boring and we started making the quintessential west-African dish, yam pilet. This is an intricate task that I’m starting to really believe only a woman can sculpt. You boil the yams, more like steam them, and then mash them in a giant mortar and pedestal. Sounds easy right? The mashing is. But then, you need to know when to add water. Adding water puffs the grainy yam into a smoother texture. Then you have to knead it with your hands. Even after several months of making yam pilet (Adrien had to learn too), we can’t really make a perfect round of yam pilet.

The sauce is another story. Sauces here start with a good bit of oil and tomatoes. The tomatoes are usually ground on a kern, though a small can of tomato paste is used too. If you’re feeling extravagant, other spices can be mixed in too. Of course, hot peppers are a must, but garlic, onions, black pepper, and ginger are often available too. After the tomato and spices are well fried - remember, you’re frying a paste of all the above – then you add the sesame paste or peanut butter (both of which were milled on the kern as well). Throw in your meat, already cooked, and it’s good to go!

I spend a lot less money on supermarket foods nowadays. I’m likely to come home from the city with basic condiments like spices and ketchup, but I manage to buy most of my ingredients in village.www.revolutionme.net

Since I was a child, family walks have been a big part of my life. A form of entertainment in a house with no cable television. Many nights after dinner, several of us would go out together. Up the Oak Street hill, right on 12th Street, sometimes out to the cemetery and back, sometimes down town, and sometimes the short loop down to 7th street and back home. When I’m home, some of my best conversations with my father happen when we go for walks. When it’s just the two of us and we can both say what we’re thinking- my mom and I, my dad and I, my sister and I, my best friend and I. We can talk about politics, love, worries for two hours straight and no one is annoyed.

And there’s peace too. When no one wants to walk with me, I have myself to talk to. It’s a retreat from my house into the world. A world that talks to me softly, but takes care not to interrupt my thoughts. Brisk nights in Minnesota, my breath turning to snow the minute it hits the air. Sultry nights in Iowa, fireflies dancing with stars.

Even in college and graduate school, I kept the walking tradition going. I remember walking distances with Jason that I didn’t realize were walkable. After walking, things were all of the sudden much closer than I ever knew. Then the woods and prairies of Minnesota, next to lakes, the respite known as St. Johns, now with Elias in tow, prancing about the forest and hunting for rabbits.

That’s something I thought I had lost when I came to Benin. My first months here, I would go on two walks a day. They were long, hot, and miserable. I had to shut myself off to the world that I was trying to get to know. The relentless heckling by children, “bature, bature,” and even adults bothering me and mocking me. It was to be expected and I don’t hold it against the village that I now call home. Don’t listen. Respond to people who address me politely. Easy enough.

But about a year ago, I went out and looked for mangoes with Adrien, and realized that there was a wealth of trails – to local villages, between houses, to the train tracks, and back to my village. I started walking with Sarah often. Now, if I have the time every day. My family walks continue. Sometimes with Adrien, sometimes with Sarah, sometimes even with Sarah’s puppy Sammy.

Any walking trail leaving my village isn’t going to have a big “Take only memories, leave only footprints” sign over it like some of the trails back in Iowa had back in the days. The trails start with big piles of trash. People dump their trash on the outskirts of the village. It’s also where people who don’t have latrines relieve themselves. Hold your breath and walk about 100 feet, and you’re past the trashy, depressing Africa. Now you’re “au champ.” In the country.

Most of my walks are through cashew orchards, forests with wild teak and mango trees, and prairies of grass. Sarah is a hunter. She stops and listens, perks her ears, points her paw, and often goes for the pounce, never catching anything. If Sammy comes along they hunt each other.

In February the cashews are ripe. Cashews are inedible raw. They’re harvested in this form and sent to Asia, where they cure them, and send them to Europe and America where people pay big bucks for them. Most people who eat cashews in America would never recognize the cashew fruit. It looks like an upside down bell pepper, with a kidney bean, the cashew, hanging out from the bottom end.

You can eat them, I was told. Just rip off the cashew and leave it on the ground for the farmers to harvest. You don’t really eat them, to be precise. You suck the juice out of them. It’s a sweet, nutty juice, with a bit of tang. During February and January I sneak through the orchards looking for these big ripe apples to rob. Sarah waits impatiently as I suck the juice out of the fruit. I often come home sticky, needing to wash my hands and change my clothes.

Now we wait for mango season, only a few months away. Not just the big meaty mangoes that we get back in the states, but also small stringy ones that you suck on until your face is covered with mango pulp. I feel like a kid. Like when I would come home with mulberry stains all over my knees.

