I leave here in 3 months, and since I won’t be writing blogs post-COS (Close of Service, that means the day I stop being a Peace Corps Volunteer and return to the land of stars and stripes), I thought I’d write about the things I know I’ll miss (if anyone is still reading this!). I expect that nostalgia will set in immediately, on the plane ride home, for some things. Others I won’t start to miss for months, maybe years. And then of course, some things I will never miss and will rejoice at not having to see/experience again. Nature of the beast I suppose. First off, in the last two months, since my last blog post, I’ve been working on Take Our Daughters to Work Weekend, the program that takes village girls to the city to live with a professional woman and shadow her at work. The program will take place June 2-5. We’ve chosen the girls through essay selection; 17 girls representing 8 villages in southern Benin. I’ve also been working on a cement globe for the high school, helped a nearby volunteer with a mural of health-related themes at her local women’s clinic, and held a Hygiene Day function on April 15 for local women’s groups who clean public areas. The last weekend in April I went north for the most exciting weekend of a PCV’s year. We hold a weekend each year in with a date auction one night and a silent auction the next to raise money for our Gender and Development Small Project Fund, which allows PCVs to get up to $100 for small projects in their communities. Volunteers auction off dates like cleaning your house, cooking all meals for a weekend, inviting you to a volunteer post that has hiking or tourism. And the silent auction is a mix of unique Beninese jewelry and souvenirs, and baskets with a collection of goodies volunteers have donated from packages sent from home: M&Ms, packaged sausage, seasonings, macaroni and cheese boxes, even deodorant sticks, fragrant soaps, and industrial sized hand sanitizer. Things I’ll miss about the country that I’ve called home for the past two years: - the people! - the color contrast between the reddish brown dirt, the deep green verdure, and the blue sky, either a blinding pale blue or an ominous near black - riding on the back of a moto, especially the 30 minute ride from Zè to the paved road; it’s beauty never fails to astound me - hearing kids yell variations of my name while I pedal by on my bicycle, Akim, Kemi, yovo, dada (means big sister in my local language) - greeting every single person I pass, all of whom never seem to lose fascination at me being able to greet them in Fon - the cool erratic breeze that precedes a downpour - laying in my hammock, watching the setting sun turn the entire landscape into shades of pink - having a whole pineapple for breakfast, and knowing whose field it came from - old women with impossibly wrinkled skin and gap-toothed smiles walking home with a bundle of cooking wood on their heads - old men pedaling through town at a pace that barely registers - the unspeakable excitement and relief that comes from the first rain after months of dryness - babies wearing nothing but the colorful beads around their waists that serve as an amulet against sickness - the vibrant colors of an African clothesline or a group of women on their way to market or church - the ease with which women go about life with a baby strapped to their back and a heavy load atop their heads - the train of women and children carrying their goods to the market on market day - getting together with volunteers after weeks of village seclusion - falling asleep to far off drumming and lizards playing tag on my tin roof - passing by tiny voodoo houses and statues that are thought to keep spirits - the immense relief that a cold beer brings (sure, I’ll have beer in the US, but never again will it be so incredibly refreshing) - walking around wrapped in a single large piece of fabric - seeing all manner and combination of things on the back of a moto: a coffin, 6 people, 4 goats, all of the above - the crumbing mud bricks of houses that you’re never sure are half built or in ruins - the little sayings: “Have you done a little work today? And your health? And your kids?” On that note, things I’ll never miss: - being unable to take an afternoon nap due to suffocating heat - waking up in a pool of my own sweat - the same 3 food choices every day - hearing scurrying or other noises in the night - marriage proposals, men harassing men, the endless question “madame ou mademoiselle?” - having to have someone get my water for me, then having to boil and filter it before I can drink it - red dirt-caked feet - people asking if I can take them or their children back to the US with me - lizard poop on every surface of my house - burning my forearms on a Dutch oven - 8 hour bus rides up the country - people standing outside my window or screen door, staring in shamelessly - arguing to the price of everything I buy and every transport I take - the roads that seem to be more pot hole than pavement - diarrhea - power outages at the most inconvenient time of the day - being greeted by kids while they poop in a public space - pulling my own bathing water - the occasional snake sighting - the layer of dirt and ash that descends upon my house every day I leave here Sept. 1, so that’s 25 consecutive months I’ve spent on the African continent. I hope to make good on my promises to return here one day, but if not, it’ll be a part of me/haunt me forever.

International Women’s DayMarch 8 was the 100th annual International Women’s Day. As I wrote about in a previous blog, I coordinated a career panel at the high school. The five women who came represented some impressive yet attainable careers for women in Benin: a computer technician, an elementary school director, head of decentralization within the mayor’s office, a community hygiene agent, and the training coordinator for Peace Corps, a woman who has worked in 10 African countries during her Peace Corps career. The women first shared about themselves, their backgrounds, and careers. All women grew up in circumstances similar to that of the 47 high school girls (all female students in the last two years of high school), in rural communities where the education of women was often thought an unnecessary expense. Two women in particular had moving stories. The mayor’s employee was the youngest woman on the panel, at 25, and she started her career at 21. From Zè herself, she spoke of always being the hardest working individual in her high school class, of having an intelligence and work ethic that, if she were to have been born under more favorable circumstances, would have allowed her to pursue a job in the city or even France. After two years of college, which is more education than most girls from Zè even dream of, her parents were no longer able to pay her tuition. She came back to Zè and beat out an all-male applicant pool for a good job at the mayor’s office, where she encountered disdain from male employees for her status on a regular basis. She spoke of the hope that she could save enough money working at the mayor’s office to allow her to return to college, to pay her tuition, room, and board herself. She also spoke of her promise to herself to not marry young; she realized that if she were to marry it would probably be followed by children not long after, and that she would lose the chance to return to college. She was the most accessible woman to the girls, just a few years old than them and with a demeanor that was energetic and inviting.The Peace Corps training coordinator also had a moving story. I know this woman well, have worked with her for several trainings and Peace Corps activities, and yet never knew the diversity she faced to get where she is. She grew up in a village much smaller than mine and was the first girl to graduate high school from there. Her father faced nearly constant pressure from the community to stop sending her to school and some male teachers at her school tried to fail her. Her family was unable to afford to send her to college, so she paid for it all on her own and lived minimally. She said that in those years she suffered a lot. The girls were so moved by her story that they applauded for her several times, and during the Q&A that followed directed many questions at her. The girls asked a ton of questions, so many that we almost just forgot about the rest of the program to hear the questions. The dialogue developed into how to handle harassment from male teachers, balancing the demands of family with school and work, searching for support when family will no longer pay for school, and so on. After that the girls got into small groups and talked about their individual career ambitions and what they can do to achieve them. The girls all got certificates of participation and took photos with the women, which I think they really appreciated. So, success!

Some things I have failed to mention in the past but that are noteworthy: Greetings. I’ve touched on this before, the extent of greetings in this country. A normal conversation might be: How’d you sleep/wake up? Did your kids wake up? And your husband? How’s your health? I thought I’d share with you a few other greetings used here: Things you can say to someone you pass on the road: Are you returning? Are you going where you’re going? Are you coming from where you came from? Did you do a little work? Welcome! (even if you are clearly still going somewhere, not arriving) To someone sitting: Are you there? Did you do a little work? Good sitting! Did you sell a little today? (assuming that they are sitting in front of a pile of tomatoes/smoked fish/fried dough balls/etc. for sale) To someone leaving: Will you leave and come back? It is also appropriate to greet neighbors in the morning with “Thanks for yesterday” assuming that if they didn’t do anything specific like let you borrow their well bag, they surely sent good thoughts your way. And to say goodnight to them you’d say “May god wake you up in the morning.” But if you can learn only one greeting, “How’d you wake up?” will be the most useful. We say that here till well into the afternoon. Poop finger. Many Beninese grow the pinky nail on their left hand very long and use it to “wipe” (not the most apt verb but anything else would be too descriptive). Toilet paper doesn’t exist everywhere, and, besides, this is how it was done before the white man came in trumpeting his two-ply butt wipe. Teleporting abilities. Beninese claim that they can go to the market, the US, anywhere in the world, without being transported. Not all Beninese, only the “fetishers,” which more or less means to have that ability you must sell your soul to the devil. There are several methods of doing this, one being to climb into a hollow tree that acts as a portal to the destination of your choice, and another involving the use of dirt from the desired location. Just put a mound of it on the ground here, step on it, and voila! Voodoo convents. This is an interesting concept I recently learned about. While trying to translate “role model” into French, I learned that the idea of model women (les femmes modèles) is used to describe women who have gone through these rigorous programs in which girls and young women enroll for a couple years, completely withdraw from their families and societies, and “learn how to live.” It’s unclear what they learn exactly, because it does not cover any traditional school subjects like math and science, and washing clothes and preparing food they can learn at home. I know they learn a voodoo language, and the secrets of their “fetisher” (voodoo spell man) teacher. Beninese claim women who graduate from these convents have the best manners and most respectful demeanor of all women in Benin, in addition to knowing all the voodoo secrets and thus having the power to do God knows what to anyone who crosses them. It is said that they have taken an oath of fidelity so powerful that they will die on the spot if they are unfaithful to their husbands. They wear all white gowns that are similar to a burka, no skin shown. I haven’t seen this first hand, these convents are carefully hidden and would not allow a “yovo” to visit them, unfortunately.

It’s an exciting time in Benin! Presidential elections begin March 6. Many people have their radios tuned to hear candidate’s speeches and election news. One of the top candidates even arrived here this weekend to campaign, though he was 4 hours late and I had already gone home. There is a primary round of votes (March 6) in which all candidates are narrowed down to two, followed by a second election a couple weeks later in which a winner is chosen. There are over 200 political parties in Benin (which I believe is more than the number of politicians), so you can imagine how many individuals are in the first round of elections.

As Peace Corps volunteers there is a whole slew of things we are not supposed to do during this time, including have political conversations with friends, work partners, or, and I quote, “people you meet in bush taxis.” We cannot support in any way any candidate. And, as an added measure of security, for the week preceding each election day we are on “standfast,” which means we can’t leave our village for any reason. Most people in my village think the incumbent, Yayi Boni, will be reelected (information they volunteered; I in no way asked ☺).

The first two weeks of February I took the last vacation of my service. Every year Mali, a center of culture and music in West Africa, holds two of the region’s largest music festivals. One we can’t attend because it is in Timbuktu (did any of you actually know where Timbuktu was before reading this?), an area off limits to PC volunteers because of recent violence and, if I understand correctly, fears that Al Qaeda has strongholds in that area. The other is called “Festival Sur le Niger” held in Segou, Mali, which I was lucky enough to attend! Sadly a full half of the vacation was spent on buses, in bush taxis, and otherwise on the road. I first took an 8 hour bus to the north of Benin, which broke down several times and had to be push started (I kid you not) at one point. I’m thinking of making Africa-inspired motivational posters like those you see all over in America: “Success.” “Determination.” This one would read “Teamwork.” Anyway, after the bus then two taxis to get to the city in which we could find taxis going to Ouagadougou. Thankfully volunteers live in each town along the way so we could break up our trip and visit the posts of volunteers I don’t often get to see.

The taxi to Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso (no, I’m not making these places up) left Benin at 3am. We crossed the Benin border around 5am but oddly didn’t enter Burkina Faso until maybe 45 minutes later. All the borders we crossed were like that: you’d leave one country then wouldn’t enter another for many kilometers. Bizarre. In Ouagadougou we stayed at a PC transit house and got to spend the evening with Burkina volunteers who were fairly new and bursting with enthusiasm about their posts. In Burkina, very few volunteers end their service early, 30% of volunteers extend their service for a third year, and there are even a handful of fourth year volunteers. It was refreshing to see, especially since Benin loses at least one volunteer a month and disillusions many to development work. We continued on with day-long bus rides to Bobo, Burkina Faso, then to Segou, Mali, where we found that our tent reservation for the music festival had not been kept. Thankfully they offered us lodging on a boat that sounded pretty shady but ended up being amazing. The main festival stage was on the water, and the boat sat just behind it. They gave our group of 8 one dorm room to ourselves. We didn’t even have to leave the boat to enjoy the music, but since we were behind the stage we missed the colorful costumes and unique dances when we did that.

The food in Mali blew me away. They had French fries, salads, and kebabs available on the street! You would never see that in Benin. Sometimes we have meat on sticks but it always has bone chips in it and half is guaranteed to be intestines. But beer and alcohol was twice as expensive as it is in Benin, I guess on account of its being a hugely Muslin country. I’ll take my intestines-on-a-stick and $1 beer any day.

There were many Mali volunteers in Segou for the festival, so again we got to hang out with a lot of Americans and compare experiences. I got a chance to talk to the Peace Corps director of Mali who was a volunteer in my site about 20 years ago. Small world! I guess there aren’t too many crazies who join Peace Corps. The 5-day festival had events all day long (with a siesta from noon to 3pm, obviously), ranging from puppets to dances to drumming and singing from all over West Africa. We spent most mornings shopping the artisan stalls, where painted calabash bowls, camel-skin and leather jewelry, hand-dyed fabrics, and a wide variety of jewelry, natural remedies, fabrics, and souvenirs were sold. The men in our group all bought turbans and by the end of the week had perfected the art of wrapping them. I like to think how many ignorant Americans would be horrified at the idea that US tax dollars went to teaching a PC volunteer to wrap a turban. Evenings were spent at the concerts, where some of the biggest names in West African music performed (not that I knew of any of them). I saw more of a variety of instruments than I’ve ever seen, like the kora (below) and the balophone, a xylohphone-like instrument that has hollowed out gourds under the keys.

During the course of the festival we made friends with a group of Toaureg men who, in addition to wanting to sell us their handmade silver jewelry, seemed interested to just spend a few hours talking to Americans. They have an interesting culture and seemed to me to be a dichotomous people. They were at once sophisticated and yet very traditional. The have arranged marriages but say it is to ensure future generations of full-blooded Touaregs to carry on their culture; they can divorce after having children and marry outside of the Touareg population if they so choose. They have an elaborate style of dress and silver jewelry of a quality and style unparalleled in this part of the world. The two mornings that we spend with them, we sat down on mats in the shade and carried on conversations while one of the younger men prepared tea. Their manner of serving tea is very distinct. Not only do they have just one or two cups, and so those people must finish their tea before the others can partake, but they serve three cups in succession, each tasting different than the other. The first, they say, is bitter like death; the second, tough like life; and the third, sweet like love. The entire time only one man prepares the tea in a tiny teapot over a tiny stove, continuously fanning the flames with a tiny fan, and pours the tea from at least a foot above the cup. He continuously pours the tea into the cup then back into the teapot in order to stir it up. It’s truly an art.

The Touareg are a nomadic people, though this particular group kept a base home outside of Timbuktu and only traveled in camel caravans a few months a year to the salt reserves. They then load up their camels with salt to sell in the city and return to their families with other food staples not available at home. We learned about their dowry system, in which a male’s family pays the bride’s worth in camels. A twelve-camel woman, for instance, is not only beautiful but comes from a good family. While we were there a Touareg took a fancy to one of the volunteers and offered her a meager one camel dowry. She refused.

From Segou we traveled to Mopti, where we met the guide who would take us for three days of hiking into the region known as Dogon Country. The guide was hilarious. He is a favorite guide of Peace Corps volunteers and started/ended every other sentence with “shit, man,” obviously a product of his many exchanges with young Americans. Dogon Country is an incredibly arid region known for its rocky escarpments and stunning views. Atop an escarpment, you can literally see the land transitioning and the Sahara Desert beginning right before your eyes. The hike wasn’t strenuous, a couple hours in the morning and a couple in the evening. It was humbling to see women with huge loads on their heads pass us sprinting up or bouncing down the mountainsides. Each afternoon and evening we stopped at a different village, all of which have guesthouses for travelers. The tourism there is probably a large source of revenue for each village, and it seemed like half the village was implicated in preparing the meals and facilities for us. They wouldn’t know we were coming until we were there, so they’d be scrambling to make lunch or dinner for us as soon as they saw our group approaching. The days were tolerable (it’s the “coldest” time of year there), and the nights were freezing (for people acclimated to unbearable heat 24 hours a day). We slept on rooftops, under the stars, and awoke early to the laughs of children and the screeches of donkeys. Sadly my camera broke as a result of sand getting in the lens, so I have no pictures to share with you!

The trip back was eventful. The road from Mopti to Ouagadougou was closed to PC volunteers due to security threats. We instead had to backtrack and make a 4-day trip out of getting back to Benin. The unfortunate part was that since we couldn’t take the direct road, which had buses, we had to settle for taxis from one town to another til we finally got past the Burkina border. We ended up in one town at night and, hoping to continue and not sleep in the taxi station, rented a taxi to take us to the border. Instead he took us about halfway, then, at 3am, stopped. He planned to start again at daybreak but we were uneasy and unhappy and being misled, and insisted on him continuing. He finally did, and we made it til about 25 km from the border, where we waited from 5am til noon to find a taxi that would take us. When one would, after much persisting because he thought foreigners would take too long in visa control and delay him, we sat with goats tied up at our feet. There was nowhere to put your foot that wasn’t on a goat’s body part. Getting back after that was a series of early morning or all night buses. We didn’t get a full night’s sleep for I don’t even know how many days. Long trip, but worth it ☺

The more I see of West Africa, the more I understand it to be at once so diverse and yet, have common threads throughout. I suppose that’s like the US—there are huge differences between the West Coast, South, Midwest, and East Coast, but somehow we all identify with many traits of being American. I could see the change in mud house structure and design as we continued north, but they were still mud houses. Mali and Burkina Faso were overflowing with donkeys and had less goats than Benin, but there was still livestock running through the streets. Burkinabes and Maliennes spoke less French than the Beninese (owing to widespread local languages in the former, whereas the local languages in Benin change every few villages), but they were as welcoming and amiable as we knew West Africans to be.

Life in Zè is exactly the same as I left it. My latrines are nearing completion though we have a few that are at a standstill. The diggers dug only 8 meters on several latrines then led my work partners to believe they had dug all 10, and collected the pay. So now we have no more money to pay more diggers but families who, understandably, want the 10 meter hole that their neighbors got. On top of that, many people don’t see the point of putting a fence or building of some kind around their latrine. It’s not a health problem, because the latrine pits have concrete covers to keep insects out and odors contained. It’s more just a problem of privacy, but that doesn’t seem to be compelling enough for them to thatch together some palm fronds and put them up. This is a time when I’m glad I’m not fluent in my local language, and someone else has to have the “Why do you want to poop in other people’s view?” conversation with these families.

My next big project is a career panel for International Women’s Day. It’s going swimmingly except for the fact that one of the women I invited, a primary school director, I later found out is accused by her community of killing her two former husbands with voodoo spells (gri gri). If I uninvited her, I might be the focus of such gri gri, so I’ll have to keep her on and hope the girls actually ask her questions and applaud her, as I’ve been led to believe they might not. I have 5professional women coming in total and the 50-60 high school girls with the highest grades will be invited. International Women’s Day in March 8. I’ll post a blog about it after the event.

Hi family and friends! Hope you all enjoyed the holiday season and got your fill of everything that is Christmas and New Years in America. I came back from 3 weeks away from Zè to constant questions of “What did you bring me?” and “What are you going to give me for the holidays?” When I throw that question back at them they usually get all upset and say they’re coming to my house to take a gift that they believe is rightfully theirs. I actually had two girls about my age push their way into my house and start grabbing things on my shelf. As if they could possibly appreciate grated Parmesan cheese and Ghirardelli chocolates like moi. Psh.