Walk through the orchard to the railroad tracks. Then turn left if you want to walk toward the Catholic mission. Right if you want to take the short loop. The train tracks curve around the village and cross the road on the south end. The tracks are semi-abandoned and it’s really just one train that uses them. It doesn’t even run every day. I’ve never seen the train on one of my walks. One time there was a loud, ominous rumble and I ran, laden down by my walking sandals, to see it. I was too late.

Continue along the tracks until you run into a really worn down path that crosses them. Here you turn right into more cashew orchards and farm land. As you approach the village, you can see the three cell phone towers and a bit of the cement water tower next to the primary school. Be careful if you’re listening to music, you might not hear one of the motos wanting you to scoot off the path. They are weighed down with sacks of grain and yams. The harvest being brought to town to sell at market.

See the trash pile? Welcome back. A few minutes later, the heckling starts, as children at the primary school shout “bature” and “yovo” from the windows. Fortunately I’m almost home. Fortunately I’ve had my peace and I’m ready to reenter civilization with a clear mind, an open heart, and sticky hands.www.revolutionme.net

A Different World. . .

In my last post about Adrien’s homeland, there were a lot of little pieces about the experience missing. Since this was such a profound experience for me, I don’t want to leave anything out. Here are few things I missed.

Landscape. I live in a part of Benin that might as well be Iowa, save for the year-round heat. It’s a bit hilly, with a lot of orchards and farms. The soil is some of the best in Benin. Tangueita is nestled in the Atacora Mountains. They are old, tired mountains that look more like piles of gravel than mountains when viewed from a distance. The soil is rocky and not as fertile. They are more likely to grow beans and cotton in the Atacora then the yams and cashews that are grown in the Borgou.

Climate. We are right in the middle of the dust season known as “Harmattan.” Sahara dusts sweep up from the north and rain takes a four month break. The days are warm, but the nights aren’t miserable. In the Atacora it was freezing – some of the coldest air I’ve felt in Benin. I needed a comforter but only had a sheet to cover up at night. Normally I don’t use any covers when I’m sleeping because even when it’s colder, it’s still hot.

Dogs. Adrien’s people eat dog meat. They eat a lot of dog meat. The weird part is that the people in this area are nicer to dogs than anywhere else in Benin. They let the dogs beg and throw them bones while they’re eating. Every household I went to had at least 3 or 4 puppies running around. You can call them to you or approach them without them cowering in fear as they do in my village. No, I didn’t eat dog meat. Adrien and I have an agreement that I won’t make him eat pork if he doesn’t make me eat dog. Eating Sarah is out of the question.

Tchoukatou. This is a quickly brewed drink (3 days) made of fermented millet. I like it a lot. There are many varieties of it from a sweet non-alcoholic brew to a strong alcoholic brew. We have tchoukatou in my village, but here it’s a bit of a taboo for me to drink it. It’s considered a cheap drunk – kind of a sleazy thing to do. Meanwhile, in the Atacora every street corner has a tchoukatou stand. These are often circular buildings. The beverage is served in dried squash bowls. One serving is only 50 francs, and fairly strong in itself. I really enjoy the taste, probably more so than other alcohols in Benin, including the local brands of beer and crappy imported wine. I’d like to learn how to make this before I leave.

The insider. Never in my Beninese experience have I felt like less of an outsider. This is really quite remarkable. I wasn’t doted on for the most part. Just a visitor hanging around. Of course, I don’t speak their language, so maybe they were talking about me nonstop and I didn’t understand anything. In my experience, though, it’s 100% clear when people are talking about you. They stare, they point, they heckle. None of this happened in the Attacora. Especially when I went au champ to meet Adrien’s mother, I was just shuffled around and greeted (if greeted at all) like everyone else (if they could greet in French). I loved it! I suppose Adrien might have prepared them well for my coming, but I think also that they are a shy, very polite people. I spent almost 2 days there and I couldn’t tell you what their word for “white person” is, where as in the south or even in my village, I learned within an hour.

Building. Where I am most buildings are made with cement or mud and covered with a corrugated aluminum roof. In the Attacora this was rare. Most houses were made exclusively of mud brick, and many more were covered with thatched roofs. Many concessions were walled in with mud brick walls and they often had pig pens, chicken houses, and tchoukatou bars built into the same structure.