Before I jump into a recap of my holiday adventures I want to update people who care on the status of my latrine project. It is unbelievably on track time-wise, even after losing some diggers to injuries, one incurred during work for this very project and one as a result of an excess of moonshine and the operation of a moto on New Years. All of the holes have been dug with the exception of four that are still in process. The masons are in the process of putting the cement platforms over the holes now; about 10 of the 21 holes that are completed have platforms already installed. At that point, families can start building the mud “houses” around their latrines. Only one family has already completed this, but they are a brown noser crew that the other families don’t much care for. We have been telling the families that they must finish the mud structures before mid-March, which will mark the end of the project. On January 25 a Peace Corps film crew is coming to film this project as part of a 50th Anniversary of Peace Corps commemoration. If I can get ahold of any of this footage or if it magically ends up on YouTube, I’ll let you all know.

Christmas! I stayed at this adorable “bungalow” right on the beach in a town called Grand Popo (and no, no one knows what or who Popo is) for five days with my boyfriend and about 30 other volunteers.It was mostly lazy days on the beach and dinners all together followed by lots of dancing and belting out of Christmas carols. I had grilled barracuda and local moonshine with fresh pineapple juice almost every night. One day a local organization that collects sea turtle shells and sends them out to sea when they are hatched had us help with the sending out. They were so adorable!

After Christmas Doug and I went to Ghana to take the GRE and meet my dad! In the two weeks that I was there I ate pizza, salads, sushi, Chinese, prawns, more French fries than I’m proud of, wheat bread almost every morning, and only twice was subject to Ghanaian food. Pretty sure I gained at least 5 pounds. Accra, the capital city of Ghana, is worlds away from Benin’s largest city, Cotonou. It is much more developed, has more variety of food, has a mall and a movie theater, and has actual taxis, not the moto taxis that we take in Benin. I didn’t have to lug my helmet around with me the whole time. The mall was actually sensory overload and I could go on about the food for days, but on the whole there aren’t many tourist attractions. Accra looks a lot like Cotonou. As my dad said, “same dump, different name.” Here are the highlights:

-There’s a town just outside Accra known for its amazing hand made coffins. Yep, these photos below are of coffins! They say you can put in an order for almost anything and they’ll try to make it happen, but that you should not go for something better than what you achieved in your life. The example they gave was that a taxi driver should never order an airplane coffin. Just not kosher.The video camera coffin, we were told, was ordered by a BBC reporter!

-Every store, no matter how small or large, has a name, usually something religious. Even rent-for-the-day wheelbarrels. “Covered in the Blood of Jesus Hair Salon” and the one below were some of my faves.

-We picked up dad from the airport at 2pm on New Years Eve and immediately commenced tasting the local, ahem, delicacies. I passed out at about 9pm, like last year, though last year I was alone in my village. So this year still won. My dad made it til 11:45pm (him out lasting me was the case throughout the trip) but sadly none among us were up for the ball drop (not that there is any ball dropping in Accra).

-Dad and I traveled to some towns along the Western coast of Ghana known for its castles/slave forts, where slaves captured inland were held in below ground dungeons until they were loaded onto ships for South America and the Caribbean. The coast also had colorful fleets of shipping and beautiful colonial-style homes painted vibrant colors.

-We did a "canopy walk" in a rainforest not far off the coat. It was a series of narrow wooden planks suspended 30 meters off the rainforest floor, level with the tops of the forest's highest trees. It was the scariest thing I've done in a long time! We didn't see any cool animals as both of us were focusing on the space in front of us and praying to get off the ride as soon as possible.

-After the coast, Dad and I went to a town called Kumasi where we visited the largest market in West Africa. The guidebook described it as an alien mothership from an aerial view. Dad and I walked along the perimeter awhile before diving in. There aren’t really entrances per say, and its somehow several feet below the level of the street. Honestly. It was the kind of market where you really can’t control where you go; you just get sucked into the inertia of the crowd. We did succeed in making three purchases and I think I got a local price. Success!

In general Dad wanted to do lots of walking and experiencing Ghana, and I wanted to do lots of sitting, namely in the air-conditioned hotel rooms with satellite TV. We usually settled on having a beer and people watching. The conspicuous lack of photos of my dad and I together is because I was always scared someone I asked to take our picture would run away with my camera à la Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s. It’s easy to forget how much of people you miss when you don’t see them. I forgot how much I missed my dad’s (slightly inappropriate at times) sense of humor. And hugs.

I’ve seen a myriad of funny/weird/crazy/sad images here. I’ve seen a kid with two thumbs, men and children dressed as haystacks speaking through horns and scaring crowds, rain so violent that it displaces whole villages, old men with Maxim Hot 100 bodies, and women carrying loads on their heads that would warrant a U-Haul in the US. But for the first time ever last week, I was present for a voodoo ceremony.

As part of my latrine construction project, I pass by each house to check on the progress of the work there. Last week, one family was celebrating the fête season and a profitable month in their household by killing a goat and giving part of the raw meat, along with 40 cents and a bag of kola nuts (horribly bitter nuts that people chew here for energy, I think that’s where Coca-Cola got its name) to the other families in the village. I showed up just as the heat was turning the meat from fresh to putrid, and if the fly population was any indication, the party was well underway. I was also given the meat, 40 cents, and kola nuts. I ate some of the meat but gave the rest, along with the nuts, to my neighbors. They came to me later asking who had given it to me, because they’re sure it had “gri-gri” in it (which means they think someone had put a spell on it). Unfortunately, by that time I had already eaten the meat. They said that side effects could include either sleepwalking back to that man’s house at night, or the desire to eat my own children. Jury’s still out on that.

So, the ceremony. At this same house, the father felt compelled to thank me for the latrine by putting on a ceremony on my behalf. He laid a cloth on the ground and explained some significance for it that now escapes me, then pulled out several dolls made of carved wood and goat hair, shells, animal bones, and hollowed out gourds. The dolls were all in pairs, because here twins are highly regarded, almost supernatural. There was a lot of chanting in Fon (the local language) and a lot of pointing things at the sky, and talking to the dolls. The entire ceremony, as I gather many of their ceremonies are, was for communicating with their ancestors, who I believe were buried under the ground that we stood on (that is common here, to bury family members on the property, sometimes even in the house). Finally, the man laid two dolls next to each other on the cloth and covered them with a calabash bowl. While I tapped the bowl continuously with my hands, he asked his ancestors to bring me fortune when I return to the US, and to ensure that I someday return here to bless them again. He explained that if his ancestors agreed, they would communicate that by raising the dolls to a standing position. When I lifted the calabash up, sure enough the dolls were standing! That’s not enough to convert me, but pretty cool. I still have no idea how he did it.

I didn’t want to offend him by snapping pictures, so I just managed to get this one while he wasn’t looking.

Thanks to donations from family, friends, and a few strangers, I am able to construct 25 latrines in my community. I promised updates on the progress of the project, so here it goes.

The families are overall enthusiastic to be a part of this project and grateful for the aid. Our first steps were to pass by each house and make sure they had gathered enough sand for the masons to use (which I would see them all doing in the morning, since the route I run just happens to pass through the village where the latrines are being constructed). First the masons make cement and mud bricks, then place them in a circle and cement them together. Next, groups of diggers dig 10-meter trenches. This is the most time-consuming part. It takes each group of 2 to 3 diggers at least 5 days to dig that deep. Then the mason constructs a circle of mud and cement with a hole and a nice little marked place to put one’s feet (photos below). This latrine “top” is done apart from the latrine and put on later. That’s one of the benefits of this type of latrine: in 10 years or so, when the latrine has been filled, the family can dig another hole and place the cement top over it (and hopefully cover the hole of the first latrine!).

Every other evening, my work partner Vlavonou, a local hygiene worker, and I do a tour of the houses to ensure that work is going smoothly. I had thought we would run into problems being that the project coincides with the fête season here. No one works or does much of anything except eat and sleep between Christmas and mid-January. It has actually worked in our favor, though. I think people are eager to make some money before the holidays, so work has been completed quicker than we had anticipated and we are, at the moment, ahead of schedule. Which will hopefully put us on schedule after the holiday season.

I had originally thought that the latrines would service about 200 people, 8 a household. That was grossly conservative. There are an average of 14 people in each compound (Beninese houses are not one building with several rooms, like in America, but rather a bunch of one- or two-roomed buildings clustered together), which means 350 people will now have a safe place to defecate, even more if they share the love with their neighbors.

Visiting the families has been a blast. People get irrationally excited when I speak to them in Fon (my local language), which feeds my needy and attention hungry side that comes from being the younger child. People gift me bananas, plantains, grapefruit, corn, pineapples, and children, though I politely decline the latter. I’ve had several offers of newborns to take with me to America. Through this project I’ve come to know two young girls who have debilitating diseases: sickle cell anemia and polio. I don’t know that there is anything that can be done about the first, but I’m looking into groups who give out hand-powered tricycles for the girl with polio. That would drastically change her life. As it is, her legs are shriveled up and completely useless, so she never leaves the family compound and there is practically nothing she can do on her own. Her hands are rough from pulling herself around on the dirt ground and she will likely not be able to marry. It’s hard to say whether or not her family will continue to treat her with compassion or grow resentful of the extra mouth they have to feed. Thankfully, government sponsored polio vaccinations are available one weekend every couple months.

Back to the latrines. My hope is to get a photo of each family next to their latrine and post it next month. Below are some pictures of the progress made so far.

Vlavonou and one of the beneficiaries standing next to where his latrine has been started. Vlavonou counting the number of bricks lay before we pay the mason for his work.

My work partners and I at one of their houses.

My work partner Vlavonou at a meeting with village families.

A digger several meters deep in the latrine hole. He loads a bucket full of sand that is then hoisted up by his partner (below).

A freshly cemented latrine top with the inscriptions for Peace Corps and the local health center.

It’s October and that means start of the holiday season! Yes, my holiday season starts with the sacrilegious Halloween. American holidays are not just an excuse for volunteers to get together and buy out a bar’s cheap beer supply. They’re also an opportunity for us to recreate the traditions we keep at home here in Benin, blah blah, cultural exchange, blahblah. Sure, let’s go with that.

Last year was the first time in my entire life that I did not dress up for Halloween. I have the kind of mother who made sure that no matter how young, I was partaking in the excitement. And I was a damn cute fat baby in a coconut bra and hula skirt (I kid you not. Thanks mom.). So this year I’ll be joining other volunteers in Cotonou (the big city) with a TBA costume. I’ll post pictures.

I’m not sure about Thanksgiving plans yet. Last year we paid a Beninese fortune for a turkey that was mutilated by a machete and deep-fried—skin, innards, and all. The idea of “meat” here is a little more all encompassing. “Cuts” have not yet made it to Benin. I think this year we’ll opt for a vegetarian spread. We depend on things sent from home like gravy packets, canned cranberries, and stuffing mix. And thankfully we can make mashed potatoes and green bean casserole with ingredients here. (Though no Thanksgiving, or any holiday for that matter, is complete without my grandma’s party mix. There’s a whole in my heart where that salty goodness used to be.)

Hanukkah will probably not be celebrated since there are a mere 3 Jewish Peace Corps volunteers, and what is Hanukkah without dreidels anyway. Which brings me to Christmas. The Beninese are already preparing for Christmas. There’s a hit song out right now called “His name is Papa Noel” which goes a little something like this:

“He’s called Papa Christmas

He’s called Papa money

He’s called Papa foreigner

He’s called Papa of gifts”

Makes me really want to participate in my village’s Christmas celebration. Also makes me resent the fact that we made Santa a white guy. Last year I had an intimate Christmas with a couple volunteers and a few morally questionable nuns in a remote village. This year the volunteers will be going en masse to Grand Popo (no, I do not know what or whom Popo is), the beach town in Benin. We’re aptly dubbing the week Grand Hoho. While other countries in West Africa are blessed with a gorgeous coastline and sandy beaches, most of Benin’s coastline is rocky, marred by trash, or already occupied by shanties. We are planning on buying out one of the hotels there, which we think has 6 rooms so most of us will have to opt for tents on the beach. Can’t wait to share details and post pictures!

A huge thanks to everyone who donated to my latrine project and/or forwarded the email to family, friends, and coworkers. I’ll take some pictures and update you all on the status of the project soon.

Dear Family and Friends,

On September 25 I celebrated one year of Peace Corps service in Zè, Benin. I have a year's worth of memories, photos, and friendships, comparatively little to speak of in the way of volunteer work. I have seen countless project ideas born and die in this time, because when need is everywhere, and helping hands are not, one must use what resources and know-how are available to address the most basic and pressing, among them. I come to you with a request for help with a project that addresses just that.

Like safe drinking water and paved roads, having a private place to relieve one’s self that does not endanger the health of others is something we take for granted in the developing world. I say this not to guilt you, but as reality, fact. I have seen firsthand people defecating in the fields that grow their neighbor’s livelihood, in the market where daily dinner is bought, near the waters in which they bathe, on the side of the road, where children play, in plain view of many; I have seen women forced to clear their courtyards and markets of fecal matter with just their hands and leaves; and I have seen the toll diarrheal and intestinal sicknesses can have on a child or adult.

Nearly a billion people worldwide lack some form of bathroom. I realize that these 25 latrines make barely a dent in that number, but those latrines will create a safe, private place for 200 people to use. That’s removing 200 people’s worth of fecal matter from public spaces, streams, and fields. The impact this has on the health of individuals within this community can indeed be great.These latrines are low-cost, durable, and lasting. A pit latrine at a depth of 10 meters can suffice for a household for more than a decade. Each household will provide an estimated 35% of the latrine cost in the form of hauling water, gathering sand, and constructing a mud brick house to enclose the latrine. Each household will also receive education on proper hygiene including hand washing, food preparation and storage, and waste management.

To donate to this project please visit https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-196

I’d like to say “many thanks” for any and all donations from the people of Zè, Benin. Oddly, in local language that translates to “awanu kaka” (say that one aloud for the full effect). If you feel so inclined, please forward this email to family, friends, and co-workers.

Love from Benin, Kim

Not sure when I’ll be able to post this but as I’m writing it is September 1st, which means we are 2/3 of the way through 2010, and when it does come to a close, I will have spent every single day of 2010 on the African continent. Crazy!

August was hands down the most fun-filled month I’ve had here. My aunt and uncle (returned Peace Corps volunteers who met while serving in the Philippines) and 3 cousins visited for two weeks, one of which was spent in Zè and the other traveling up north and visiting some off the map tourist gems. Travel with the Cary family is always interesting, like a new millennium National Lampoon’s. Here are the highlights:

-Hotels! Hot showers, swimming pools, the customer service that a foreign clientele commands (and tips for), someone else cleaning up after me, etc. However, though I believed them to be luxurious I think they were comparable to a Travel Lodge. (Funny story- when I went to check in for the hotel the first night, before their flight arrived, I had just gotten off an 8-hour bus ride and looked like, well, a Peace Corps volunteer. I tried to convince the hotel reception to let me into the room so I could shower, but that my family would be paying when they came in that night. They hesitantly let me in.When I came back down, after a hot shower, they realized I was a high-class lady under all that filth and apologized profusely for treating me like anything less.)

-Swimming in the rain with the entire Cary/Fisher clan. -Showing them my office and work partners.

-The house we stayed at (my house is far too small for 6 people) had a ton of “cute” kids with whichmy family loved to play and take pictures. I was less amused and was constantly yelling at them to not feed the kids lest all the neighborhood kids come begging for things. They probably think I’ve lost a bit of heart.

-The drum and dance circle at my village chief’s house. Uncle Tim and Ron both got in the middle and danced like, well, like no one I’ve ever seen (someone send me those videos so I can post them here). Ron even got Papa, the chief’s dad who has got to be pushing 90, out there dancing.

-My family’s (particularly Uncle Tim’s) infatuation with the tiny goats here.

-Dinner with the mayor on Ron’s birthday- the mayor’s son peed on Uncle Tim while sleeping and the mayor gave Ron an elephant carved out of wood for his birthday.

-All the markets we visited. I think my Uncle Tim could write “bargaining” on his resume under “Skills.”

-Moto biking through the forest in Zè.

-Having traditional outfits made.

-Visiting the orphanage where I’ll be planting a garden this month.

-The 12 hour voyage to the north, starting with motos at 6am, then a 2 hour taxi, a 7 hour bus (made longer because of the torrential downpour on the way which nearly forced my cousin Eve to use a GoGirl on the bus-if you don’t know what that is Google it), followed by another moto ride.

-Meeting a local artist who makes all of his paintings out of once-used canvas and natural pigments: cobalt, red dirt, leaves, hibiscus and other flowers, etc. He doesn’t even buy paintbrushes, just uses his hands. We bought a Beninese fortune in paintings from him and he gave us handmade necklaces and bracelets as a gift.

-Taking the volunteers in the north out for dinner so that my family got to hear other volunteer’s perspectives and stories (and I got a break from talking and translating).

-Going to a village on the Togo border called Boukoumbè for my birthday. We rented a car and hired a guide for the day. It was a gorgeous (if not comfortable) hour and a half ride on red dirt roads with stunning vistas and deep green hills. This area is known for its “tata sambas”: houses made by the Samba people out of mud that are very intricate-several storied with multiple rooms each serving its own purpose. Like little mud fortress mansions. We just stopped along the road at one family’s house and paid them to take a tour. Sadly because the houses are built high and there are (super sketchy) ladders all over to navigate the stories, old people have to live on the ground floor with the livestock. (Next time Grandma complains about the nursing home someone tell her about this.)

-Visiting the weaving center in Djougou where women make traditional Beninese fabrics that each take weeks to complete.

-Taking them to the airport and finding out that a guy from my village had actually driven the whole way to the airport just to say goodbye to them (again). That’s the Beninese for you.

I have officially been in Benin for one year now! I would cheers myself but I’m on medication for amoebas (intestinal cysts caused by ingestion of food contaminated with fecal matter) and can’t drink alcohol. The day of our anniversary-July 24- was a pretty awesome day. Woke up early and went for a run (early enough that the number of kids chasing me was a minimum), attended the initiation ceremony for Zè’s first library and computer center (where the token drunk guy hassled the visiting French people instead of me for once), learned the 31 voodoo spells you can put on a person to make them die during intercourse, studied for the GRE in my hammock, and ate dinner while watching 30 Rock. A year in Benin also means a new wave of volunteers. Getting off the airplane in Cotonou is a pretty harrowing experience and as we all remembered that many volunteers were there to welcome us in, many of us left our towns and villages for the weekend to do the same. Being on the other side of it was pretty amazing. They looked so clean! And pretty! I stayed in Cotonou the whole weekend so that when they weren’t being barraged with Peace Corps policy and safety sessions, they could ask questions of us and we could get to know the group that is now half the Americans in this country. It was pretty amazing to see how far we’ve come using the new volunteers as a gauge for where we were a year ago. I have unstoppable “franglais” and I’m pretty sure half the advice I gave went misunderstood. They brought news of domestic politics, clothing styles, food fads, popular music, the newest technology, the latest you tube crazes, and a slew of trends we’ve missed out on. Their clothes looked as though they walked out of a Tide commercial, their faces a Neutrogena ad. But we had the appeal of experience, albeit crusted in dirt and with lowered standards of hygiene. I want to thank everyone who has supported me throughout this year. I have high hopes for next year and am looking forward to sharing the ups and downs with you all. Pictures below are from my friend's end of the year school party. Enjoy :)

Dear Family and Friends,

On September 25 I celebrated one year of Peace Corps service in Zè, Benin. I have a year's worth of memories, photos, and friendships, comparatively little to speak of in the way of volunteer work. I have seen countless project ideas born and die in this time, because when need is everywhere, and helping hands are not, one must use what resources and know-how are available to address the most basic and pressing, among them. I come to you with a request for help with a project that addresses just that.