Polygamy. In Adrien’s family polygamy is the standard. I think there are multiple reasons, but having a big family to work the farm is still logical in his family’s mind. Both of his brothers have a wife on the farm and one or two wives in the city. I don’t like polygamy. It hurts women and is generally chauvinistic, but I was surprised to see how seamlessly it appeared to work for these people. His brothers went back and forth almost every day. In my village, polygamy exists, but it doesn’t seem to matter that much because they don’t spend any time with their wives. Here everyone was sort of clustered together hanging out, women and men, except of course, for when we ate. Then, we were clustered together, the most important guests, Adrien and myself, eating alone and first. On a side note, in discussing this with Adrien, I learned that his one brother had had several wives run away. I can see why Adrien doesn’t want to continue the tradition of polygamy though. His brother has so much, but the huge family coupled with his ongoing illness makes him very poor.www.revolutionme.net

You learn a lot about people by seeing what they come from. That is why I promised Adrien about a month ago that I’d come and meet his family and see Tangueita, his city, along with his ancestral village where several of his brothers work.

Adrien came to my village, about 300 kilometers away, because he thought life would be better. Since the soil is more fertile, he could find money to live on while going to school. The plan worked out for him for a year, and after that I showed up. Three years after leaving, his life is pretty good.

I arrived in the late afternoon on my way home from the safari. Not long after we arrived, I repacked my bags and we headed into the country to see his mother. Night was coming quickly so we decided to spend the night. Now in my village, going “au champ” means taking one of the many well beaten trails into the country. I figured I was in for a relaxing ride on a moto. Wrong. It turned out the ride involved me dismounting and wading through a river, along with getting my shins whacked by bushes and tree trunks.

Adrien is helping push his brother's moto, pig in tow, across the river.

Soon I was in a completely different world. His brothers are farmers, and their houses were surrounded by farms. We stopped to greet his one brother, than continued on to see his other and meet his mother. Their houses were all made with mud brick. Each group of houses was walled in and included a grain cellar. The walls of the houses were up to my shoulders, attesting to the fact that his family is observably short. Livestock was in my face. The oxen were tied up next to the house. Pigs, guinea foul, chickens, and dogs were all hanging around waiting for their next meal.

The house where Adrien was raised.

Most of the time was spent outside. His brother gave us a guinea foul to kill. Adrien performed the sacrifice and his mother began cooking flat bean pancakes for us to eat as an appetizer while is sister-in-law prepared the main course. His mother was old - easily 70 years old. Her presence was quiet. She was shy and didn’t say much. She didn’t speak any French so I had to talk to her through Adrien.

Adrien's Mama

That night, Adrien, his friend Moïse, and I squeezed into a small room and went to sleep. The cold air woke me up in the middle of the night. The season harmattan is especially harsh in this part of the country, and the nights can be very cold. We huddled close for warmth and woke up early because of the cold.

Before leaving we took a series of pictures. Adrien with the cows. Adrien with the family. He wanted proof that we were there together, and pictures of himself with his family. We headed back on moto, taking the same path, crossing the same river, and shortly found ourselves in the city again.

Adrien and his younger brother with a cow.

Adrien with his Mama

We spent the afternoon in Tangueita, where we walked around greeting various family members. I caught myself getting annoyed and impatient as Adrien had to stop and greet every person he saw in his quarter of the city. We borrowed two motos and Adrien, Moïse, another friend Yempabo, and I headed out to see more of the city.

Adrien and his friends

They took me to see a mud structure where rituals of initiation are held. Teenagers are put in tiny mud huts and are left there for ten days. Small holes allow the family to bring food. At the end of the ceremony they are freed and make a sacrifice at a close-by baobab – fetish tree.

Structure used for initiation into adulthood.

After that we went to see the waterfalls. These waterfalls were smaller than the ones I saw in Tanougbou, but by far more adventurous. I knew that we would be hiking, but I didn’t know we would be rock climbing. “Teacher, c’est bon?” Adrien and his friends would say as we mounted are way through the rocks. At certain points, I was so frightened that he and his friend actually helped to lift me up to the next rock. Finally, just before we got to the last and largest falls, I stopped. The boys were about to climb a cliff and I said no. They taunted me and told me I could do it, but I refused. Upon the descent, I reminded Adrien that he didn’t want to say, “I was the one that talked John Mark into climbing the cliff that he fell off of,” to my mother. As we headed back down, we swam briefly in the falls, which were extremely cold.

Me on a cliff.

The boys on a more difficult part of the climb.

In front of the falls I didn't see because of the climbing.

We drank some Tchoukatou, a local alcohol made with sorghum and headed back to his brother’s house. We sat around and waited for night to fall. Sunsets are beautiful in this part of the country. The sun creeps its way behind the tired old mountains and makes the dust in the harmattan air glow pinks and blues. We ate and soon after that I was ready to go to sleep.

The next day we walked around, drank some more tchoukatou, and greeted some of his favorite and most helpful primary school teachers. In the afternoon I took a taxi back to the workstation in Nati.