Like safe drinking water and paved roads, having a private place to relieve one’s self that does not endanger the health of others is something we take for granted in the developing world. I say this not to guilt you, but as reality, fact. I have seen firsthand people defecating in the fields that grow their neighbor’s livelihood, in the market where daily dinner is bought, near the waters in which they bathe, on the side of the road, where children play, in plain view of many; I have seen women forced to clear their courtyards and markets of fecal matter with just their hands and leaves; and I have seen the toll diarrheal and intestinal sicknesses can have on a child or adult.

Nearly a billion people worldwide lack some form of bathroom. I realize that these 25 latrines make barely a dent in that number, but those latrines will create a safe, private place for 200 people to use. That’s removing 200 people’s worth of fecal matter from public spaces, streams, and fields. The impact this has on the health of individuals within this community can indeed be great.

These latrines are low-cost, durable, and lasting. A pit latrine at a depth of 10 meters can suffice for a household for more than a decade. Each household will provide an estimated 35% of the latrine cost in the form of hauling water, gathering sand, and constructing a mud brick house to enclose the latrine. Each household will also receive education on proper hygiene including hand washing, food preparation and storage, and waste management.

To donate to this project please visit https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-196

I’d like to say “many thanks” for any and all donations from the people of Zè, Benin. Oddly, in local language that translates to “awanu kaka” (say that one aloud for the full effect). If you feel so inclined, please forward this email to family, friends, and co-workers.

Love from Benin,

Kim Sanders

It’s been awhile since my last post and, if I have to be honest, that may be the case for the rest of my service (15 months, in case you were wondering). Things get harder to write about in the outlet of a blog. I have less original thoughts and observations about life here; the bizarre and exciting have become the mundane. And even those aspects of Beninese culture and its people that I still find surprising, hilarious, frustrating, or confusing seem unworthy of repetition here. You’ve all heard my gripes. Conversations among volunteers increasingly breach the bigger subjects- not what comprises their culture but why it is that way, not why we came here but why we stay, which are wholly different. Some of what I’d like to write here might seem insensitive or politically incorrect to you, you who know what you do of Africa from MSNBC special reports, Oxfam newsletters, and glossy coffee table books. I hate to have your opinion lowered of me before I can get back to America and do it myself.

So. It was high time for a vacation. I had gone 10 months without boarding a plane, probably the longest time in my life. Even the flight from Accra (Ghana) to Johannesburg felt luxurious. Getting from Cotonou to Accra, though, was an ordeal. We (Brigitte, the other volunteer I was traveling with) had to take a series of taxis through Togo and Ghana totaling 8 or 9 hours, at least 3 of which were on dirt roads, to reach the airport in Accra. Each country seemed to be sequentially better—cleaner, more developed, less chaotic—than the last, until arriving in South Africa felt somewhat like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. Or when you go to the optometrist to be fitted for glasses and the doctor flips through lenses that go from blurry to tolerable to crystal clear until there is the one that fits just right. Development is my home. Unfortunately, we didn’t look too much like we belonged: we looked pretty haggard after 30 straight hours of travel, our red dirt-caked clothes and faces characteristic of life in West Africa not fitting in to the June winter of South Africa.

Our two-week vacation was spent half in Cape Town and half in Johannesburg. Cape Town is a stunning city sandwiched between the iconic Table Mountain and the picturesque coastline. Even in a country of extraordinary history and a true melting pot of cultures, Cape Town is a gem. It has the eclectic architecture of a city that has seen influence and rule by several different European powers before adopting its own character and style. In some areas, vacant buildings and open fields stand as a tribute to the black tenants once forcibly removed from their homes during the reign of Apartheid. Murals dot the landscape and the rocky crevices of Table Mountain serves as a constant background.

Day one of our vacation was spent marveling at things like sidewalks, marked road lanes, cold weather, and shopping malls; relearning how to use eyeliner and straightening irons; and buying weather appropriate clothes to replace the rags that pass as our clothing in Benin. Cape Town was a blur of omelet breakfasts, sushi dinners, vanilla lattes, shared oogles at the posh and polished South African women, and sightseeing.

Just off the coast of Cape Town, near where the joining of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans causes some of the most dangerous currents in the world, is Robben Island on which Nelson Mandela was imprisoned. The tour of the island and prison blocks was given be an ex-political prisoner, in our case one who was held up until 1994, when the prison was shut down and all its prisoners released. We saw the cell where Nelson Mandela slept every night for almost 20 years, the court where revolutionary minds that would greatly shape the new South Africa came together, and the spot where Mandela hid the manuscript of Long Walk to Freedom before another prisoner in transport was able to smuggle it off the island (Mandela would later name that man his Minister of Transport). One day was spent climbing Table Mountain, a hike that starts off in direct sunlight at the foot of the mountain and ends in biting cold, mist, and fog at the top. We made the estimated 2 ½ hour hike in just over and hour, thawed our bones with hot chocolate at the top of the mountain, and took a cable car down.

The week spent in Cape Town was prior to the start of the World Cup so we were able to see the steady stream of fans of all nationalities flood South Africa streets and bars, donning the colors of their flags and, more likely than not, a vuvuzela, the long thin horn that is fan favorite there. They may be the only thing I don’t miss about South Africa, but then again if I had to pick between the mind-numbing buzz of a thousand vuvuzelas and the ruckus of Benin—bleating goats, moto traffic, and screams of “yovo! yovo!”—I’d choose the former.

Even those whose national teams did not make the Cup came. We met a lot of Irish who claimed they were there to cheer for whoever was playing France. South American team pride dominated the crowds, even though there were more Americans there than any other nationality, about 150,000. I have a theory that Americans were lower key and less patriotic because if you paint your face, wear your flag as a cape, and sing your national anthem obnoxiously loud in enclosed public spaces and you’re American, you’re a jerk. If you’re, say, Ghanaian or Slovak or Uruguayan, you’re just patriotic.

The second week of our trip was spent in the Johannesburg area. Though Brigitte and I had made reservations at a hostel, long story short, they did not work out and we were left opening day of the World Cup scrambling for a place to stay. Thankfully we were put in touch with a friend of Brigitte’s family friends who made our trip nothing short of perfect. I saw two games—USA v. England and New Zealand v. Slovakia—but we more or less followed all the games, which were conveniently at 1:30pm, 4:00pm, and 8:30pm daily: lunch, happy hour, and dinner. We thought we ate well in Cape Town, little did we know the wonders Johannesburg would hold. Our host Tim has a knack for finding the best of the best so in a week’s span we had the best mojitos, pasta, hamburgers, fries, strawberry daquiris, lattes, and braai (South African barbeque) South Africa--if not all of Africa--has to offer. Not to mention a fair share of wine. The week was a pretty perfect blend of boisterous crowds and electric atmospheres, and calm nights of good wine and good conversation. The last two days we spent at Tim’s house in the bush. Imagine a golf course, clubhouse, and spa in the middle of a safari park (removed of large carnivores) and houses dotting the landscape shared with warthogs, giraffes, zebras, antelope, ostriches, and exotic birds. You’ll have to see the pictures. It was the kind of thing that was too awesome for words—seeing wildlife from the window of your bath in the morning and hearing the calls of different animals while barbequing at night.

South Africa is more than interesting; it’s an anomaly within the African continent. The wealth and development, as far as I can tell, are centered around at most twenty cities, and apart from them the expansive savannah is dotted mostly by wildlife reserves, shantytowns, mining towns, and villages. Each city feels like an oasis of sorts, and traveling between them is making the switch from developed world to developing and back in a matter of hours. The South Africans we met were friendly and incredibly hospitable. I can’t say I would’ve enjoyed my trip as much had I come straight from the land o’ plenty, but coming from Benin, it was like the Emerald City.

Leaving South Africa was… is devastating too strong a word? Suffice it to say I almost missed the flight buying wine in duty free and we took full advantage of the free alcohol on the flight back to Accra (where we would have to sleep in the airport till daybreak and then start the hellish 9 hour journey back to Benin). Thankfully before leaving we stocked up on creature comforts like Doritos and crunchy peanut butter to ease the transition back to life in village. Also thankfully we made it from Accra to Cotonou when we did; riots in the capital of Togo have caused it to be declared too dangerous for PCVs to travel within the country, so other Benin PCVs currently on vacation in South Africa will have to stay in Ghana until Togo is declared safe to traverse.

And so here I am now, lucky to hear about the score of a World Cup game or see snippets on a small fuzzy TV screen, sweating out half my weight in water a day, and eating food that may change in color but rarely in texture, consistency, or taste. The kind of food that looks the same coming up as it does going down, if you know what I mean. It’s good to be back.

Among other practices, like using a typewriter and hunting your own food, the giving of dowries (la dote, in French) still occurs in West Africa. I suppose though, that dowries exist in some sense in our culture. We have retained the practice of a father walking his daughter down the aisle, symbolically giving her away (well, her and several thousands dollars spent on fancy invitations, useless favors, one-time-only dresses and tuxes, and countless yards of toole to be fashioned into large bows on the backs of chairs). Back to the topic. So, the specifics of the dowry depend on your region and local culture (yes, in a country the size of Pennsylvania there are numerous cultures and actually big differences between some of them). In Zè, before the male’s family pays dowry to his future bride and her family, he must first give her a list of what he plans to give her. A sort of starting negotiation, if you will. She then takes the proposal to her paternal aunts and revises it as they see fit, which I’m sure means supplementing it. A typical dowry may look something like this: Father of the bride: 12 meters of fabric, 3 bottles of alcohol, cash Mother of the bride: 6 meters of fabrics, a jewelry set, dishes And so on, with a different combination of food, alcohol, and other gifts for each of the bride’s sisters, brothers, and aunts. In some cases, the dowry is given at a ceremony called “la connaissance.” This is somewhat like a combination engagement party/bridal shower in that its purpose is for family and friends of the bride and of the groom to meet each other as well as for the bride to receive guests and all present play stupid games. The ceremony is traditionally held at the bride’s father’s house, and she is not considered betrothed until all the gifts have been bought, presented, and, finally, accepted by the bride and her family. If a woman’s family finds the gifts to be insufficient, they may refuse to give their permission/blessing. The groom’s female relatives form a caravan in their matching fabrics with the dowry gifts atop their heads. Upon entering, they set the dowry at the feet of the bride’s relatives, take their hands, and ask them to receive the gifts. In one game, several women’s faces are covered and they walk into a circle of the groom’s family who has to say whether or not it is their future daughter. It’s symbolic of how well they know her spirit. The other game involves kola nuts and a maternal aunt. She must throw four kola nuts on the ground until the way in which they fall indicates their ancestors’ acceptance of the marriage. Many times, there are relatives actually buried under that very floor. The succession of kola nut throws is a type of dialogue, each throw an attempt to appeal to their ancestors on the couple’s behalf. American men have it easy; if they’re old-fashioned they may ask for the blessing of her father, but they certainly don’t have to get the permission of all her dead and living relatives. Another odd thing, is that if you are marrying a twin, the dowry ceremony is conducted as though you are marrying the both of them, which can be awkward in the case of fraternal twins, like the ceremony I saw. If the groom’s family cannot afford the dowry it is up to the bride’s father to state the terms of an alternate dowry. I guess when reduced to its basic facts, the process is less different form ours than one might think: where they argue the length of fabric and volume of moonshine here, we might bargain for a bigger diamond or higher clarity. I suppose if I explained the bachelor/bachelorette party to Beninese, they would find it just as bizarre.

So I rarely write about the actual volunteer side of my life here. Many of the projects I’ve attempted or ideas I’ve had have crashed and burned in a big way: starting a tree nursery, planting a garden at the orphanage, giving lessons the environment at schools all have not worked out. My host structure here is the mayor’s office, which means that they pay my rent ($11 a month) and are invited to Peace Corps training sessions with me. My official work partner is the mayor’s wife and she is in charge of environmental concerns in Zè. It’s no secret that she holds that position solely because she bore the mayor three sons (the other two wives gave him worthless daughters and got nothing as far as I can see). So I have a work partner that cares very little about the environment and knows even less. Thankfully in the same office (when I say office I mean 10 foot by 5 foot room crammed with three desks and multiple wooden filing cabinets, a fire waiting to happen) is someone else who actually knows things about the environment, Kadja Codjo. Not my official work partner but the person I work with most. I was just recently given a desk there which you would think would make me happy but instead has forced me to spend countless hours tied to that desk staring into space or, if I’m feeling shameless, doing sudoku. I go there every day, just for a few hours if I can. The projects I have with the mayor’s office are: - Monthly public lectures given in a different village on a different environmental/health topic each month. We meet in the village center and spend a couple hours cleaning up the public space before sitting down and discussing the topic. - A project for planting and upkeep of trees and public spaces in three of the lesser funded villages in the area. This project is part of a competition for environmental projects that an American group, Millennium Challenge Account, is having. People work in each of the three villages the last Saturday of the month and at the end of the year if we are chosen as one of the winning projects we get rakes, wheelbarrows, gloves, etc. - Eventually I’m supposed to help design a rudimentary waste management system but insofar as no one seems to care about helping me it’s slow going. Trash cans should probably be the first step but they jumped the gun and have a tractor, wagon, and tractor driver (who refuses to actually touch the trash) already. So now it’s the collecting of trash and loading/unloading it into/from the tractor wagon that is the problem. - Tree Day is June 1 so I hope to do something that day, however I have been told in no uncertain terms that the choice of where, when, and what to plant is solely up to the mayor, and I am foolish in thinking he has better things to do than plan this. Yet when June 1 rolls around and no one has anything planned I expect everyone to be lamenting the worthless yovo they have. My activities outside of the mayor’s office: - I have an English club every Wednesday night with the high school seniors to help them prepare for the English part of their high school exit exam. I often bring magazine articles and maps for us to discuss and have had guests (family or other volunteers) several times. - The girls camp that I have blogged about several times that will be in June. I think I’ll be bringing one girl from Zè. I’m sure I’ll post a blog about it again later. - Handwashing “stations” and education sessions on proper hygiene at elementary schools with my local health agent. I’ve only done this at three schools so far but I love it. Kids get so excited, about anything really. Every student wants to do a better demonstration of handwashing than the last, which generally means by the end of the day the last student is washing his/her hands for 2 full minutes and diligently picking the dirt that has been accumulating under his/her fingernails since birth.

- Take Our Daughters to Work Day, which is an old program that has just been restarted this year. They have this sort of thing in the US too but here it’s pretty different. An essay contest was opened up to female 8th graders in which they had to write on a woman they admire and why. They winners were chosen (two from Zè!) and get to spend a long weekend in the home of a working woman in Cotonou, follow her to work one day, observe how she balances the demands of a Beninese wife and mother and being a working woman. Some of the girls might never have been to Cotonou; they’ll probably be staying in the biggest houses they’ve ever been in, with the most educated women they’ve ever met. I went to the two girls houses this week to explain the event and get permission from their parents. One girl’s father is a teacher and so he spoke French and was generally supportive of it all. He did ask, in all seriousness, if I would then stay around to help her finish high school then ensure she find a university in the US to give her a scholarship. I’m a pro at letting people down gently now. Peace Corps should market that as a quality volunteers need to have. The other girl’s situation was much different. I met her at the school at noon to accompany her to her house. Turns out she lives so far away from the school that she doesn’t go home for the 3 hour midday break. We had to hire a moto to take us the several kilometers to her house that she has to walk every morning probably before 7am and every evening after 7pm, alone, by the way, because she is the only child in her family still going to school. The others, as she has explained it, chose to find work or an apprenticeship. Neither of her parents spoke French or were literate. She had to sign her own permission slip and under contact we put down some other villager’s phone number since no one in the family has a phone. I had to just take for granted that they had given their verbal permission in Fon. Peace Corps would be horrified. I tried to explain to both girls that this program doesn’t just end when the weekend is over, that Peace Corps and I hope this will encourage them to continue their studies and reach for the stars (which, it turns out, is an expression that does not translate). This all happens May 6-9 and the evening of the 8th the 8 girls who were chosen for the weekend in Cotonou will give a presentation at a charity dinner for gender equality. I’m a little worried about them speaking in front of such a large crowd, mostly because it will be 90% white people and I’ve caused panic attacks among people with just two yovos in tow.

All this and I still manage to read a Harry Potter book a day or watch a whole season of The Office in one week.

March was a crazy hectic month in my usual slow-paced life. Life updates I know you’re all dying to hear: Together with the other PCVs, the Peace Corps Community, and the American expat community here in Benin, we celebrated the life and service of PCV Kate Puzey, whose life was tragically taken one year ago. Here is a glimpse into the beautiful individual she was and the inspiration she continues to be: http://www.wsbtv.com/news/22798759/detail.html . Mom and Cheryl (my mom’s good friend, for those who aren’t lucky enough to know her) were scheduled to arrive on Monday, but their first flight was snow delayed (imagine explaining “their flight was snow delayed” to people here for whom “snow” and “flight” are somewhat abstract concepts). Since the flight to Benin arrives only a couple times a week, they were forced to stay in Paris a few days where they accumulated cheeses and chocolates galore to share with me upon arrival. I can only speak for myself but that was definitely my favorite part of their visit. I had grand plans of going to Benin’s beach city, Grand Popo, and going hiking in a village a few hours north of here, but for one, their visit was cut three days short, and two, after their first taste of travel in Benin I decided staying put was preferable. So we spent 6 consecutive nights in Zè, no small feat for someone just arrived from Paris. It’s almost cruel that Air France is the only way into Benin- they give you several glasses of wine, personal DVD players, Toblerone, etc. That’s a vacation in and of itself for us. When Dad and Jan were here we rented out taxis in order to avoid the 10 person minimum most taxis have but with Mom and Cheryl we did the vrai Beninese experience-standing on the side of the road screaming our destination and arguing with the driver over the price before loading ourselves into a vehicle that was probably deemed unusable in some European country in the late 70s. The week was a blur of meeting everyone in town, dinners with various families I’m close with, and trying to survive the heat. Cheryl’s feet were perpetually swollen from the heat or dehydration, I was in somewhat constant fear one of them might pass out from the heat or get heat stroke, that fear even replaced spiders and snakes as the main theme of my malaria med-induced dreams for the week. Only one day did we leave Zè- we went to the cultural capital of Benin, Abomey. Though I’ve heard much about the city and its historical importance before coming here, I really only found one museum that was an old fortress/palace of sorts filled with “relics,” many of which are still used in everyday Beninese life. It’s likely a more interesting museum for someone who doesn’t currently live in Benin and see mortars and pestles used to make her lunch every day. Mom and Cheryl’s visit to Zè was incredibly different from Dad and Jan’s in the following ways: one, they spent an entire week here while Dad and Jan were only in Zè for a day and a half; two, they stayed at my house which means pulling your own bath water, hot nights and perpetual electricity outages, and coming to terms with never really being clean; three, they asked a million questions while Dad and Jan rarely strayed from “where can I get a cold beer?”; and lastly, as women they saw an entirely different side of Benin. They tasted pretty much every Beninese dish, including bush rat, and at least pretended to like them. They had traditional Beninese outfits made, went to church on Sunday, and learned a few key phrases in Fon that never ceased to have the Beninese in stitches. We spent several afternoons with my BFF in village, Eleonore. She adored Mom and Cheryl almost as much as the See’s suckers they brought her. We had a pate (the staple Beninese food) cooking session with a neighbor family, a tour of the vistas of Zè with the mayor, and a failed attempt at killing a chicken with an extremely dull knife that won’t be erased from my mind for a long time. The highlight of the week was probably the day we spent at my landlord’s family compound. I explained it a bit before since Dad and Jan visited also (probably the highlight of their trip as well) but it’s a cluster of 30 or 40 mud buildings with three or four times as many people all descended from the same man (and two women) who still live on the property. We had a day of dancing, drumming, and, of course it wouldn’t be Benin without, eating. The pictures and videos on my Picassa account give you a taste of what the day was like. The hectic beat of the drums, vibrant colors of African fabrics, and incredible girations of Beninese men and women alike combine in such a way that makes adequate description impossible. It’s a sensory overload of sorts that must be experienced. One night we were given a bunny, let me preface this by saying that I’m accustomed to getting gifts almost daily and though it is culturally inappropriate to turn them down, it’s usually of an edible nature that I can either consume myself, pawn off on neighborhood kids, or feed to the goats. The bunny was intended to be edible. In fact, the gracious bunny farm owner intended that I kill the bunny myself and prepare it for my guests, however, it was only at my house for one night during which we treated it as a pet and cuddled with it most of the night. Mom then named it Bun Bun and we came to the mutual decision that we could not in good conscious kill something we had both named and cuddled. (Side note: I gave the rabbit to my friend Eleonore hoping she’s take care of it—in some way I don’t care to know about—before I came back to Zè. Unfortunately she made sure to keep it for me. Looks like I can get out of killing it with my own hands but getting out of eating it seems to be out of the question.) I’m likely blanking on a few other details of their trip but I’ll close it with an anecdote from their last few hours in Benin. The streets and sidewalks in Cotonou, Benin can only be described as what one would think of as the aftermath of a world war (or Westwood, for those of you fortunate enough to have walked those streets, likely in heels and a few drinks in). While on our way back from dinner just hours before they were to board the plane and whilst commenting on what a wonderful trip it was, specifically that there were no major health/digestive concerns, Mom stubbed her toe on uneven sidewalk and broke it nearly clean off her foot. Her pinky toe was hanging off her foot at, I kid you not, more than a 90 degree angle. We walked the short way to the Peace Corps office where I called the embassy doctor who informed me that as she was not a US government employee he could not treat her (Or even come look at it?!? Really, America.). Mom was a total champ, didn’t cry once, even when every single other volunteer who was in the office came in to see it and jumped back in horror/repulsion at the site of such an unnatural degree. She then had to endure about 40 hours of travel, flip flops, and ice packs before seeing a doctor in California and having it broken back into place. My biggest regret about the whole visit is not getting a picture of that toe. Just eight hours after seeing Mom and Cheryl off at the airport I boarded a bus for Parakou, a city in the north of Benin to join most of the other PCVs for a weekend. We hold an annual fundraiser for a small project fund (up to $100) that PCVs can access for small-scale projects in their communities. Other larger funds are more difficult and take longer to access. It’s a little bizarre that volunteers themselves fund it, being that we make about $200 a month, but there is another fundraiser held for American expats that probably makes much more money. Being that the nature of the fundraiser is an auction, volunteers and expats have two separate events, lest we never win anything. The first night is a date auction in which volunteers auction off anything from cleaning your house to a weekend at a beautiful post or several home cooked meals. Volunteers bid one month’s pay or more for the dates. A couple girls auctioned a sleepover with popcorn, movies, and a pillowfight-adorable right? Made me think of wine and crossword nights but I decided the magic of that may be exclusive to my BFs and a hugely oversized couch at 469 Landfair. I thought about auctioning off a performance of Britney Spears choreography (who didn’t love the Oops I Did It Again tour?) but decided that this may not be the crowd for that. Ideas for next year’s auction?? I’m open to suggestions! While the first night is relatively casual and held in an open air bar, the second night is what we call Peace Corps Prom. How lucky am I that sorority formals in college filled the void that high school prom left and now Peace Corps Prom can do the same?! Seriously though, every girl needs an excuse to put on makeup and a dress. It’s an occasion when I put on anything other than sunscreen and chapstick these days. Luckily since Mom came right before this she brought me heels and a dress (on which I received many compliments- thanks Mom J). This more formal night also includes a silent auction and sit-down dinner, but the real entertainment of the night was the pool. We at least succeeded in finishing the auction and getting to dessert before discarding the nicest clothes we all have in this country for bathing suits or the Fruit of the Loom equivalent, in some cases. Thankfully Peace Corps provided shuttles to take us back to our respective sleeping arrangements (mine on the floor outside another PCV’s house; again, just like college) in the wee morning hours to avoid having to take moto taxis. I have lots of pictures and videos from my mom’s visit and the fundraiser weekend! Take http://picasaweb.google.com/kimberly.r.sanders/ApplesAndBeninese?feat=directlink.

A few pictures and videos from a ceremony held in my village a few weeks ago. The costumed men dancing on stilts come out only, as far as I know, for a ceremony called Agoh. As I’ve written about in previous posts, funerals are a big occasion here and usually warrant several full days of food, drinks, drumming, and dancing. If a family is unable to afford a proper funeral at the time of death, they may wait awhile, till they “find” money as they say here, to celebrate their loved one’s life. With this particular ceremony I think the deceased had been gone for 10 years, the man who put it on had a decade worth of amends to make to someone!

The heat is slowly killing me. If not actually taking my life, certainly robbing me of brain function. Figured I should write a blog before the damage is done.

It’s really unfortunate that Peace Corps volunteers don’t have regular access to social networking sites. If we could update our Facebook statuses or Tweet (feel like a tool just for using that word) on a regular basis like the rest of the iPhone- and Blackberry-toting world, it would be endlessly entertaining. Imagine a Peace Corps version of Texts from Last Night or F My Life. It’d be something like:

Spent all day trying to outrun the town crazy who has apparently made it his new and only objective in life to hug me.

Just sharfed in a field. Again.

Had to make an emergency drop trou manuver in [insert semi-public location].

Just realized my flour is swimming with maggots. AFTER I baked and devoured a batch of cookies.

While trying to ask where the toilet is in local language I accidentally said [insert something wildly inappropriate].

Found out the bracelet I bought at the market last month is actually a voodoo fertility charm.

Or anything that starts with

“So I’m in my latrine and…”

“So I’m eating what I think is chicken and…”

You get the point.

We already have a running list of “You Know You’re a PCV in Benin When…” but most of those are references that only those of us, uh, privileged enough to know Peace Corps Benin would get. I do think there should be some kind of Murphy’s Law for Peace Corps. Things like

-You will unintentionally flash every male in a 50m vicinity any time you attempt to mount your bike in African garb.

-The electricity WILL go out during the hottest part of the day when you need a fan the most.

-Insects will find even the tiniest holes in your mosquito net and eat you alive at night.

-The taxi you choose will a) brake down, b) attempt to break a Guinness World Record for number of goats and/or chickens in a passenger vehicle, c) load so much cargo on the top that either the back fender is constantly touching the road and creating sparks or the center of gravity is so high that you spend the entirety of your trip in constant fear of the car toppling and the family of 8 in the 2 seats next to you crushing you, d) all of the above.

Some volunteers do have regular access to internet, BTW. Whereas I’m about two hours from the nearest cyber so I usually just go every couple weeks, some volunteers have internet on their phones or wireless cards which allow you to get internet access anywhere you get phone reception. Apple computers, though superior to PCs in every other facet, are not compatible with these wireless cards, so even if I did want to get internet in my house, I could not. (WTF, Steve Jobs???)

Recent updates: I had a fever and the kind of all over sick feeling that begets this weekend so I was holed up in my house all Sunday. Went through all my college photos- relived Barcelona shot bars, tubing in Vang Vieng, a few too many Chi O events, and all the people and places that made up the last 4 years of my life. Seriously miss my friends, my closet, Coffee Bean vanilla tea lattes, Novel brunches, and Westwood sake specials. (Things I don't miss include LA traffic and the line at Maloney's, FYI.)

Saturday was a village clean up I’d helped organize. We chose 4 villages to clean up the last Saturday of every month. I was really excited and optimisitic about it up until the day before the clean up when my work partner at the mayor’s office and I did a tour to see what areas of the villages need to be cleaned up. It became apparent to me that he was only interested in pulling weeds and grasses, not in picking up what we Americans think of as trash. You can imagine that, since everything here is dirt road, grass and weeds are the norm. So Saturday 15 Beninese pulled weeds and carefully disposed of them about 10 feet from wherever they were pulled, while I trailed behind picking up plastic bags, wrappers, etc. which they then burned afterward without my knowledge. Pretty sure the plastic bags do more harm to your respiratory system burnt than they would do piling up on the side of the road, since apparently I’m the only one who sees it as an eyesore. It’s difficult to be an environment volunteer when your idea of the environment and theirs is almost completely opposite. Just visited the national forest 25km from Zè, which I expected to be, like in the US, a forest that is protected by the national government. Way off. It actually just means that it’s the government that pockets the money when the trees are cut down in that area. Good to know.

Just saw Kill Bill 2 for the first time and was highly unsettled by how shockingly unassuming a black mamba is. I was expecting an anaconda kinda thing- you KNOW when you see it. So my Larium dreams have a new star, which is good because I was starting to become immune to bats and cockroaches.

I often let neighborhood kids come in my house and just hang out. They don’t do much except play the voice message on my Build-A-Bear (“This is your grandma, and this is Kristen, and we love youuuu!) repeatedly and stare at me. But I find it less unsettling when they stare at my in my house than when they stand outside my screen door and stare. I feel like other people are going to see kids looking in and think there’s something to see and eventually a crowd will gather that I won’t be able to disperse. You think this sounds out there, I know it’s not. So one group of kids was here this weekend and when I finally got them to leave my house I realized one little girl had peed on my couch! The only person that has the right to lose their bowels on my furniture is me. Still pretty mad about it.

This is one of the hottest times of the year, before the rainy season starts up again at the end of this month. While I have no doubt that wouldI prefer this weather to other parts of the Peace Corps world where PCVs deal with below freezing temperatures, you should all still feel bad for me.

On a serious note, March 12 will be one year sine the death of Benin PCV Kate Puzey. There is a memorial in Cotonou that all the volunteers and American community in Benin will attend, and a separate memorial in Kate’s village along with a ceremony renaming the village’s primary school after her. Keep her family in your thoughts.

So I realize I rarely write any of my reflections on the greater problems I encounter here, not malnutrition, gender inequality, and such problems that I enoucnter often, but the very idea of development; what has been called the “white man’s burden.” Mostly I reserve those thoughts for my journal or conversations with other PCVs in which the circular, not-rheotical-but-yet-no-answer nature of the questions has as much to do with their depth as with the beer consumed. I had hoped from the beginning that Peace Corps would make or break a career in international development for me. I either would feel completely confident that this is the career track for me or would recognize that a lifetime of work in what can be an endlessly frustrating and fruitless sector would shake me of it and I could go on to a job in corporate America and donate to UNICEF, Oxfam, and the like during the holidays in order to quell my "white, liberal guilt." I can’t say I’ve been pushed either way as of now. I will forever be a restless individual, never content to stay in the US for too long. However, I can’t imagine getting acclimated to a new culture every couple years, as Foreign Service individuals do. (Well, I think they live in American pockets within each foreign country so that you never have to really get acclimated to the culture like you do when you’re, say, living and working as the only American in a foreign village for a substantial period of time.) I can’t see myself living the rest of my life in America, nor can I see myself living the rest of my life outside of it. What I have realized is that I wouldn’t want to raise kids anywhere other else. I came here hoping to have Jared Diamond-esque revelations about the inherent brilliance of the Beninese people and a vindication that it is the oppression of the Western developed world that keeps this part of the world in economic shackles. I do admire their culture, and hope to incorporate the generosity and hospitality of the Beninese people into my character before returning to the US, but, rather unexpectedly, I ended up falling in love with the US. Part of it has to do with the fact that everyone here loves the US. I am asked on a daily basis if I will bring some individual or their children back to the US when I go. I get marriage proposals on a every day from men and from women on behalf of their not-yet-potty-trained sons or already-thrice-married spouses. I realize in the US many of us grow up believing we live in the greatest nation in the world, and from some factual standpoints that may be true (i.e. military strength), but it seems preferable to growing up in a country where many people would abandon their country and culture completely for a chance to live in America. One would think I would return from an experience like this a simpler, less materialistic individual, but in fact I think I love commercialist America more than ever here. Kinda like how we eat up the Life & Style and People magazines here that most would never have read back home; devour Cup O’ Noodles and Oreos with a fervor unseen before. There are certainly human rights to life, health, and education that are not guaranteed here. The life expectancy is too low; the infant mortality rate too high. More people die of dirty water and diarrhea each year than we can fathom. And yet, in the US we have traded those causes of death for those characteristic of a highly developed, highly industrialized nation. I don’t know how many people die of drug overdose, suicide, cancer, heart disease, obesity, etc. in Benin but it’s a miniscule proportion compared to the US. too much hard thinking for the moment. much love :)

I remember looking through my grandmother’s grade school report cards years ago- the things we keep!- and being shocked that it had a list of career options for girls, of which one box was to be checked: secretary, nurse, teacher, or housewife. That was sixty years ago. Today in Benin the picture seems even bleaker.

The role of women in society at large is that of wife, mother, and housekeeper. Anything apart from this is a distant second. Young girls are housekeepers before students; the work they do around the house is more important, more valuable to the family, than anything that can come from the education they can get. Women’s education is viewed as a poor long-term investment because girls will one day marry and end up in another man’s home, supposedly at that point of no further use to her family. Misguided ideas such as the fear that educated girls are disobedient feed into this. Within and outside of the home, there are few educated women to be seen as role models and even fewer female teachers to encourage young girls in their studies.

It is estimated that the ratio of boys to girls here in middle school is 2 to 1 and that it drops to 4 to 1 by the end of high school, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the actual ratio is much more devastating. I was in a high school senior class yesterday in which there was one sole female, and the way classes are set up means that every class period is like this for her. I’m amazed that she is still in school! It is difficult to be different, a minority, in any high school classroom. In a Beninese classroom, where there is a culture of laughing raucously at anyone who volunteers a wrong answer and the general inability to ask for help from teachers and other students if you don’t fully understand a concept, this is amplified. This then becomes a double-edged sword; if parents know that the majority of girls who start high school never finish, there is less incentive to pay for the first year.

Pregnancy and marriage are common reasons girls drop out of high school here. Oftentimes in a situation of pregnancy the male is much older but if he is also a high school student he more than likely stays in school while the young woman is left with no option but to leave. Birth control can be difficult to obtain and can be culturally frowned upon: some men believe it gives their wives license to be promiscuous. If a man believes his wife should not become pregnant because he is sticking to traditional fertility calendars, he believes he can tell if she has been unfaithful or not. In many instances health workers are not authorized to give out birch control unless a woman has consent from her husband. Situations similar to this suggest that no matter how much education can be disseminated among women, it is men who make the final decisions in many women’s lives and therefore men who need to be educated.

One of the most disturbing factors in the gender unbalance in high schools is sexual harassment propagated by male teachers. At my local high school, every teacher is male, which is not uncommon here. The trading of sexual favors for academic ones is said to be endemic in Benin. Some call it “le droit de cuissage” (“right to the thighs”). If a student refuses a teacher’s advances, she may see her grade drop or some other form of reciprocation. Stop and think about that for a second. Endemic. I have been told by high school teachers, after explaining to a class of high school students how it shocked me to see such a low proportion of girls in their class, that there are less girls because they choose not to go to high school. They choose to resign themselves to dressmaking or selling prepared food for the rest of their lives; choose housework over homework; forget cultural and gender barriers, it was a choice. I can see then, that girls might choose to take themselves out of a situation like that. This is not to say that all student-teacher relationships are started by teachers; knowing that good grades and favored treatment in class such as answers to upcoming tests are payment for sexual favors, girls may be the ones making advances. The intention may be genuine-to finish high school and get a job outside of village-and a relationship with a teacher seen as the only lifeline in a system in which she is going against the current in every other respect.

Results of a survey conducted by a women’s rights NGO in 2007-2008 found that

-62% of students have known a professor to threaten a student who has refused their advances

-57% know professors who have changes grades in order to pressure students into sexual relationships

-65% of students know a fellow student who was impregnated by a teacher.

Outside of school settings gender inequality is pervasive in just about every aspect of life and culture here. Women who are disempowered in every other aspect may see no alternative but to concede if a sexual partner refuses to use a condom. A woman cannot refuse sex to a husband even if she suspects him of sleeping with others and possibly prostitutes. This perpetuates the spread of AIDS which is further complicated by the fact that woman are biologically 2-4 times more likely than men to contract HIV during unprotected sex and the horribly misguided belief that sleeping with a virgin will cure AIDS. Women may be forced into sex work as a result of cultural laws, for instance that of land ownership: as a woman she has no claim to the land, thus if she is widowed the land belongs to her sons and if she has been so unfortunate as to not bear her late husband any sons, she may be homeless and without options.

Other shocking practices are carried out here, many of which the true extents remain unknown, notably the trafficking of women and children and female genital mutilation. I don’t intend to mention those travesties just as a sidenote, but cannot comment on just how pervasive these practices are. I do know, however, that trafficking exists in my region and the FGM is estimated to have been practiced on 17% of women in the country, mostly northern ethnic groups. In one recent year, 222 victims of trafficking, likely all girls, were rescued by Beninese police. Imagine then, how many were not so fortunate, how many have been trafficked in previous years.

It is said that with economic independence, women no longer have to fight for their rights, respect, or empowerment; that it then comes naturally. However, in a society in which all housework, which in Africa can mean hours spent carrying water alone, and childrearing fall exclusively to women, there is little time for any income-generating activity.

I wrote months ago about meeting the woman who runs Benin’s Women and Development program: Probably one of the strongest feminists in the country, maybe one of the few who are familiar with the term, and yet she admits that when her husband has company over she does what is expected of her as a Beninese wife: resigns herself to the kitchen to prepare food and drink for the guests, even if it is other family members. In some cases women may spend several hours preparing food only to not be able to eat if their husband chooses not to or finds it unappetizing.

Remember “A Day without a Mexican”? That documentary-type film that came out whose billboards featured a rogue lawn mower plowing down the street sans driver? “A Day without Women” here would be similar. Buckets of water suspended several feet off the ground with no one to carry them, no lines at the well, no prepared food, no one taking care of children or sick, no selling or buying at the usually bustling West African village markets.

I see it in small, everyday but still disturbing things. Women must give the best taxis seats to men, men can take up as much leg room as they like while a woman and her infant are shoved against the door, etc. Then there is the culture of polygamy, which is a whole other more complicated chapter.

In response to the need for gender equality activities, in the hopes that something resembling a movement could be started, Peace Corps and USAID created what is now the Gender and Development program. One of its biggest activities is a summer camp, Camp GLOW (Girls Leading our World). Volunteers are able to bring young girls, just starting high school, to a week-long camp in which they are presented with themes of women’s empowerment that they may have never considered. I plan to participate in Camp GLOW the last week of June and bring a local 7th grade girl.

Now… we need help making this happen. You can donate to the Camp GLOW fund here: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.donatenow

Thanks in advance!