This was probably one of the most unique experiences of my Peace Corps journey. Never in my life have I ever isolated myself so much from my “white” life here to really experience how the poorest people in Africa live. I’ve never had a more African experience. What is their poverty? His brother seem to have plenty of food (though I hear it’s less so during the off season), plenty of property, plenty of wives and children, but they still consider themselves poor – and they are by my standards. They struggle, but they aren’t miserable.

They aren’t miserable, that is, until the moto breaks or the baby gets sick with malaria. Until the vielle dies or your child wants to marry. Until you see the world and all the good things that exist there in, and know that you can’t have any of it because of your way of life is paralyzing. Their wealth is in the hard work they’ve put into developing land and businesses. Those things can’t pay for much. It’s the risk of self-sufficiency.

I can see why Adrien wanted out of this experience, and I think it’s good for him to go back and see his family, and remember where he came from. His family is all very hard-working. I can see that they love him much and wish he were closer. He’s the only one in the family to go to secondary school. Much of their hope rests in his potential success. I’ve never felt better about what I do for him.

NB: More pictures are available. Just click on one of the pictures above.www.revolutionme.net

The safari started at 6:00am when the guide picked us up at the workstation in Natitangou in an old Toyota SUV. We left early so we could arrive at Penjari national park around 8:00, when a lot of animals would be out. Upon arriving at the park, we paid our entrance fee while the driver tied a mattress to the luggage rack on top of the car. We climb up so that we could sit on the mattress. We traveled like this during the safari. Wind blowing dust in our faces and hands holding tightly on to the adjacent luggage rack, we advanced through the park squinting through the morning sun to see animals. Not too long after entering the park, we saw one of the hardest to spot, the lion. Two lionesses had just recently killed an antelope and were enjoying lunch as we passed. We watched them in awe. She realized we were there and growled at us. Shortly after, she started slowly dragging her prey away. Over the next few days we saw many animals – hippopotamuses, crocodiles, wild boar, and elephants. The elephants were the most beautiful. They are huge and wild and seem to have such a calm simple life. Birds pick at their dirty skin as they wander aimlessly through the forest, sometimes knocking down trees to get the fruit they’re searching for. Stunning animals. Absolutely stunning. The hotel in the park was fine. It was isolated and felt like a safari hotel. We were there on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I had decided to join my friends Nora and Katie, and Nora’s brother Danny for this adventure. The hotel managed to “get us good” the first night, with a meal more expensive than anything I would have spent in the U.S. The food was alright but not worth the money. The next day we gave the hotel a hard time about the over-priced meal. “All the French people thought it was quite satisfying.” There were several French families in the hotel and at several points I caught myself thinking, “Do I really want to live in France.” I think the clear difference between “us” and “them,” was that we were poor volunteers and they were all diplomats or friends of diplomats or crazy Europeans, all with a lot of money free to dump on a safari. Upon exiting we stopped at the waterfalls in Tonougou. A guide took us up to the falls and we swam and watched the certified “plongeurs” dive from the high cliff above the water. The water was cold – fresh and crisp, and I couldn’t handle staying in it for as long as my friends wanted to. I got out and took the obligatory pictures of them swimming in the waterfalls. Safari is an interesting experience, especially when you’re doing it as a volunteer. You catch yourself thinking, “If only my friends in village knew what I was spending on this trip.” It’s never a pleasant thought, but what fun is living in Africa for two years if you’ve never been on Safari. NB: My camera wasn’t sufficiently charged and in the end I didn’t get any good photos. As soon as my friends post pictures, I’ll share them. I like to think of my blog as more word based than photo based anyway. J www.revolutionme.net

What matters. . .

The other day I went to the tailor to drop off some fabric and I had an argument with him, which resulted in my taking the fabric I had bought and finding another tailor. We were talking about the price, and he basically told me that because I am white, I should pay more. I’m used to this sort of treatment, but it’s usually not said so blatantly to my face. The quality of his work for me, he claimed, is better than his work for others – because I’m white.

I was there with Adrien, because we were getting our “même tissue” outfits made. I was outraged that he was willing to say in front of Adrien and other customers, that the quality of his work was better for me because I am white. I think what makes this especially painful at this point in my life here, is that I want to be treated like everyone else. I’ve been in village for a year now. I want the same prices and the same quality and the same treatment that artisans, shop owners, even banana sellers give to everyone else.

The truth is that the Peace Corps gives me just enough money to live how I want to live, but just enough. With the tailor we were debating over the equivalent of 2 dollars. Money I wouldn’t break a sweat over in the U.S., now means that I might not have enough money to get to the bank on pay day.