The first of many visits here from family and friends has come and gone. I can wipe a little sweat off my brow. I sadly have very few pictures but Dad and Jan were surprisingly astute photographers; when I get those I’ll pass them on. The trip started with a minor catastrophe but other than that was probably my 7 favorite days in Benin to date. A couple hours before their flight was supposed to land I went online to check if it was on time and the Air France website said “This flight has returned to Paris due to a technical error. No further information available.” I went from zero to basketcase in 60 seconds. I moped around the Peace Corps office sharing my sob story to any PCVs around and climbed into bed with a list of numbers to call the next day, reservations to cancel. THEN, as I’m falling into slumber that only comes after a good cry, 4 hours after their scheduled arrival time, Dad calls from a borrowed phone saying he’s at the airport in Benin! Dad and Jan made friends with the airport “bartender” (probably a 16-year-old in a shack that sells, among various natural sexual supplements, cold beer) while I made my way there. The first night was a whirlwind of confusion, emotion, and beer, the latter of which proved to be a trend lasting through the entirety of their trip. We had 3 or so hours of sleep before getting on a 9 hour bus to a town outside the safari park. The bus was the lap of luxury in my opinion: upholstered chairs, air conditioning, free entertainment (at ungodly volumes, granted), and a one-person-one-seat policy. This compared to my usual form of transportation in which at least 7 people are fitted into a 5 person sedan—my most recent trip reached an astounding TWELVE individuals—along with various livestock in the trunk and so much baggage on top that the car is taller than it is wide. (I also have an innate tendency to pick the most audacious of taxi drivers. I have now had four attempt to outrun police pulling them over. Two were successful.) However, Dad and Jan came from First Class seats and pre-flight champagne service. They were less thrilled with the ride. Beautiful views redeemed it somewhat. We literally crossed the entire country of Benin from south to north and they can confirm what I suspected- I really do live in the most beautiful place here. We spent one night in the town outside of the safari park and met up with two PCVs who were in town for beers and a local specialty called tchook, a homemade beer-type drink served in mud huts and drank out of calabash bowls. The next morning was an early wake up for the several hour drive on to the safari park, named ParcPendjari. Our guide was a jovial Beninese man named Haziz who we loved because of his knowledge of the park and wildlife but moreso, his understanding of the best way to outrun charging elephants. A general day safariing is going out in the SUV just before daybreak for a few hours, then a lunch/nap break during the hottest part of the day, when most animals are lazing in the shade anyway, then a few more hours out until sundown. No giraffes or zebras, those are more East Africa. We saw crocodiles, hippos, elephants, baboons, several species of antelopes and birds, wild boars, and three lions. There is only one hotel with just a handful of rooms there; small but I guess the real excitement is the safari. On our way out of the park, we visited waterfalls that happened to be located in another PCV’s village and ran into him there. Then another 10 hours in a taxi back down south though this time we paid a Beninese fortune to rent out a taxi instead of taking the bus. I had thought Zè would be low key and relaxing, like my life in general here, but since Dad and Jan were only here for 2 days we had a string of lunch and dinner dates and introductions. Meals can be difficult- Beninese are notoriously hospitable toward guests but very easily offended if you don’t let them let you eat them out of house and home. Normally I ensure that I space my meals with Beninese at least a week apart to ensure that my stomach has time to recover and shrink back to normal size. You have to finish pretty much everything on your plate, lest you insult the cook which in most cases is a woman who has been slaving away to create that meal all day long and who herself will not get to eat it. We had several chickens killed in our honor and even a duck (both of which are expensive and rare here) as well as some Beninese specialties including pate rouge, fried plantains, and yam pilee. Thankfully Dad and Jan liked the food so I didn’t have to make many excuses for rude behavior such as not licking your plate clean and sucking the marrow out of the bones. The first family to host us is one I’ve blogged about before- my landlord/carpenter/handyman and his family compound with easily over a hundred people and around thirty-five separate buildings. Both Dad and Jan and the family had many questions so one of the brothers who speaks French well translated French to Fon and visa versa and I translated English to French and visa versa.It was a pretty beautiful thing, the three languages. I wish I could paint a better picture of the setting: all adult male members of the family plus Dad, Jan, and I sitting in an outside gazebo made of wood posts and thatched roof, surrounded by what seemed like (and probably actually was) a hundred kids. They had carried their entire living room set up- sofa, chairs, tables-outside. It was the kind of dark that only occurs in places where there is no electricity, just a single light on the table. The next morning that family took us on a three hourmoto ride to a national forest and back. It was stunning; pictures don’t do it justice. There is some cutting that occurs and the state sells wood for a profit but because it is not a slow-growth forest trees are replenished in just a few years. We had lunch with my friend Eleonore and her husband. Eleonore killed the duck for us and though we ate it all and praised her for it I’m still hearing hell for none of us finishing the third course she served us. I think we may have gone into food comas immediately after that point in time and woke up just in time to do introductions at the mayor’s office before the business day ended. Dinner was with the mayor, a formality I hope I can avoid with future guests visiting from America. No use detailing that. The next day was their last day here. We took the two or three-hour drive into Cotonou which, Dad and Jan can attest, goes quickly from the paradise of Zè to the vileness of Cotonou. I exaggerate but in comparison it does seem a bit like that. Had one last great meal with wine then it’s back to rice, beans, and pate for me. Saying goodbye this time was WAY better than saying bye when I left America, which was probably the saddest day of my life so far. Dad and Jan can tell you their impressions of Benin and its people but in a word it would probably be friendly. Nowhere in America do strangers elicit wide smiles and waves (then again, in our mixed culture you can’t tell who’s American and who isn’t and here it’s blatantly obvious). I can only hope that every visit is just as amazing as this one. I’m aiming for zero stomach issues next time though. As happens any time after I spend a lot of time in the company of other Americans, it takes a little adjusting back to village life. Your nights seem a little lonelier than before, work options seem scarcer, communicating just that much harder. Luckily we had a string of meetings a week after Dad and Jan left so I’m in the comfort of other Americans again, weaning myself off until my mom and her friend Cheryl visit in March…

I’ve been bad about blogging lately but have a good excuse. The last two weeks I’ve been in the capital city, Porto Novo, with other volunteers for mid-service training. I never wrote on the New Years here so I’ll give a recap:

Many people ring in the new year with a midnight mass then dance and sing afterwards til the wee hours. I opted to save my energy for the next day so for the first time that I can remember I slept through the stroke of midnight. I went to mass the next morning but apparently the fun people were sleeping. I spent the afternoon at the mayor’s house, where the kids ran around, the women cooked, and the men watched TV, ate, and drank. I was promised dancing but when I was there the women were hard at work crushing peppers, onion, and tomatoes and cooking goat, chicken, plantains, and rice over traditional three stone stoves. Later in the day kids get dressed up and go house to house eating families’ leftovers. Kinda like trick-or-treating. Kids of well off families and adults are not supposed to do this, however, and if they do they lose respect. I ended the day sitting with my friend and her kids, laughing and spooning out leftover portions to kids who came by. Much more low key than I had anticipated but much enjoyed nonetheless.

The entire month of January Beninese visit family and friends in other villages and make trips to the village they grew up in, usually their father’s village. To the repertoire of greetings is added “Kudo Whey” or “Bon Fete.” January 10 is the big voodoo holiday here and though we were in Porto Novo for training my friend Kara’s lives just 15 minutes outside the city so we were able to see her village celebrate. For most of the afternoon and evening people stand in a big circle, older women dressed in a mélange of fabric strips fashioned around their upper arms and waists. The entertainment is the zangbetos, which you may or may not remember is a big haystack looking creature that is central to the voodoo tradition. The zangbeto is said to come from the sea and has two responsibilities: patrolling the streets at night and providing entertainment for voodoo celebrations. The Beninese believe there is no man under all that hay. Each village or neighborhood has it’s own zangbeto so there were a few there that day. They mostly dance and charge the crowd, at which point everyone at that corner runs in fear. You aren’t supposed to touch it, especially if you’re a woman, but the zangbeto actually approached our group of 4 Americans in the middle of his act and told us we could take pictures with him if we gave him some money. I can only imagine what a nonhuman mobile giant haystack spends his money on.

The two weeks in Porto Novo were like a much needed vacation: TVs with CNN, rooms with ceiling fans, showers (cold, but I’ll take it), many foods we hadn’t seen in months like salad and beef, and, best of all, American company. I definitely regressed in my French and Fon but that’s a small price to pay. The trade off was a hellish 8am to 6pm schedule every day but Sunday. I realize that is a normal work week for many Americans but it’s hard to adjust to such a slow-paced society as Benin and, as we’re seeing, even harder to adjust back. Our training covered HIV/AIDS education, designing and implementing projects, applying for funding, seed collecting and planting, and potential and difficulties at each respective post. We alternated between expensive ($5) meals of steak and mashed potatoes with cheap ($0.20) meals of rice and beans so as to not blow our entire monthly allowance in a week, and between nights together sampling West African brews on the roof of our hotel (which did not have a ledge and, in hindsight, was a really stupid idea) and low-key nights watching episodes of Arrested Development, The Office, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia from people’s external hard drives. One particularly awesome night we watched the first of Benin’s games in the Africa Cup (soccer, for those who don’t know). One of the outside bar/restaurants in town set up a projector screen and we cheered on our team, Les Ecureuils (The Squirrels), alongside other Beninese (all men, not surprising). The Squirrels are about as intimidating as UCSC’s Banana Slugs, but conveniently it rhymes with “Allez” thus making “Allez, Allez, Allez les Ecureuils!” an awesome cheer. We played Mozambique and tied 2 to 2 but lost a few days ago to Nigeria and are now out of the running.

This last weekend we spent making our way back to each of our villages. I only had 3 or 4 hours to go but many people’s trips took the entire weekend. A big bus traveling with 3 PC volunteers crashed into a semi on Sunday and, though fortunately they are fine, several passengers in the front of the bus died and a Japanese volunteer was in the hospital. That combined with the news of two suicides in my hometown (not people I knew, but horribly sad nonetheless) and the withdrawals from American company have made for a somber last couple days.

Thankfully I have my dad and Jan coming tonight!

http://picasaweb.google.com/kimberly.r.sanders/ApplesAndBeninese?feat=directlink

I'll be putting pictures up as often as I can, so check periodically!

a few fun facts:

103- number of Peace Corps volunteers currently serving in Benin

8 million- approx. population of people in Benin

10- most # of bowel movements I've had in one unfortunate 24 hour period

2- hour bike ride (one way) it is to find internet

1.5- hour bike ride (one way) it is to the nearest Peace Corps volunteer

4- average number of lizards I find stuck in my house (they fall from the roof) when I leave for a few days

16- books I've read so far

120- estimated number of crossword puzzles I've done in Benin

10- number of family and friends visiting me during my service here (at LEAST)

3- number of birthdays I'll celebrate in Benin

6- dollars of pay I receive a day

27- most number of children of Beninese men I know

4- most number of wives of Beninese men I know

20- cents for a lunch

1- dollar for a beer

6- months I've already spent here

19- months to go!

Happy holidays! The big party in Benin is yet to come-New Years- but a week of Christmas festivities is now over. I've had a little tree and ornaments, a stocking and some wrapped presents, not to mention hot cocoa and peppermint candies, around to keep me feeling the holiday cheer.

Tuesday was Noel at the preschool. Santa came, photos to come. Beninese Santa is somewhere between Big Bird and the American idea of Santa. Plastic bird mask. Skinny skinny man. But they got the red outfit and Santa hat right. (Sidenote: Santa hats are seen year round here. People often wear them in the early morning when they think it's too cold, ya know, like 75 degrees.) Amazingly, no child cried when they met Santa, despite his likeness to a Stephen King character. I passed out some American candy and mostly watched on as the kids danced (videos below. how AWESOME is the kid in yellow in the first video???).

Wednesday I helped the orphanage bring their 30 kids to meet Santa. It was hot, a couple kilometer walk each way, and most of the kids don't have shoes, but I don't think it detracted much from the atmosphere. Each child got a notebook, a couple pencils, and, I believe more importantly, an afternoon out of the orphanage with music and dancing. Of the 30, all but one are under the age of 8. No one can explain to me why it is like that, but I'm guessing that when children reach the age at which they can do most housework, they become domestiques (young, live-in maids) in wealthier households. I've spent several afternoons at the orphanage now, befriended the three women who work there and built a mud stove (stove made out of, you guessed it, mud that is more heat efficient=uses less wood=less time women spend looking for wood) with them. Each woman has children who live at the orphanage with them. That's an interesting concept in Benin- "orphan" doesn't mean a child without both parents. If a man dies his wife may not be able to take care of the kids on her own (usually the late husband's family takes the child in, if they are able); if a woman dies her husband also cannot take care of kids on his own; if a couple divorces the children usually stay with the mother, and if she remarries the new husband is not obligated to provide for those who are not his own.

Bit of a tangent. Moving on. Christmas Eve I had a 5 hour trek via a series of taxis and motos to Toweta, a small village of about 200 people (all descended from the same great-great-grandfather), where Hannah, another PCV, lives. Just a scatter of mud huts and a small, concrete health center run by two nuns. Cell phone reception just at the top of the hill. No French, just Fon. No food, all ingredients had to be bought two hours away. We spent our days catching up and trading stories, cooking, listening to Christmas carols on iPods, and playing with the dogs (who, coincidentally, all came from the same great-grandfather as well, no joke). We spent our evenings drinking with the nuns (how often do you get to say that line?), dancing (the nuns had choreographed moves to Rihanna songs), and partaking of both Beninese and American cuisine (the nuns killed a goat and we brought green bean casserole and garlic mashed potatoes).

It was a humbling and memorable experience. Toweta is one of the most rural posts, all subsistence agriculture. I'm guessing that few of them have any paper money. To be reminded that holidays are special without trees and lights and presents is... nice :)

I was headed out of town for Thanksgiving (recap: emaciated turkey, American company, awesome hiking) when my moto driver and I came across a disconcerting sight: a barricade of sorts, a huge log suspended off the road, restricting our passage. My first thought was bandits, land pirates (there have been several instances in which PCV travel was restricted due to bandits and in one case a volunteer had to move to a different village after hers was raided by bandits, one of many instances in which the story is much cooler than actually living through the experience). Instead, the men manning the barricade asked for money to repair the roads that had been heavily eroded. They were local men who probably use the dirt road of out town to transport whatever crops they grow for selling in towns along the paved road and realized that, as the state has insufficient funds for road repair, they would have to take matters into their own hands. This way people who use the road regularly and see immediate benefits to its improvement can be responsible for its upkeep.

(The road block has been removed but no work on the road has been been done as of yet.)

I led a Q&A in an English class with high school seniors recently. Questions always range. Why don’t Americans like salt? How can I go to America? How many kids does your father have? Can you take me back to America? Why did your country kill Saddam Hussein? (Seriously, but it was a teacher.) And so on. I was asked recently what American women wear and I gave a lengthy response on the diversity of the American population, how that answer can range from near nothing of a college frat party to a full burka. Following that question, I was asked if it is acceptable for women to go out in a slip. Thinking that was a short dress, I said "Yes! Definitely!" They giggled for several minutes before someone finally asked how it was that women in America could be allowed out without covering their "ses." Having no clue what that was, I repeated it several times, turning to the professor saying I did not understand the word. Turns out a slip here is more like a camisole, meaning it does not cover the bottom half, and that "ses" means vagina. Imagine a visitor in a high school class saying over and over again, "Vagina? I don't understand. Vagina?" louder and louder over increasing roar of laughter. Yes, American public, your tax dollars are well spent on cultural exchanges such as this.

The more time I spend with people, the more our conversations break the “How’d you sleep? How’s your health? How are the kids?” framework. Everyone has a story. Certainly everyone in the US has a story, but its generally a variation in frequency or degree of the same: divorce and remarriage, loans or debt, cancer or heart attacks, eating disorders, etc. Here the ingredients are more like polygamy, malaria, poverty, malnutrition, lack of health care, lack of education, etc. I’ve been fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to hear many stories. You learn more about the people, the lifestyle, the struggles, but it doesn’t make for easy sleeping at night.

My favorite topic is voodoo because people get so animated. It’s considered more of a culture than a religion, though many say they ‘leave God at the door’ when entering a voodoo ceremony (they also do this for abortions). Everyone has a story about a spell put on them or their friend, what they had to do to break it.

I recently learned that if a woman does not have any male children, and her husband dies while she is still relatively young (not that uncommon), she is evicted from the house by her late husband’s family. Property rights go to men alone. Also, I learned that in some cases of polygamous households, the first wife will actually go looking for a second wife for her husband. The mentality is if you know he’s going to get one eventually, it might as well be someone you get along with.

Some of the funniest conversations I’ve had about life in America include topics such as plastic surgery, liposuction, life expectancy, Michael Jackson, divorce, dieting, and greek life.

Random: I saw my first nomad last week. It was maybe the coolest thing I’ve ever seen/will ever see in my life. It was a man and a little boy-dressed in rags, skin incredibly black from the constant sun exposure- and about a dozen cows. They had travelled down from the North since the South has greener pastures this time of year. This is especially cool for me because I spent much of my last year of college studying conflicts between nomads and pastoralists in sub Saharan Africa (my senior thesis was on climate change conflicts in SSA). And as part of my job right now I’m asking village chiefs what their environmental problems are, and a couple have brought up nomads taking up decreasing amounts of land and resources. Unfortunately I think my thesis conclusion was something like “can’t we all just get along?” so I actually have no solution to offer.

There exists in Africa a concept of the lost. I first heard it called this in Obamas book Dreams From My Father, though it is a concept most have seen under other names or contexts. It refers to those individuals who have had the opportunity to travel to the developed world, mostly to attend university, and end up staying. Africa is much too far for the occasional visit, less in physical distance than in the distance referred to when we say “worlds away.” You are forced to choose. I suspect that its not that they purposefully forgot about their roots, never tried to come back, but more that, upon returning, they were welcomed with both open arms and outstretched hands. Expectations, many PCVs understand, can easily envelop and consume you. Obama also talks about racially mixed individuals as belonging to two worlds and thus, ultimately, none. Maybe its similar to that- you will always be identified with the other. When people talk about lost individuals, its usually with a mix of envy and disdain. Its funny- you hear about Indians and Chinese who are educated in the US and, increasingly, return to their native country to practice the profession for which they have been educated in a US university. Their return is often discussed negatively in the press, as though they have taken from some finite pot of knowledge and stolen away with it, ripping us off. But it is just these people who can be the most effective investment in development: they understand the people and the system, and have the education and skills that a great many don’t. I think one “returner” is probably worth thousands in development aid.

It is rare to meet returners in a rural setting. The career opportunities, the foreign development workers (as well as the running water and supermarkets) are only in the cities. I recently met a family of returners who started an NGO here that creates community gardens to supplement diets and incomes. The mechanics of it may not interest you, so I wont go into detail, but its closed cycle process is a thing of beauty. Though they don’t turn anyone down who wants to help out, it is intended for women and youth- women because income generation is crucial to both the gender equality movement here and the precarious situations of women, especially those who don’t bear sons and are thus not entitled to any of their husbands property, and youth in order to both educate the next generation in healthy lifestyles and to “keep kids off the street.” (I use street lightly.) They are a bizarre family for Benin. They dismiss criticisms of the small number of wives and children they have as ignorance, a hard feat considering that many still consider the number of wives you have determines the weight your word carries, the respect you command. Perhaps most inspiringly, they don’t take credit for any of it. They attribute their gender and social equity views to their grandfather, and their environmental and health work to the Peace Corps volunteer they housed 20 years ago, who kept a small garden on their property. These people embody Kennedys message of ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for you country.