In discussing the events with Maman Naffi in my concession, I found myself getting more frustrated. She emphasized and thought that I had a right to be angry. I found myself telling her the same thing that I tell many people here – I make less money than professors, the school doesn’t pay me, I can’t work to make extra money, I’m a volunteer. A mixed bag of the truth and white lies. They don’t (can’t) really understand the concept that it’s a sacrifice to come here, because I still have a pretty nice house and a good amount of money compared to a lot of people.

“Even when I travel, the Peace Corps gives me money to travel. I really don’t have that much money,” I told her.

And then she said, “And the 1,000,000CFA to go home last summer?”

Touché. At some point last summer, she asked me how much a ticket home was, and I told her. I explained, as I had before, that it was my family who helped pay to bring me home, because they wanted to see me. “Their money is your money.”

Touché encore. I am a rich American. Not because I’m making big bucks in Africa, but rather because my future is bright and my circle of protection is big. I want to fit in, but I’m white. It really is fair for them to assume that because I am white, I am rich. Naturally, since they are much poorer, I ought to pay more for their goods and services. I ought to give a little too. I do so much for the community in little ways, but I don’t give like they are used to white people giving. I know my students appreciate the unique experience of having an American English teacher, and the various opportunities to go alongside with that, but in the end will my legacy be weak compared to the Italians that built the orphanage or the Swiss that built the school building? Probably.

Volunteering can be selfish too. I came here because I wanted to learn about life in Africa. I wanted to speak another language well. I wanted more stories to tell. I’ve achieved all of these things, so I can’t really complain. On top of that, in the end I will have helped 400+ students to speak English a little better, not to mention to realize that there is a world out there bigger than Benin. I suppose that’s a legacy.

I want the people in my village to think that I’m poor like them. That’s just not real. Even if I am honestly trying to live on a similar budget, every time I hop on the air conditioned bus to Cotonou and every time I take money out from home to travel, they know it’s not true. As my time here rushes to its end, I’m starting to realize that as well integrated as I am, I’ll always be the American. I’ll never be really comfortable. The people will never be really comfortable with me. I might never be seen as the equal that I want to be.

The tailor was a special case. Because of his quick temper, I had a window into what people are thinking but don’t usually say. Either way, we took the fabric to another tailor and saved a dollar after discussing the price. At least now I can get to the bank.www.revolutionme.net

Thankfully American Thanksgiving coincides with the harvest season in Benin. This means that many delicious things are is in season, from sweet potatoes to watermelon. In a city like Parakou (the closest to my village), you really can have an authentic Thanksgiving Day Dinner. Even in my village I was able to pull off a few dishes.

I went back and forth about whether to invite anyone to my personal Thanksgiving Day dinner, or just share it with Adrien. The problem, of course, is money. When one person hears about it, everyone else is offended they haven’t been invited. In the end I decided to invite three teachers to share the small feast with me.

I’m proud to say everything I made for my personal thanksgiving was found in village. The boutique where I buy most of my food actually has frozen turkey wings, so I bought enough for the five of us. I really didn’t know what I was doing with it. I brined it, than boiled it, than fried it, than baked it. Sorry cooking gods. I made mashed sweet potatoes with sugar, cinnamon, and milk. I then made a stuffing with dried bread and a broth I made from my turkey water with a little help from Maggi cubes (bouillon). Naturally, gravy was included as well. In the end, I was glad to have shared Thanksgiving with a few others. Cultural sharing is a Peace Corps goal!

On Saturday most of my TEFL group gathered to celebrate Thanksgiving together. Since we don’t get to take off American holidays, we had to transfer the feast to the weekend. Last year, we were all together for Thanksgiving. It fell during a week long training we had in Parakou. In a lot of ways, it was when we really melded together as a group. So, it was especially pleasant to gather the second year to keep the tradition running.

We divided up, much as we did last year, to make the meal. Claire and I were on stuffing duty, and also obliged ourselves to make green bean hotdish. Someone had to do it, and being from the upper midwest, it seemed appropriate that we step up to the task.

Task 1. Figure out how to produce cream of mushroom soup. This really wasn’t that hard to do. Every time I realize how easy some processed foods are to make from scratch, I feel guilty about how much money and laziness has been involved in making such products back in the states. We sautéed onions and garlic in a good amount of oil. Then we mixed in flour, to start a gravy. After that, we added milk, a can of mushrooms, and soon enough we had our cream of mushroom soup.

Task 2. Cook vegetables and find something crunchy to place on the top before baking. We found pringles. And task complete!

Stuffing would be easier we thought. It was actually going quite well. We had a nice broth built up with veggies and seasoning. Not enough salt though. We had a giant salt shaker full of salt. I added a little. Tasted. It still needed more. I shook the salt shaker, and the lid fell off, causing a good half pound of salt to fall into our broth. At first I couldn’t stop laughing. Oh my. Then once we regained ourselves, we asked Angelina, one of our food snobs, to come and taste our broth. I think she almost threw up. She was not amused. Anyway, we strained all the vegetables and started over again.

The food, in the end was all fantastic. The truth is that the “dinner of all dinners,” isn’t really about the food. The food is great, don’t get me wrong, but the fulfilling part of the feast is being with people you love. The TEFL girls (remember, 13 girls and me!) have really become my family here. They all contribute so uniquely to our group. When one is missing, we know it (there were 3 missing!). Last year, we talked a lot about our past. Where and what we’ve come from.

This year, it was about our future. The question we’ve all been asking ourselves. Where will we be a year from now? Unfortunately, I think I’ll have many more Thanksgiving away from my family and home. I can only hope that I’ll always be so lucky – to have such wonderful people around me, no matter where I am.www.revolutionme.net

Over the last weekend Adrien had a series of really high fevers. When they kept coming back, we assumed in was malaria. Malaria is very common here – sort of like the flu – and it’s not nearly as dangerous for the average African as it is for the American, because their bodies have adapted after hundreds of years of fighting the disease. When he didn’t over come the malady on his own, I decided he ought to go to the health center.

“Ok, let’s go,” he said. I was a bit confused. I figured he would go alone, but it turned out that he wanted my company. So we went there as a family – it’s not too far from my house. Sarah even followed us and patiently waited in front of the building the whole time.

A few (3) words about health center etiquette in Benin: There is none. Really. All the things that I would expect to be normal in such a place were absent. The aid sat Adrien down in a chair in one of the main rooms. She put a thermometer in his armpit and then promptly left us. During this time, five or ten people passed us. Each one asked Adrien what was wrong and wished him “bonne guerisson!”

The people passing by were filing in an out of the room next to us where they were watching two Fulani who had just had an accident. It turns out they were on their motorcycle and hit a cow. Those of you who know Fulani, might understand how appropriate this particular accident is for their culture. Even Adrien peaked in to see what was up. I didn’t look, but it turns out they were pretty scratched up.

After a long wait, all with thermometer in armpit, the nurse came in to consult. Nurses function as doctors here. First Adrien was chastised for not always sleeping under his mosquito net. He had him lay down on an examination table, which looked more like a morgue table to me. It was hard and metal and I’m not sure it was up to hospital cleanliness standards. The nurse poked at Adrien’s stomach and then diagnosed him with parasites after he cringed a little.

In the end the nurse scribbled a prescription on a piece of paper. Here in Benin, you don’t need a prescription to buy medicine, but if you want it at cheap, American-subsidized prices, you buy it at the health center. In the end we were given coartem, the standard, best malaria treatment, some drugs for parasites, and a record book that Adrien is supposed to bring with him every time he goes to the health center. All that and the consultation for 850 francs (2 dollars)! Seriously, thanks first world subsidies!

Sure enough we went to the pharmacy right at 8:00pm. Sure enough, the medical secretary had already left. After spending an hour plus waiting for the diagnosis we expected, Adrien couldn’t even get the medicine he wanted. The next morning he managed to get them, and a few days later, he was back to normal.www.revolutionme.net

The seasons are slowly changing. The bright sun is now covered by a golden haze in the morning, slowing the heating of the earth throughout the days. In the mornings I cover myself with a sheet and remember the good old days when I slept under a comforter no matter what the season was. I love the four seasons back home. Here I’ve had to adjust to enjoy the change of the seasons.

It’s strange how a year ago I was sitting around, waiting for the seasons to pass, and this year I’m not sure if I’ll even have time to check my most recent quiz. Relationships built over the last year are finally flourishing, and for the first time in my Peace Corps experience, I have just enough to do.

My school year started out innocently enough. I was excited to teach again. The students I followed to this year kept me energized from the start. The new students kept me challenged. By the time I gave my first test, I felt like we were finally in sync. Everyone understood my expectations, and a lot of them worked towards them, finding pretty spectacular scores in the end. Just like last year, many students aren’t on the “English learning” boat. I try not to leave them behind, while at the same time, I try not to stall the class because of them. It’s hard keeping that balance when you have 50-60 kids in a class.

Then I was elected chair of the English department. Shamelessly, I suppose, I nominated myself. After last year, a year full of useless meetings, I talked to a few other teachers about becoming the “Animateur Pedagogique,” and they all seemed excited about the idea. So, I ran and I won. That vote of confidence made me happy. The teachers weren’t happy with the “status quo.” They showed that they wanted more from our meetings. A higher quality English experience at my college.