Note to readers: I do know the appropriate use of apostrophes and the two forms of its. I just cant find the apostrophe on this God forsaken keyboard.

When the dog (mosquito) bites, when the (massive African) bee stings, when I'm feeling blue...

A few of my favorite things:

-My morning coffee and crossword

-Calls from America, from anyone, but dad calls the most

-Rain pouring down on my rin toof

-Letters!

-Having my neighbor kill the lizards that get stuck in my backyard (the part I like is not having to do it myself)

-Daily to do lists with tasks in multiples of 5 (the habit will never change, but the tasks are radically different)

-Moto and bike rides on paths barely big enough for two feet

-Pregnant goats. They're midget goats so when they are pregnant they are bigger horizontally than vertically. Looks like they swallowed a chess board. Gets me every time.

-Having people say "welcome" instead of "hello" when I get near my house

-Getting more breadfruit and sweet potatoes than I paid for from the mama down the street

-Trying to speak Fon. If it's correct people get giddy and call over their friends to witness the American speaking their language, like I'm a baby who has just said her first words.

-Watching the flow of vendors for the evening market from the villages, women carrying tubs of bananas, onions, smoked fish, and corn on their heads with infants strapped to their backs.

-My friend Eleonore's two kids- a girl, 4, and a boy, 2. The cutest kids I've seen in Benin.

-Exchanging stories with other PCVs

-Once in a blue moon, getting a Nigerian station on my radio that plays the occassional English tune

-The little boy next door who wonders over unannounced and stays to dance in my living room. He also makes me sad, because he's 4 but looks and acts like a 2-year-old, and is extremely bow-legged. The only silver lining to that is that our shadows look like Curious George and his owner walking down the street, which always makes me chuckle.

-Funny questions, like "Do you have the cold (weather) in the US?" How do you respond? They think cold is 75 degrees. I'd like to tell them about a little place we call Alaska but I don't think snow is something people can really grasp.

-Kids and old women who want to hold my hand, touch my skin, play with my hair

Babies!! Some of my favorite photos.

Benin often feels like living in the Pirates of the Caribbean film. And not just because there is a crazy lady woman here who looks shockingly like Johnny Depp a la Captain Sparrow- I’m talking long dreads, capped teeth, the appearance of not having showered this calendar year. I’m thinking about fashioning a black pirates hat and offering it as a gift just for my amusement. (Insensitive? Or genius?) Sometimes Ze it is as chaotic and aggressive as Tortuga- at my night market, when all that lights your way is makeshift candles (tomato paste cans & hemp) and the whites of eyes, or when brawls break out in the street (to be fair, I’ve only seen two brawls). Other times it is as unspoiled and deserted as the white sand beaches of the Caribbean. There are moments in the early morning, after the chickens stop crowing but before the street vendors and school children are out, and in the evening, when you can’t tell if the sun is coming or going and the sky is pale blues and pinks- dare I say, twilight- when the calm in infectious and all the elements are in harmony. My job is coming along. The work I’m supposed to do with the environment is slow going, but the schools have been on my case to give time and would probably take me on as a full time teacher if I agreed, despite the number of times I tell them that I have no experience teaching and no materials. We decided I’d visit a class and speak for half an hour just for students to hear American pronunciation. I offered to record my voice speaking, the entire textbook if necessary, to distribute to the 12 or so English classes. But that would be the efficient thing to do. And I think they want me in the flesh, the real deal. Who can blame them? So this week I led my first class. The plan was to discuss their textbook topic for that week, comparing America and Benin. Turns out the topic was child trafficking, not really a light topic to start out with. So I let students just ask me questions and ended up taking up the entire 2 hour class. The teacher loved it and said he wants me to come back each week. In America this would not be an efficient use of class time but whatev. The first 20 questions were all variations of “Are you going to marry a Beninese man and live here forever?” but after that the questions ran the gamut. They were astounded that my father has only two kids from only one woman, and that not only are both my parents alive, but 4 of my grandparents are, 2 of which are approaching triple digits. They were floored. I explained sunscreen, the absence of local language in the US, that I do not know personally Michael Jackson or Jay Z. The English “books” are photocopied, sloppily bound, early 1980s British books. They used phrases like “Come off it!” (I disagree.) and the female dialogue name used throughout was Bimbo. I went to a funeral a couple weeks ago. Beninese funerals are much more celebrations on life- dancing, eating, drinking, laughing- than anything else. I’ll let the photos speak for themselves. What you can’t see from the pictures is that they buried the coffin inside the house. This is standard though sometimes it is in the yard, whereas in this case they actually dug up the concrete of an existing room, buried him, and replaced it. And someone sleeps in that room. Ew. They were horrified at the idea of cremation though. Funny side note: There are really no ambulances here. Instead, the hearses have lights and sirens like our ambulances would. A day late and a dollar short, no?

My house is the tin roof behind this pineapple field.

This is what most of the area looks life- a sea of green.

My bed! The mosquito net that fails me time and again.

An African dresser/closet (the thing on the right is a ceremonial hat which I was given to wear for big events, pictures of me donning it to come in the next few months). And pictures of all my loved ones :)

The street in front of my house.

My kitchen.

View from my front door.

My living room.

This is a long one, hope you have the time. For those of you who do, make yourself a cup of tea, put your cell on silent, and enjoy

This post, like my general train of thoughts here, is a jumble of seemingly disconnected reflections, observations, peculiarities about my new life. Though I always hope to sit down and write a blog post that astounds you all in eloquence, in which images of life in tropical Africa leap from the screen like gazelles, it never seems to happen. I am always rushed, sweating profusely, frustrated at the slow speed of the internet, desperately searching for the man who should be powering it by stationery bicycle and must have fallen asleep. Instead, moments of clarity and refined introspection seem to come at the most inopportune time. When I’m shopping at the market. Eggs, check. Tomatoes, check. Purpose in life, check. Or when I’m hoofing it up a potholed dirt road. The physical exhaustion never seems to make its way into my head; I think the clearest when all I can only hear the deafening sound of blood pumping in my eardrums. Or when I’m one of 8 in a 5-person vehicle, one hand pinned under the mama next to me and the other propping up the head of the dude next to me with supernatural napping abilities, lest he nap in my lap. Perhaps this is because, like many aspects of my experience here, I should hold those moments of clarity for myself, appreciating them for their inherent wealth-the assurance that this experience is continually developing my mind and soul- rather than desiring to trap them into words and corner them into blog posts. What I’m trying to say is Warning: This May Underwhelm.

The longer my stay in Benin, the harder I find it to write about it. Aspects of my life that were once bizarre have become commonplace, and the aspects I’d like to express evade cohesive, eloquent thoughts. I am in both a perpetual state of euphoria and one of confusion. Euphorically confused 24/7. This place is beautiful. Even when it’s hotter than the rings of inferno or pouring buckets and thundering raucously, there is a calm about it that is both unshakeable and infectious. I can’t believe that I live in a place with such awe-inspiring raw beauty. I walk and bike around to surrounding villages and often don’t see another individual for miles. I can be just a 10 minute bike ride away and the language is completely different. The narrow red dirt paths are hedged by deep greens of the lush landscape- palm trees, pineapple fields, stalk upon stalk of corn. Though much of the land is cultivated, cultivators aren’t too particular or efficient with their land so it retains the appearance of land that has been untouched. It’s as though people are working for the land, not that the land is working for people.

Living alone is bizarre. Not lonely, not yet at least, but bizarre. It’s QUIET. It won’t be like that forever; its quiet now because my ipod broke, my hard drive crashed, and the radio I bought in the US doesn’t pick up any stations out here. The first couple hours in the morning and the last several at night, after sunset, I am completely alone. I read a lot, write a lot of letters, journal constantly. It’s a good thing in some ways- knowing that I’ll be alone for so long makes me more excited to get out of my house and see people, and constant interaction and French and Fon speaking when I’m out of the house makes me savor the moments of peace and quiet in my little home. I finally put up some pictures so you all can see what I mean when I talk about home. (I’ve yet to get any pictures that do Ze justice. It’s too beautiful for my 8MP Olympus.)

Every venture outside of my house is a never-ending string of greetings. I greet and am greeted by every single person along the road, and since people’s work is all outside unless you are the mayor or a teacher, there is never a 10 second period without a greeting. People are always staring. Sometimes it feels like I’m a celebrity, other times like I’m a bearded lady centaur, a freak. Most of the time my smiles and greetings are returned with even bigger smiles and warmer greetings (even when they don’t understand French and I don’t understand their greeting, we both get the picture), but sometimes I make a baby cry or an old man pee himself (I think moonshine had something to do with it too). Some people are too friendly, mostly young men who ask me not just my name and what I’m doing here but where I live, what my phone number and relationship status is, if they can get to know me better. I don’t want to burn any bridges so it’s a fine line between being firm and being rude. For instance, the mayor’s assistant asked me where my house was and I responded by saying that it was a Peace Corps rule that men could not come in my house. He said he’d have his wife and kids bring by a dozen oranges then. I felt like such a jerk! Kids often knock at my door, just to say hi they say though I know they’re hoping that I have a never-ending stash of candy to bequeath them. You learn quickly that it is an “if you give a mouse a cookie” kinda society. Don’t give someone something unless you are prepared to continue all day every day, that includes access to your house.

Sometimes people laugh when I pass by. I try to laugh too, make myself feel I’m in on the joke. It’s funny right- only one white girl in town! You gotta make yourself feel like a celeb when that bearded centaur reflection appears.

My job is at best unstructured and at worst non-existent. It’s somewhat the norm for Peace Corps though. Though the mayor’s office pays my rent, they actually have no job for me to do. It boggles my mind. In America, you only pay for someone if there is an expected return. Maybe they thought a white person would boost tourism, or that I would be eating enough to cause an increase in local revenue. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if they sat me down and said, look, we were really looking for an American that could dance like MJ or sing like Whitney. Right now, my job seems to be meeting and greeting. Like Miss America, I like to think. And since I often can’t understand what is being said around me (if its local language), I just sit and smile, look pretty, hope no one notices the beard. I am one by one greeting the directors and staff of the schools in my area. Tomorrow I will be meeting all the village chiefs in my commune with the mayor. The work day is interrupted by both extreme heat and rain showers, both of which warrant staying inside the house, and also the daily noon-3pm siesta. I just show up to the mayor’s hoping someone will answer questions I have and play Sudoku while I’m not doing anything. Even though I tell them it’s a game, they constantly tell me “good work!” with my Sudoku. I’m in for a rude awakening when I return to the American job market. More than once they have made mention of my Anglo-Saxon work ethic and talk about my punctuality almost as if it’s a fault. If time is money in the US, time is pineapples here. And there are a lot of damn pineapples.

It is the rainy season here, which I absolutely adore. Not just because I get to sit inside and listen to the rain fall on my tin roof (which is sometimes soothing and other times sounds like the apocalypse), but also because I have an outdoor shower so I can shower in the rain! Glam, right? Since I usually shower with a bucket and a scoop, rainfall provides the closest thing to an American shower and water pressure here. The rain here is bizarre in the way it can be POURING just 10 feet from you and you are completely dry. I’ve watched as it slowly envelopes the land, creeping thatched roof by thatched roof. I’ve made a few friends by being caught in rainstorms; someone always motions me to share their covered patio when I’m helplessly soaked and trudging through red mud.

My house has lots of spiders and lizards which I don’t mind when they stick to their place on the walls and ceiling. The first night I had a panic attack and made my dad calm me down while I was sobbing about the scawey spidewrs. I’m okay with it now, except that the one time I left for a couple days I came back to find lizards everywhere- in my bowls, among my books, in my suitcase. I found one caught in my mosquito net a few days ago. I don’t like to think about what else can get in if something as big as a lizard can.

I’m struck by the raw beauty of this place, my new home, at various times each day. I often take long bike rides in the evening, late enough to not risk death by heat stroke, light enough to not risk death by pothole. One dirt path one day, another the next. It’s a legitimate part of my work- creating a map, locating villages and schools, identifying crops and tree species, looking for evidence of different agricultural practices. Occassionally there’s a traditional healer or health center. There is often more goats than humans and more green than imaginable. I’ve had several moments, bumping violently down a rocky hill- being greeted by a group of old women in their local language, being chased by high-pitched toddlers- when I’m so overwhelmed by the beauty and inherent tranquility of this place, that I’m giddy. This surge of emotion erupts in laughter, choked out in gasps of air as I breathlessly pedal. I look crazy, like Clockwork Orange dude status, but they think I’m bizarre no matter what I do so I get away with it. More than once I’ve also been at such a moment of euphoria only to realize that I have no one with which to share it. I feel kinda like the guy at the end of Into the Wilderness, who chases what he sees to be the meaning of life only to realize at the end that for happiness to be real it needs to be shared. I know that having a constant here would drastically change my experience. My comfort circle would be larger, I wouldn’t have to leave the house for human interaction. It’s somewhat like an anchor, though, in that you can’t change too much, can’t stray from what you were when you arrived. That said, I think people who are able to share this experience with someone they love- finding a best friend or future partner within a day’s journey or joining Peace Corps with a spouse- are truly lucky. I envy that experience.

Moving on to lighter topics, a melange of observations:

-People are called by their professions at almost all times, even if its your spouse, even if you have the same job. No last name, just Teacher. Also, Mama is any older woman or any woman whose house you are in, and Tanti (aunt) is any woman selling something. And many children call me and others my age Dada, which means big sister.

-Work and school hours are flexible and both have midday siestas of 2 to 3 hours. Makes the transition from undergrad a lot easier.

-Of the 20 or so designs of school notebooks nationwide, 2 feature Obama and Michael Jackson.

-Some people were looking at pictures of graduation that had the date on them: 6/12/09. Here the date reads date/month/year rather than month/date/year. They asked me if it was already 2010 in the US.

-Typewriters are alive and well in the heart of Africa.

-People sleep in the middle of meetings and as far as I can tell it’s totally okay.

-Though I am definitely the only white person now, at one point there was another white girl here. I know this because several people call my Sonia and my friend told me to watch out for a family whose son had been burned by a white girl and might have it out for the whole lot.

People often ask me if I’ve made friends…that’s hard to answer. I have one friend for sure. She’s 26, a teacher, a mother of 2. Sometimes I spend weekends over there, we go to the dressmaker because she likes to have matching outfits, she helps me buy things in local language at the market. But she works all day and I stay in at night so our socializing is limited. Other than that I don’t have friends like I would use the term in the US. No one to call and hang out with. (Not that I’m looking for a pity party! It’s just another aspect of life here.) There’s a thousand people I greet around village and who greet me, with huge smiles and inquiries about how I slept, my health, my family “over there.” There’s an old woman who always gives me more sweet potatoes than I pay for and another old woman who lets me hang out with her on the side of the road while she sells corn cakes and teaches me words in local language. There are people at the mayor’s office but they have families of their own (it’s actually just one family: the mayor, his wife, his sister, his brother, his nephew, you get the picture. African politics.). There’s a woman who comes by every other day or so and just sits at my table while I read or work. We sit in silence mostly, which would be awkward anywhere else. There’s a girl in high school who helps me get water (and by that I mean she carries the water and I pay) but she’s a lingerer which bugs. I have two neighbors, both men in their 20s, but rules of propriety forbid us from entering the other’s home so our contact is limited to polite convo outside. The guy to my right is a policeman by day, I see him coming home in his intimidating military apparel, but the second he walks in the door he blasts Celine Dion and sings word for word every song of hers ever recorded. There are, of course, other PCVs, but for the first three months we are supposed to stay in our villages for the first couple months in order to be well intergrated.

That’s my life! Keep the emails and letters coming! And if you send one, please send a stamp. I’m about 15 letters behind and completely out of postage!

Though I just moved to Ze Thursday (more on that later!), I've had to spend the last 24 hours at the Peace Corps office in Cotonou. What does this entail? Air conditioning 24/7, a hot water pressure shower, a stocked kitchen complete with oven (the only one I've seen since being in Benin), the company of other Americans, a DVD player if I so choose, computers with the fastest internet in the country, insect- and lizard-free rooms, cold water (FREE!), a chance to stock up on books at the book swap, and everything I could need that I can't get in Ze is just a moto ride away: the bank, fabric to make clothes, schwarma, Thai food, burgers, supermarkets with spices, baking supplies, coffee mugs, shampoo and conditioner, and all varieties of fruit.

And what did I have to do to earn such a vacation? Extreme diarrhea for 4 days. I won't go into further detail only to say that words like "inflammatory" and "bacterial" have been thrown around, and that the position of my latrine outside my house, two locked doors and about 40 steps away from my bed, has been an issue. All that included, I would say that it was worth it if I was able to enjoy any of the foods of Cotonou, particularly schwarma. But I couldn't. So, no, not worth it.

I finally finished training and leave for post tomorrow. It’s a bittersweet time- I’m ready to be out of the host family’s house but not really ready to live completely alone. I’m ready to start cooking for myself but not ready to buy all my food at the market using local language. I’m ready to not have class for 10 hours, 6 days a week, but not ready to leave the company of all the other Americans. I definitely have some butterflies in my stomach and intestinal tract (making friends with the parasites and amoebas, it’s a shindig in there).

We have been taking our final tests and finishing up last minute things to know, including emergency exit plans and locating helicopter landing spots near our houses, in case of things like medical emergencies. No ambulances. In most cases our nearest landing spot was “the neighbor’s corn field” or “any nearby fallow field.”

I passed a level of French high enough to start taking local language, so now I’m studying Fon and Aizo. They’re tonal and ridiculously hard. Not only is it not the same alphabet, but completely foreign sounds, sounds my mouth does not know how to make. It sounds more like Chewbacca (sp?) talking to me than a form of communication.

Friday was our swear in ceremony. Since last year’s swear in was the 40th anniversary of Peace Corps in Benin, the ceremony was lavish: held at the Congress Hall with an after party at the Ambassador’s house. All the volunteers were put up in a hotel to facilitate a last night of general debauchery before leaving one another. But since 41 is not a special number, and probably because Peace Corps is so low on funding, we had some lawn chairs under tarps in the parking lot of the Peace Corps office. It is crucial in Benin that no individual of any importance be omitted from speaking at an event like this, so not only did about fifteen people speak- government ministers, Peace Corps staff, trainers, reps from the Ambassador’s office, volunteers- but each person is required by cultural norms to begin their speech with an acknowledgement of the presence of everyone in attendance. “Dear Monsieur Minister of the Environment and Protection of the Nature, Dear Madame Director of Peace Corps Benin, Dear Monsieur Minister of Primary and Secondary Education,…” and so on until “Dear Dude Who Put the Toothpicks in the Hors D’Oeuvres.” You’re a good ten minutes in to any speech before you hear the meat of it. Each speech is then ended with a series of hopes for the continuation of the various institutions included in the ceremony. “Live the Republic of Benin! Live Peace Corps! Live America! Live Bangkok Terrace-the only place to get Thai food in all of Benin!” (I kid I kid.)

In the end, an even 50 people took the oath that is given to, I’m assuming, all employees of the U.S. government, to uphold the constitution and serve our country’s best interests at all times. I was incredibly touched by this part; I’m not sure if it’s being a Peace Corps Volunteer or just living in West Africa the last two months, but I love America more than ever. Yesterday, while buying a mattress for my new home with some other volunteers, we saw the ceremony and each of our glowing faces on the national news station. There apparently was not much news going on this weekend because I think that 5 minute clip played on repeat all day. I wait no longer for my 15 minutes.