Thinking of something to do at every meeting can be a headache. So far we’ve had sessions about reading, test writing, class discipline, and American Music. The test correcting and writing is the hardest part. Every teacher is supposed to propose a “devoir,” for each grade level that he teaches. I correct them, and choose one to give to all the students of that grade level, a sort of standardized test within the school. When there are 10 classes and 4 teachers of one grade level, it can be a bit of nightmare to synchronize their learning.

For the last year, my colleagues had been talking about starting an English club. Finally my homologue and I sat down and made a plan. It was almost impossible to find a time when several classes were available, and in the end we chose 5:00pm on Wednesdays. I was sure no one would come. Of the 6 classes that were available, who wouldn’t want to go home after hours of school? Wrong. The first session, 90 students showed up. The second was about the same. Finally the third week, only about 70 students came. We’re hoping that numbers will slowly diminish so we can actually do fun, hands on activities without being overwhelmed.

Our sessions have been interesting. Our club involves sharing a lot of English lexicon while speaking in a lot of French. Last week, I brought in nine strange kitchen utensils. We put one at each group of tables and asked the students to guess what the crazy white teacher did with it in the kitchen. These involved: a garlic press, a meat grinder, a measuring cup, a bottle cleaning sponge, a potato peeler, and more. I think the students were more than amused by the strange things we Americans do in the kitchen.

I’ve also “team-taught,” a little bit. This is one of Peace Corps’s clever ideas for transferring skills to local teachers. We plan and teach a lesson together. My homologue and I have been working together in 3eme, which is the superior class in the first cycle of the French system. Working with these students inspires me, because there are some who have worked very diligently to get to this point. They are really dedicated to learning the material. At the same time, there are some clowns that by some stroke of luck, or by repeating previous grade levels many times, finally made it to 3eme. Balancing the two in one class can be a bit of a challenge. I think earlier level English class is by far harder. They have lots of vocabulary, grammar, verb tense to memorize. In 3eme, you can assume they know all that, hopefully.

On top of all of this, I’ve also made a few class visits to have “Q&A” session with History-Geography students. I told my teacher friend that I was available to talk about my life, culture, and country at any time. To my surprise he took me up on it! In one class, we spent two hours talking. They asked very interesting questions for their level (5eme, about 8th grade), about industries, climate, pollution, and even the color of my skin.

I’ve been trying to make myself more available to students. One afternoon a week, I’ve been coming to school to help those who want to come (10-15 students) with homework and review. I feel bad for students in classes of 50-60 students. I know Adrien often doesn’t understand his work until he goes directly to a professor to ask for help. The students are starting to see that I am here for them. That makes me happy.

Last week, I was literally at school every morning and every afternoon. I’m happy when I’m busy. I feel successful when I have something to do. So far the start of my second year has been fantastic. Now my mind is racing. What can I do in the coming months?www.revolutionme.net

My sister, Ann, has been fighting the internal battle of self-expression verses self-absorbtion, and self-expression has finally won out! I'm really excited, because she's a great writer and has some really interesting perspectives on life, midwifing, wifing, and mothering. Check out her new block Heart and Hands. . .

And while you're at it, I might as well give a shout out to Maria, my other sister. She's been blogging for a while about her life as a theologian and mother, and how the two compliment each other. It's pretty catholicky. Check it out TheologianMom

As for my brother, Jeremy. Well, we're waiting.www.revolutionme.net

I just thought I'd share this letter that I wrote to a class in Independence, MO through WorldWideExchange. I'm happy to conduct this kind of correspondence with other classes too, so just send me an e-mail if you're interested!

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Dear Class,

Thank you for writing me last spring. I’ve had a very busy summer. In June, I took four girls from my village to a camp. Girls have a very hard time learning here, so I was really excited to work at this camp which taught the girls all kinds of useful things and gave them a chance to shadow a working woman in the city. Overall I think it really encouraged them to persue college and university. I was quite pleased.

In July, I went home! I spent three weeks in the US, traveling from New York City, to Wisconsin, to Minnesota, to Iowa, and back to Benin! In August, I helped to train the new volunteers. Every year about 50-60 volunteers come to Benin, and I was responsible for teaching the new group of teachers (about 12 volunteers) how we teach in Benin.

I hope that your school year has already gotten off to a great start. Mine certainly has! We started in the beginning of October. For the first few days there weren’t any classes. Instead, all the students were required to cut grass with machetes and dig up weeds with hoes! The second week, classes started for real, but my classrooms weren’t full until the third week. Many students have to finish working in the fields in order to have the $20 the need for tuition.