There was a party that followed after, just for volunteers. I won’t go into much detail except to say that our collective BAC was higher than I can count in French and by the end we had a crowd of 25 or more people observing from outside the restaurant’s patio gate. A cigarette company even heard there was a yovo party and came with cartons of free cigarettes, taking pictures of all the white kids smoking their brand. I’m pretty sure some unsuspecting PCV is going to end up on a billboard somewhere in Africa with a caption along the lines of “The preferred cigarette by 9 out of 10 yovos.”

Now current time. I’m not feeling well at the moment, stomach sick and feverish. My hope is that it’s just nerves, the result of the realization that by this time tomorrow I’ll be completely on my own. If it’s not just nerves then I have some tapeworms or parasites to keep me company in Ze. On the subject of things that eat your insides, while at the Peace Corps office Friday a lot of people weighed themselves and probably half the group has lost weight, some just a few pounds, several people 20-25 pounds. I think the most lost in the last two months was 27 pounds. It’s mostly men who are losing weight, probably a lot of muscle mass. There are a couple volunteers who are having a really difficult time keeping weight on, so much so that it’s becoming a medical concern. The guys had a beard growing contest the duration of training and when they shaved yesterday, every single one of them had more defined faces than we remember.

As I said last time, my blog posts and internet access in general are going to get a lot fewer and further in between. So if you email me and don’t get a response for a few weeks, understand that I probably haven’t even received it. I’d love your addresses so I can write letters instead. For those who have written emails lately but have not received a response, Im saving writing letters for lowkey nights (every night). But emails or letters, doesn’t matter. Just write me, please. Or call if you have Skype. Or just come here if you have money.

Last week we broke up into groups and each visited a different religion or voodoo sect. I visited a zambeto house, which is a part of voodoo culture. The zambeto is a huge hay stack with a man under it who speaks out of a Riccola commercial-like horn to distort his voice and sound other-worldly. Imagine a huge haystack teepee mascot. They believe there’s no person, just a spirit, under there. So though we were given the opportunity to ask questions, I couldn’t ask things like “How do you pick what guy gets to be the zambeto? Do your legs cramp under there for hours? Is it always the same guy?” Not culturally sensitive. They are keepers of the night after sundown, keeping women, children, and criminals off the streets. If a woman sees him at night it is said that she dies soon after. Seems like a way to repress women to me. He comes out in the daytime at times, usually accompanied by drummers and dancers. Party hat during the day kinda guy. He claims to be able to turn sand into millet (I’m sure they’d never heard of Jesus’s water to wine ability. And who wants millet anyway?). When we asked how people can venerate him, he replied he accepts veneration in the form of cases of beer, moonshine, pork, goats, and the like. Something tells me he wouldn’t turn down virgins or hard cash either.

Enough had gone on in the last couple weeks to fill a novel. First of all, I got three letters in the mail which was amazing. I’ve read them, along with some letters I got before leaving, several times, and they never fail to put a (oftentimes much needed) smile on my face. It only costs 90 cents to send me a letter and, admittedly or not, 99% of you reading this would gladly sit down and talk about whats going on in your life for 10 minutes. That’s all I want- to know whats going on with you guys. Even if you think its nothing, the mundane to you has become the interesting and comforting to me. If not, I will have to continue writing you letters that are filled with more than you care to know about moi. OR you can send me an email, which is free AND you can do that while you pretend to work (shout out to the 9 to 5 crowd).

The shuttle that runs from Cotonou, where the post office and airport are located, to Porto Novo, where we stay for training, is a magical thing. It brings us letters and packages and medical unit requests, and sends for us letters to the states which collect in the PC office until a volunteer goes to the US for any reason and takes a stack with him/her. It also sends stool samples to the PC medical office for those people who are having… issues (we’re all having issues really, the line is fuzzy and drawn on a case by case basis). We attach a note with specifics that truly validates the pay that doctors receive, and then wait to receive a letter, among the letters and packages from friends and family, that reads “Bonjour (insert name)! You have giarrdea/tapeworms/amoebas/intestinal parasites.” True story. That’s what the letters say. I’ll refrain from discussing it in detail in such a public manner, but suffice it to say I’ve gone through my allotment of stool sample collection containers already.

I have experienced and can confirm that the Larium dream cycle is as intense as you’ve probably heard. For those who don’t know, the medicine that most take for malaria is said to cause really crazy dreams. So between the medical horror stories we’ve heard and the Larium, and the cockroaches that play in my room at night (they’re surprisingly loud), I’ve had some trouble sleeping of late. In my latest dream a huge bunny tried to eat me. There was more to the story but when I typed it out it made me seem crazy. It was a result of a conversation I had had with my host family that night at dinner. I was trying to explain the Easter Bunny to them and they were really confused. I mean, a fat white guy at Christmas who gives presents to children, that’s logical, but a human-size bunny who hides magical eggs of candy and money, that’s vraiment bizarre. There have been other really funny things that I’ve tried to explain to people here. Lasik surgery for one, cancer for another.

Terrible news- my computer joined the growing pile of broken electronics. My hard drive crashed, even though my Macbook is less than two years old and I have been taking really good care of it. The universe apparently wants me to give up all of my worldly possessions and truly live like a local, bien integree in PC lingo.

I have just two weeks left of training- one full week of classes then a week of final tests, interviews, buying everything I need, and saying goodbye to my host family here before swearing in on September 25. I’ll move to Ze, my new home, the next day. I just got back from a 3 day visit to Ze and though I wish I could explain how beautiful, honestly stunning, the place and the people are, I know I’ll fail. You’ll just have to come visit to see. Since my house is just 5 cement walls and a tin roof right now, I stayed with a generous family during my visit. I really lucked out with the family that offered to host me; not only are they two of the most generous, patient, and friendly people I’ve met in Benin (along with their 7 kids), but they are definitely people I hope to stay close with for the next two years. The wife is an elementary school teacher and only 26 years old (only the 2 youngest kids are hers with her husband). They’re eager to please me and make sure I’m comfortable and welcome, but they don’t patronize or pamper me. They let me help with preparing the food, even though they laugh mercilessly at everything I do and redo it after. As long as I can laugh too, ya know? There were some weird cultural things… the first night they said something like “you’ve been in those clothes all day, you must want to change,” but I brought just enough clothes and really hate doing laundry so I tried to say I was all set with the clothes situation, but they brought me their clothes to wear and insisted I changed. I observed the next day- these people change outfits like four times a day. So I rotated mine, because it made them happy. The maman insisted on buying me an outfit, which I didn’t want, mostly because she gave me a choice of 2 ugly fabrics, but when they insist you really can’t say no. Like when they say “eat more” and you say “thanks but I’m full” and they say “doesn’t matter, eat more.” You admit defeat. So I had my measurements taken and it was ready a couple hours later. They made me put it on immediately and that’s when I saw that she had been so insistent upon it because she got the same outfit and wanted to parade around town with me, dressed as twins, for all the town to see. I felt a little used, like an accessory of sorts, but I didn’t mind it at all, really. It’s like I may as well embrace the novelty my foreignness and white skin are to them; it’s not changing anytime soon.

A photographer showed up one of the days to take my picture with the girls who are apprentices at the dressmaker that rents out space at the house I was staying at. I was completely confused. I say hi to them but we’ve never actually talked because they only speak the local language, Aizo. Alas, when in Rome. When the maman came home and heard it planted a similar seed in her head and the photographer came back to do a whole sitting, complete with wardrobe change, for the two of us. Can’t wait to see how awesomely awkward I am in those pictures.

The first thing I did when I arrived in Ze was to go to the mayor/governor’s office. The call him a mayor, but it’s more the equivalent of our governor. He presides over an area the size of a county in the US physically, with about 70,000 people from 73 villages. I met all of the people who worked in his office, introduced myself, tried and failed to pronounce their names and say anything mildly intelligent. It took me two days to figure out that my work partner, Huguette, and my supervisor, Mayor Dangbenon, are married. I attribute that not only to a lack of comprehension on my part, but a lack of displayed affection (see last post) on their part. I ended up spending a lot of time with them and their kids, who are ridiculously adorable. One funny thing did happen there- the electricity went out, as often happens, and their first response was to get the flashlight and shine it right on me. I’m not sure if they thought I would bail at the first chance or if they were trying to provide me with light before themselves and just failed at the implementation.

I also visited the police station and met the police chief. I met the town papa, the oldest man in town, who has an awesomely scruffy voice that I can’t understand at all and had a huge grin plastered on his face the whole time. I figured out where the nearest hospital and internet access are (further than makes me comfortable), took a walk around the village, saw some voodoo statues, went to the market one day (it only happens once every five days, so you need to stock up those days), and in general saluated (greeted) every single person that passed by me. Another PCV explained it perfectly by saying that it’s like the beginning of Beauty and the Beast where Belle is walking through town and everyone is yelling “Bonjour! Bonjour!” Well it’s like that, but an African village. I’m thinking about bringing a book to the well next time, maybe singing a little diddy for the spectators. I stop and introduce myself when it seems like the person speaks French. No one knows what Peace Corps is, few know the concept of the environment. That shouldn’t have too much of an impact of my job though, I hope. My work is disjointed and difficult to explain. Very few things DON’T have to do with the environment in a place like this. The entire economy IS the environment. You’ll hear many details later, once I flush out what I will work on.

The other reason for this visit was to check on my house. The check list of questions for my housing inspection would really make you laugh(/cry). Do you have a well within 500km of your house? Are there large gaps between the ceiling and the walls where potential mice/bats/reptiles/etc. could enter? Are there currently bats in the house (look for droppings and listen for their squeaks)? My house is brand new, like cement still drying new, which is good, I guess. Like I said, 5 cement walls and a tin roof. It is evenly partitioned into two rooms, my bedroom and my living room. There is an outside area about 2 meters by 4 meters that is my “kitchen” on one side and my “shower” on the other. And I thought our Landfair kitchen was small, this is the size of the downstairs bathroom. We don’t get much money at all to move in. I ordered a bed, a mattress, a table to eat at, a table to cook at, and shelves, and spent ¾ of my move-in allowance. And I still need to get pots, plates, silverware, décor (I use the term loosely), cleaning supplies, etc. I’m pretty positive that anyone would readily feed me, so I can hold off on the kitchen stuff if need be.

Kristen called when I was visiting my house and by the end of our call a group of about 15 children were gathered around me and were looking at me with such intrigue that one would think I was telling them an awesome story, rather than talking to someone else they can’t see in a language they can’t understand. Definitely living in a fishbowl.

More about my life, work, and friends in Ze to come. And for those of you with the desire, the time, and the means, come visit! Don’t be put off by my small house. Life is super relaxed, the people are welcoming, the food is spicy, and the vistas are breathtaking. I literally feel like I’m walking in a painting.

My post had to be changed because my lodging wasn’t headed in the direction of passing safety standards by the time I move in in three weeks. So my new post is in Ze (so much easier to say and spell than Allassankome anyway, right?) in the same region. I visit next Wednesday so I’ll give you the detes then. We had our first GAD (gender and development) talk today. There are two campaigns that all volunteers, regardless of sector, have a role in: GAD and HIV/AIDS prevention. The woman who spoke was the head of GAD Benin, likely one of the most feminist individuals in Benin, and though her relationship with her husband was on the whole one of equal opportunities and responsibilities, she admits that it is still necessary for her to “save face” on her husband’s behalf regarding cultural norms. For instance, if family or friends come over, she must go into the kitchen and cook and serve while he socializes. She explained it as that she “doesn’t allow” him to enter the kitchen, like it's her choice and he would do so otherwise, if he were allowed. If another man, friend or family, were to criticize how she takes care of her husband, she could say nothing in defense. Women do not know how much their husbands make, may have no say in whether or not they take multiple wives (not everyone practices polygamy but it is far from uncommon), do not have the right to know where the husbands go at any time. These are, of course, generalizations; there are many people who do not fit this description, but I feel comfortable enough in labeling them as general truth. Bouvettes (the all-purpose café/restaurant/bar depending on time of day) are male-dominated. You never see a group of females and certainly never a woman alone.However, there is no pay difference between men and women here, and people say that there are no restrictions to the jobs that women have, even that it is easier for them to get a job with an international agency because the U.S. and European countries favor women in development positions. 

As Americans, we are somewhere in the middle. We automatically command a respect and freedom that many African women do not. There are at times less barriers to our conversations with Beninese men, or perhaps were are forgiven for bringing up a topic because we do not know it is culturally sensitive. Since we are American women, it seems more acceptable for us to have a drink at a bouvette, though I feel like we are subject to more sexual harassment as well. Another concept hard to wrap my head around is that love here isn’t like what we’re used to in the states. Many marriages are ones of convenience, not of love. They do not say “I love you” or ever show affection, at least publicly. If you ask if a spouse loves another they might say something like “of course,” but they don’t conceive of love as romantically as we do. (Again, generalizations, there are many, many exceptions.) Let’s just say Hallmark would never make it here. Less serious topics/comical anecdotes of the last week: -       Belgium has a program where instead of sending juvenile delinquents to a juvenile hall, they send them to western Africa for a few months of manual labor. Makes you think twice about shoulder tapping at a liquor store. -       Twins here carry around a doll representing their twin in the case that one has passed away. I’ve seen it several times strapped to children’s backs like how a woman would carry a baby, and I’m told they have to keep it their whole lives. -       Unfaithful spouses (scratch that, unfaithful husbands) call their extramarital affairs the “deuxieime bureau” and “troisieme bureau” (second and third offices), an apt nickname I think. -       Some volunteers say that kids sit outside their screen doors and just watch them, whatever it is that they may be doing- reading, cooking, anything. Peace Corps explains that for the next two years we should think of ourselves as “living inside a fishbowl.” -       There is pretty intense Nigerian xenophobia here. Not only are Nigerians looked down upon, but everything Nigerian is seen as dirty or cheap. Anytime anything breaks it is automatically assumed that it is from Nigeria. Peace Corps volunteers are not allowed to travel to Nigeria for any reason. Its grounds for immediate expulsion. -       We visited a traditional healer a few days ago and it was incredibly interesting. She told us that traditional healing can cure everything, including AIDS, if the affected person follows the instructions of the healer. They use mostly bark from various trees, mixed with various liquids, that one either drinks or showers with. Many of the remedies required mixing the bark with some kind of hard alcohol, so at least you think you feel better.

As I write my grandparents are throwing my cousin and her fiancé a surprise party. Really sad I’m not there. There will obviously be events and occurrences I miss out on in the next two years, but their wedding is the only one I’m really bummed on. (And the New Moon premiere, of course.) So instead I’m listening to Clair de Lune and having a glass of horrible wine out of a soy milk-/Trader Joe’s soup-like container, and, on top of that, awkwardly hiding it from my host family. I’m afraid they would shun me if they knew I was having a glass (more like a plastic water bottle cut jaggedly in half) of wine, seeing as A, they are not drinkers (refer to my previous posts on their uber-religiousness), and B, I haven’t observed much of a casual, one-can-do-it-alone drinking culture that I associate with wine. So I hide it in my room, like I’m in high school (not that I ever did that, Mom and Dad), even though I am a whole 22 years old and have been of legal drinking age for approximately (exactly) one year and three weeks, which, by the way, makes me the youngest person in my PC class, and a BAMF.

Back to relevant things. This week we had a break from the six-days-a-week class schedule to visit a current volunteer for a few days, see how they live, what projects they’re doing, what their houses are like, and whatnot. I went with 5 other volunteers to a city called Oudeme-Pedah. The ride in and of itself was interesting. There are three types of taxis here: motos, which carry anywhere from one to four adults, many more if there are children, and any amount of baggage that can be held; the 6-person taxi, which is a regular 5 seater car, like the U.S., except that they put 6 people in, not including the driver, and remove the seatbelts, and the gauges don’t work (gas, oil, etc.) which adds to the comfort level; then there is the 9 seater taxi (think bush taxi or tuk tuk) which does not seat any number comfortably and has a wide open back so that it may require an intense tournament of rock-paper-scissors to determine the two individuals who will sit on the seats closest to the road. I sat in between the driver and the tallest guy on the 3 ½ hour ride there, so basically on the emergency brake. And of course all taxis are stick shifts, which compounded the awkwardness.

I lucked out on my visit. Oudeme-Pedah is one of the most beautiful places in Benin and the volunteer we visited happened to have an amazing apartment occupying the second story of the mayor/chief’s house. It was the only second story building in the area (not so safe to do multiple stories with mud bricks), so we had an amazing view of the lake and row upon row of mud houses and tin roofs. This area reminds me a lot of Laos and southern China, some of my favorite places in the world. The weather was perfect and there was a cool breeze all week. Not to mention stunning sunsets and the reflection of the sky in the water’s varying shades of blue and grey and other sappy poetic aspects I’ll leave to my journal.

The lake is beautiful from a distance but horribly dirty up close. Pollution and erosion have seriously dwindled the supply of fish though there are still many fishermen out there in canoes with nets every morning bringing in what they can. The area is very into local religion (voodoo, though its not what you think voodoo is, with the dolls and whatnot). There was drumming and dancing around fires much of the time, including the entire night. They had some pretty efficient shift-changing going on, ensuring that I did not sleep more than one straight hour. One aspect of voodoo is this haystack creature (zambedo) that comes out at night. He’s somewhat of a watchman as I understand, keeper of the night kinda thing. If women see him when he’s out at night it is said that they die soon after, so I think it’s a way of keeping your women in the house. Even though I knows that’s ridiculous, it’s a safe bet to just stay inside and close the blinds to save yourself from the temptation of looking and the scorn of locals. Sometimes he comes out during the day for no other reason than that he’s bored or, most recently, some foreigner is in town and paid to see a “voodoo ceremony.” Some of the voodoo priests/priestesses are distinguishable by white robes. I even saw a few small children, as young as two, in white robes, destined to be priestesses. I’m not sure how they determine that a child will go into that practice but it is certainly determined without consulting them. Some had scarring around their faces and necks also to indicate some sort of local religion importance. The scarring is sometimes hard to look at for us who aren’t used to it. It’s hard for me to see a toddler with scars to indicate familial ties or religious affiliation since they must be cut at a very young age, but for them it is much more akin to circumcision. The child may have no decision, but it is a necessary procedure and better to be done very young. Scarring takes all shapes and patterns; it can be a plus sign on each cheek, twenty tiny vertical lines below the hairline, really anything you can imagine.

Most everything else I have to say will probably continue to confirm your expectations of an African village. Tons of kids were roaming the dirt roads since school is not in session, giving us an audience everywhere we went. Its okay for kids to be naked til a much later age than is appropriate in the U.S., 8 or 10 years old it seems. Most kids were decently fed though all were thin by our standards and some had inflated stomachs like you’ve probably seen on commercials about sponsoring a malnourished child in Africa, characteristic of protein deficiency I think. We spent a lot of time around one such little girl, Dodo, who was three years old but looked and had the mental capacity of a child around 18 months. It was sad to think about how much energy and intelligence my friend Monica’s three-year-old Joseph has in comparison to Dodo. It’s going to be extremely hard once I move to my village and see and play with kids like her on a regular basis. I don’t know how it cannot be personal.