Anyway, I’m teaching four classes this year. The classes meet for two hours two times a week. I’m teaching “Sixième,” which is sort of like 7th grade, and “Cinquième,” which is like 8th grade. Each class has more than 50 students. Once a week I have a faculty meeting with all the English teachers, where we discuss what we’re doing in the classroom and ask questions about the language. This year I'm also the head of the English faculty, so I get to plan the meetings and choose people to present on English teaching.

At the end of last year, you posed a few very interesting questions. I’ll try to answer them best I can.

How is discipline handled?

Each student receives a conduct grade that is equal to the grades of their other classes. If they do something bad, a teacher can give them “hours,” which will take away points from their conduct. Some teachers also punish students with labor (ie, hoeing or cutting grass) and beatings (sad, but true! I never do this, of course.). It’s very difficult to manage a class of 50 students! School is as an open campus here, so when students don't have class, they are free to go home.

What holidays are celebrated in Benin?

The “Premiere Janvier,” New Years Day, is the most commonly celebrated holiday here. There is also a “Voodoo Festival,” that celebrates traditional religions. I live in an area with a lot of Muslims. Every fall they have a month of fasting, called Ramadan, where they don’t eat between sunup and sundown. At the end of this, there is a big festival and everyone eats a lot! Then two months later there is a big holiday called Tabaski. I’ve yet to figure out what that’s all about, but I enjoy the festive atmosphere in my village.

What food do you eat in your village?

Right now I’m eating “soy cheese,” a sort of heavy fried cake made of soy beans. The most commonly eaten food here is yam pilet or pounded yams (see fufu). It’s made with a huge African yam (Amy, google search and show them, they’re huge!), that weigh up for 10-20 pounds. They taste and cook like potatoes. They boil the yams first, and then they put them in a giant mortar and pedestal and beat them into a paste that is a bit thicker than mashed potatoes. When yams aren’t in season, they eat a lot of pâte. This is made with corn flour and water. Usually with their starch they eat a tomato sauce with peanuts or sesame seeds ground into it. In Benin, any meat is fair game. They not only eat beef, chicken, and pork here, but also snake, rat, and sometimes dog! Because there are 40+ ethnic groups here, the foods vary a lot by region.

The hardest part about eating the food here is using my hands! They don’t use silverware with typical meals. They take a chunk of pounded yam and dip it in the sauce to eat it, sort of like a nacho. Also, I’m left handed, and in Muslim areas, it’s forbidden to eat with your left hand!

Study hard this year and do great things! Getting to know your world is a great start! I look forward to your next round of questions!

Best,

Peace Corps Volunteer

Benin, West Africawww.revolutionme.net

Here are a few unrelated pieces of recent life in my village. . . .

Apparently three robbers were apprehended in my village recently. They were stealing livestock and putting it in a taxi and hauling it off to Parakou in the middle of the night. They were all killed by my village “hunters.” Supposedly they had permission from the police to kill them. I’m not sure how that works. Details are vague because apparently when a “hunter” kills a thief their bodies disappear unless the “hunter” wants the body to reappear.

A few months ago I contracted a taxi driver named Zacherie to drive my girls to Camp GLOW. Ever since then, he has treated me like I am his best friend – his token American. Recently he asked me if we could get our photo taken together. I obliged. After missing each other and going back and forth, we finally made it happen.

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Zacherie came to my house while I was cooking, so he sat around waiting for me to finish and even ate some of my food, pretending not to hate it. Another teacher was there too, so we were switching rapidly from English to French. I was feeling well integrated having such a mix of company. Anyway, as soon as I finished eating I changed into my Sunday best and we walked hand-in-hand (literally) to the photographer.

Getting your portrait done is an interesting process here. First you find a photographer. Photographers are of a varying quality here. Qualifications for becoming a photographer include 1. having a 35mm camera and 2. having 35mm film and 3. if you’re lucky, having cheesy backdrops. Voila! So we went to the photographer’s studio. We had two pictures taken. One was in front of a gaudy curtain and a fake plant. The second was in front of a Chinese made poster of a house by an orchard. The pose is always the hardest part, because people don’t smile in pictures. At the same time, I don’t want to look angry. I try to find a happy balance. A look on my face that says, “I’m having my picture taken. I’m happy about that.”

A few days later you get the photo back. Usually those of a fairer complexion are flushed out by some haphazard light-filling to make black people not look so black. Another oddity.

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Every Monday morning, we have a Flag Ceremony where the flag is raised and one of the classes sings the national anthem. In addition to this, other information and announcements are offered. This week, a very old man came – an envoi of the king of my village. He announced that a student and cut bark from the a Fetish Tree. He reported that the King says that if he does come forward to confess his wrongdoings, he would die within a week.www.revolutionme.net