We did a lot of relaxing, napping, reading (I’m on Anna Karenina, love it), and cooking, mostly Beninese meals but we had mac and cheese one night (well as close to it as you can get without refrigerated cheese). I get props from other volunteers for being adventurous with eating the food here, which I legitimately love most of the time. That’s probably not all I’ll get for eating the food if you know what I mean. As far as observing the volunteer’s work, most of what we did was “public relations”: greeting people who are important, checking on people who are ill, visiting village chiefs. This is honestly one of the biggest time commitments of a PCV, especially since when you visit someone they first pass around a cup of water that everyone takes a sip out of, then pass around some sort of alcohol that everyone has to take a shot of (“pour la sante et defendre de la malaria”), then ask about each other’s health, family, friends, their health, and so on. Completely superficial 99% of the time but very necessary. This PCV is coordinating a trash clean up competition between villages, with the winners to be awarded tools, so when we visited many of the chiefs that was the topic of conversation. We didn’t actually discuss details with anyone, most of the “talking” is talking about talking, saying things need to be done and agreeing to do them later. So this was our full day of work: breakfast, a shot of gin with one chief at 11am, lunch, a shot of moonshine and roasted peanuts with another chief at 2pm, a shot of scotch at the last place (he was wealthy to have had scotch), a nap, and dinner. And it is disrespectful to turn anything down one is given. For instance, when we were leaving to go back to the capital one neighbor insisted we stop by for some coco. When we got there he has a dozen kids scaling 40 foot coconut trees, retrieving fruit for his guests, and cutting them open for us to drink out of, then taking the coconuts back and cutting out the meat for us to eat. We each had to eat and drink two entire coconuts, which were huge. Despite the fact that we were all full and I don’t like coconut, and on top of that we were late meeting our ride back, we had to finish each one. Chugging coconut milk is not a good time. I had to pee the entire 3 ½ hour ride thanks to the coconut pusher.

I’m new to blogging but am attempting to use titles and tags from now on, for your viewing pleasure.

I have huge news people! (Did the title give it away?) I now know my post!! In case you forgot or didn’t know, my first two months in Benin are spent with all the other volunteers in the capital, Porto Novo, training. I move to my post, my home for the next two years, on September 26. My very first house! Housewarming gifts can be sent to the address on the right side of this page.

Drumroll please… and my post is… Allassankomé! I know what you’re thinking: “Really?!? Wow, I’m so surprised! You must be… I mean who wouldn’t feel… just… wow.”

Totally joking, you all have no idea where that is. It’s like when I called you so excited and told you I was going to Benin, but even crazier because this place doesn’t have a Wikipedia page.

I have the southern most of all 55 posts. This means:

- I’m practically on the coast, near Benin’s one and only resort city of Grand Popo

- I’m right outside Cotonou, where I can access internet and where the airport is located

- I’ll have loads of fruit and veggies year round (the North isn’t so fortunate)

- I’ll be living and working with the aggressive, colorful people characteristic of Southern Benin (whereas the North is more religious and conservative)

- My mailing address won’t change and I should get packages quickly (shameless plug)

As yet I know nothing about my housing and whether I have electricity or not, or, most importantly, whether there are two strategically placed trees/posts from which to hang a hammock. I’ll update my wish list as necessary when such information becomes available. Allassankomé is a village outside the bigger town of Hevie (one you can actually Google). The details of my job are still hazy but I will be working with Benin’s largest NGO, Bethesda, which has joint projects with the American NGO Mercy Ship. Projects range from promotion of sustainable income for women including commercialization of gardening and environmental products, training of uneducated youth in masonry or weaving (both of which I am a master in, as you are well aware), and encouraging women’s increased participation in development and community. The focus on women and youth was totally unexpected- I couldn’t be happier with my job assignment. There are a few drawbacks to being in the extreme South: the North is supposed to be absolutely gorgeous, less densely populated, and have all the national parks and cool animals and gems like that. Also, I’m a day’s journey from my friends in the North of the country. Sore subject.

Things I forgot to mention that are totally unrelated but that I find amusing:

- There are no trashcans here!! No method of trash disposal. There are impromptu landfills where wild pigs socialize in the middle of things, but nothing organized. I have a trashcan in my house but I have no idea where my family tosses it. My guess is in the neighbor’s yard.

- Malaria really is everywhere. My sister has it. And I have upwards of 40 bites even though I sleep under a net every night, check meticulously for holes, and spray myself religiously. I take my medicine every week but they say 10% of volunteers get malaria every year. A thousand francs ($2) says I will be one of those rogue malaria cases.

- I have officially stopped biting my nails. Nothing kicks a habit like fear of an intenstine-eating disease every time you put your finger in your mouth.

- The Beninese LOVE Celine Dion and Elton John. Then again, who doesn’t?

I'll end with a funny story. Today my domestique pulled me aside, not wanting anyone to see, and pulled out a picture of my friends and me at graduation. She said one of the girls in the house said I gave it to her, and she was upset because she really wanted one. I was totally confused because I never gave anyone a picture and started fretting about people breaking into my room and taking things while I'm gone, but why skip over the Mac and take a grainy picture? Thats when I realized I had thrown that too-grainy-for-my-liking picture away a week ago. A little weird. We were warned about people going through our trash-they say our neighbors will do it at post not because they need things but because they think our trash could be interesting. So in addition to the ring pops, I am giving them each a picture of yours truly (and my roommates because they are all graduation photos) when I move out. Thought you might get a laugh out of it.

I feel the need to recognize a few awesome people who have unknowingly contributed greatly to my life in Benin. I owe my sanity to the following individuals:

-Lynn and L.L. Bean- for giving me and manufacturing an awesome flashlight than has magically evaded Africa’s destructive powers on my possessions.

-Felice- for insisting that I take the copy of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius at your apartment that has provided a much-needed respite from French/Benin/life on numerous occasions.

- Dad- for sending me a battery and charger for the camera that stopped working a mere week into my trip.

On the subject of sending me things, I’ve had several people ask if/how they can send me things. And I’m sure those who have yet to ask were planning on doing so soon. Here’s the sitch: My mailing address is on the right side of my blog. Yes, it’s in Cotonou. Yes, I live in Porto Novo. Yes, send it to Cotonou. Packages take under three weeks to get here (not five months to never, which I previously believed) and letters less. SUPER QUICK!!! I would love anything from anyone. Like a letter would be pee-my-pants-exciting. If you feel inclined to send a package, I would love just about anything that you put one minute of thought into. Here are some suggestions:

- Periodicals- Newsweek, The Economist, The New Yorker, Time

- a French press (can’t believe I didn’t bring one!)

- coffee

- new music

- gum, but in foil type packets where each one is individually wrapped because if not they melt together

- chocolate!!! In small wrappers is best, like fun size

- pictures

- a crossword puzzle book

- bars (Fiber One, Cliff, anything edible)

- anything I can just add water or eggs to and cook

There’s really nothing I need, so don’t feel guilted by this or for not making it on my honorable mention. Every single facebook message or comment, blog comment, email, etc. is greatly appreciated. Honestly, you people make my days. As I said to one friend, its hard to see the bigger picture or feel good about what you’re doing when your biking uphill through sand, after 8 hours of class, mouth full of exhaust, being yelled at and taunted by people of all ages.

On another note, I’ve gotten a lot of questions about what I actually do in class for 44 hours a week. Our time is split into three parts: language, technical, and the other stuff. Language is French for most people like me who came in with not much French, and local language for those who came in near fluent and will need to speak a local language at their site. We are in groups of two to four for language and it’s the class we have the most. We just had language progress interviews so I’m waiting to hear the results of that. I made the mistake of saying in my interview that I watched a movie on my birthday and my interviewer made me attempt to explain the plot of Twilight to her in French. FML.

Our technical sessions are sector specific. So I learn everything an environmental volunteer should know:

- Benin’s environmental problems and government and NGO projects that address them

- Gardening: making seed beds, tree nurseries, what to plant where (this includes watering our garden every day before and after class)

- Making mud stoves (its exactly what it sounds like)

- Starting environmental clubs

- Teaching students about the environment and getting teachers to incorporate it into education

- Composting

- Names, identification, and harvest times of various plants and trees

- Everything about soil and natural fertilizers, including the mineral content of various animal feces including bat guano (Ace Ventura anyone? Coincidentally, bats living in roofs is a common problem, so we have a steady source of natural fertilizer close at hand. The glass is half full yet.)

The “other” portion of our class time covers everything else we need to live and function in Benin:

- culture: norms, gender roles, deciphering gestures, behavior, food, cooking, etc.

- safety: how to avoid/deal with unwanted attention, avoiding and reporting incidents, transportation safety, how to look for a good taxi, using your common sense in general

- bike training: maintenance, oiling, cleaning

- administration: paperwork, getting paid, paperwork, opening bank accounts, more paperwork

- medical: A to Z of diarrhea, filtering water, washing and bleaching fruits and vegetables, malaria, AIDS, bird flu, giarrdea, all illnesses and diseases that we can/might/probably will get.

I’ll stop at the details of the at home stool sample procedure. Bon soir mes amis.

Today is the first of three birthdays in Africa! Here’s how I’m spending it: My parents both called me today to wish me a happy birthday yesterday, which was exciting. There was much talk and hype about a dance party at our trainers’ (PCVs that got here at this time last year or two years ago, that are now training us) house last night but everywhere I go I have to leave early enough to make it home before sundown. No dance party for me. I had to be the first to leave while everyone else was sitting on the rooftop, enjoying the company, the drinks, and the view complete with a stunning West African sunset. But I’m not bitter or anything. So today I woke up at dawn, talked my way out of going to mass (a feat), read my birthday cards (thank you!!!), hand washed my clothes for hours, and had a special lunch with my family. Well with my maman, only she eats with me. The kids don’t eat at the table. They made pate rouge (delicious) and chicken (bought live this morning and killed on the premises), got a cake (no frosting, but also delicious), and hired a photographer (awkward, not gonna lie). They are really into cheesy pretend-like-you’re-blowing-out-the candle or cutting-the-cake for several minutes poses. Can’t wait to see them developed (in a month, if ever). I went to the marche with a friend who you’ll probably hear much more about, Ragan, and am now at the computer room desperately trying to reply to emails. I have to get home now, sunset is approaching. I might treat myself to a movie on my laptop later. I’m sure you can guess which one, at least my Landfair ladies.

Online chatting is kind of out of the question for me since wifi is next to nonexistent and the internet is slow. I have a phone that you can call me with on Skype for cheap. If you want the number, let me know! (I don’t want to put it online.) Weekends are best to call and anytime 5pm to 10pm (8am to 1pm your time). Also, I read all my emails but wasn’t able to respond to any today! Not enough time! So Mom, Dad, Grandma, Kris, Lynn, Kacy, and Rachel, I will write as soon as I can J And I love your comments on here and facebook, but I don’t have time (I mean, I have a ton of time but the internet is soooooo slow) to respond but please keep them coming. I love the updates on your lives and your words of encouragement (too many to name, but you know who you are).

Bonjour mes amis! I hope you are all happy and healthy. I’m just now coming to the end of my first full week of training. Six days a week, 8 to 4:30, not including commute time and extracurriculars like soccer matches and tutoring. I’m exhausted by the time I get home, which is later recently because we trainees have gotten into the habit of stopping at a bouvette for a sucrerie (soda, not so much) or beer (okay, so we never have sucreries) before going home. This serves several purposes: 1) allows for time for it to cool down so our bike ride back isn’t as sweaty, 2) allows us to spend more time bonding as a group, outside of the classroom, 3) we speak French all day which is exhausting and the last thing most of us want to do is go home and speak more French, and 4) we are supporting the local economy. So that last one was a stretch but having one beer before going home truly has magical powers on my frustration threshold. On the way to school, every child who yells yovo or screams the yovo song (yep, there’s a song in the same class as lamb chop’s song that never ends) I want to hurt, but on the way home I reply “Bon soir” in a jovial, sing-songy way to all the previously obnoxious yovo calls. Even biking through the sand doesn’t bug me much. When I return home I am always pleasantly greeted by all members of my host family, several of which always say, in French of course, “How are you? Did you do a little work today?” I never understand this last one. I know it’s a cultural thing, like us saying “Wanna grab a bite to eat?” Obviously one wants more than a bite. Anyway, so they ask if I did a little work and all I can think is “Its 6 pm, I’ve been gone since 7 am. That’s 11 hours. And my back has a sweat imprint from my backpack. So I did, like, a lot of work today, okay?” When my French gets to that level I’ll tell them what’s up.

So when I get home I don’t have much time at all, just have dinner, shower, read a little, and go to bed. Dinner is kind of an affair because my very Catholic family prays before and after dinner. Its inappropriate to leave the table before the second prayer, and though I have excused myself a couple times before, I try not to. The main problem is that the TV, which plays only fuzzy Spanish soap operas dubbed over in French or Necrologie (the TV form of an obituary), is in plain view of the dinner table, which inevitably delays the second prayer. I recently discovered that if I yawn repetitively and rub my eyes repeatedly, they get the hint that I want to go. One of the first in my soon to be burgeoning repertoire of culturally appropriate ways of avoiding confrontation of any kind.

This week was the first time the environment volunteers actually did some manual environmental work. Not my finest moment. I had to make a seed bed in an area that was half soil, half impromptu landfill. First, clearing the trash that was definitely not only on the surface but a couple feet deep, then building up a piece of land with a trench around it to allow for proper water flow. Mine was so bad that my teacher had to redo it for me, in his suit and tie, no joke. So gardening is likely to not be my strong point. I’m an environmentalist of the Nalgene-toting variety, the ones with a mélange of stickers of eco-friendly business and campaigns that say things like “Respect your Mother (Earth).” This stuff is new to me. More stories to follow, I’m sure.

I’ve gotten used to most things here and the culture shock is all but gone. I even went two days without needing to write in my journal, which I take as a good sign, that I’m less in need of coping mechanisms for adjusting to a new lifestyle. I have a routine, which is comforting. There are less shocks and surprises. However, one thing that gets no less shocking is power outages. My house has electricity, but not all the time and only in a couple rooms. When the power goes out, every other day or so, it makes a huge popping noise that I believe to be the apocalypse. There is the inevitable few minutes to get lamps going, during which time I am trying to remember what trial came first in the Left Behind series, then I see my family and am assured that this is not, in fact, the apocalypse. Just West Africa.

My family says my French is improving but I’m constantly frustrated with my progress. Learning a language with the added weight of needing to conduct all your affairs in said language for two years, which will commence in 7 weeks, is intense. And all I want to do when I’m not in class is read and speak in English. Unless I’ve had a beer, in which case I am fully aware of and confident in my stellar ability to speak French, and do so at any chance I get, rapidly and with great pleasure. Purpose #6 of the after-school beer.

Last anecdote for the post, I promise. I have a quote from Martha Washington up on my wall about the greater part of misery or happiness depending on one’s disposition, not circumstances. So when I woke up last night to go to the bathroom and was greeted by a cockroach outside my door- on its back, arms flailing, being attacked by a couple dozen ants much much smaller than it and caving in to these relentless creatures- I was actually pleased to be reminded that many people working together, supporting one another, can conquer an obstacle much greater than themselves. I’ll let that one sink in.

I am writing this from my very own computer!! You people have no idea how exciting this is. Africa has had its way with my electronics. I was sans computer, camera, ipod, and phone til yesterday. And I’m still without camera and ipod but I’ll take .500. I listened to an American song for the first time yesterday since arriving here 10 days ago. You definitely can’t take things for granted here. For instance, I used to be annoyed when my computer was off instead of in sleep mode when I wanted to go online immediately because it takes, like, 30 seconds more and I would need to, for example, see new pictures posted of me on Facebook as soon as possible. Now I walk 40 minutes or ride my bike a hellish route 15 minutes for internet. In a hot room because its extra for the AC computer room. And I don’t make much money so I have to go without lunch if I want internet. (Did anyone buy that? Totally joking.) Anyway, the good news for you people about me having my computer is that I will be posting on my blog all the time. Get excited. Blogging is so therapeutic. Its like communicating to someone who can actually understand me and whom I can understand, because even though its one way I feel as though I can hear your laughs and gasps of awe and see your nods of comprehension and frowns of puzzlement as I tell my stories.

Yesterday was my first market experience. A Beninese market is what you would probably think it would be- a million tiny vendors all selling a few things, tons of tomatoes and itty bitty green and red peppers (I’m talking size of your thumbnail, its adorable), lots of fish and meat, lots of flies on the fish and meat, a TON of people, and constant noise, again, shouts of “yovo!,” honking motos, bickering vendors, playing children. It’s the very definition of sensory overload. I was looking to buy pants because I didn’t bring much and since I’ll be biking to school six days a week skirts and jeans won’t cut it. The few Western clothes they sell are, I’m told, what places like Goodwill could not sell, rejects of the rejects. But here as with anywhere, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I decided to buy fabric instead and my family is going to take me to a seamstress to have stuff made, which will probably take a couple weeks to “nevermind I’ll live with my two pairs of pants.”

Random note: I have seen three albinos in Africa, which I think is astounding. Either something in their genes makes albinoism more common or albinos go unnoticed more in the West, because I think I’ve seen one my whole life. And it was that movie Powder.

Other random note: My family can’t pronounce my name, it comes out somewhere between khyme and came, so half the time they are talking to me I’m not paying attention and the half that I am I can’t understand anyway. It’s not like I can pronounce French any better. I have lot of trouble saying the oldest son’s name. Yesterday at dinner they said we were waiting on Brecin and they asked if I knew who/what that was and I pointed to the sauce on the table. Way off. Samson, Swanson…? Glad I can make people laugh even if it’s unintentional.

I blogged before about what is called the African Gamble and would just like to give an update on that. African Gamble: 2, Kim: 0.

Sunday I went to mass with my family at the crack of dawn. It was still dark when we had to get up and I literally think even the roosters were still sleeping. That will be a first and last for me.

I used sticky tac to spruce up my drab concrete walls and am pretty proud of myself. It’s a collage of all my fave people and a couple quotes. It’s done wonders in lifting my spirit when I need it. I will tell you now there are two posters of Rob Pattinson. Don’t judge.

I came back to training Monday, having not talked to or seen any Americans in over 60 hours, to find out that many of the volunteers live near each other, have families who are friends, or ran into each other at various events and locales. I was clearly jealous and bitter. My life has been school, home, sleep, school, home, sleep, and the occasional play date with Laila, the neighbor’s baby. So yersterday I was able to hang out with people at a bouvette that was central to some of our houses. A bouvette is an outside restaurant/watering hole. They are oftentimes dominated by men, so it’s important to find one where woman hang out too. It took us about two hours to get people and bikes together, and bike the uphill, chaotic street toward the bouvette. I got home a couple hours later than my maman had expected me and, as I should’ve known, she had already called Peace Corps to ask if they knew where I was. I tasted freedom and was quickly reminded that my life here is not like it is in the states. Being unaware, unfamiliar, and largely unable to communicate are substantial vulnerabilities and my maman is not about to have an incident on her watch.

Had pate noire for dinner yesterday. There are three types of pate: blanche (white), rouge (red), and noire (black), and they all taste different and, I think, are made of very different techniques, but all end up in the same texture. It’s mushy like oatmeal so clearly I discard my fork and eat with my hands alone, dipping in a sauce with some type of white meat and an unfamiliar vegetable. By hand I mean right one only, cultural reasons. I’ll eat anything green here, anything that resembles a vegetable, they are hard to come by.

My host family asked when I was going to cook them a meal and I thought it was a joke because I mean I’m certainly a guest in their home but Peace Corps pays them pretty well and its in the job description to cook for me. So I laugh and they laugh because I do, then they say they think Sunday would be good, which is my birthday and the one day of all days I am disinclined to cook. And its sure to be a day long affair, I have to get to the market, find what I want, ensure that it hasn’t been exposed to the elements/bugs/nearby raw meat/etc., argue over the price for everything, wash everything in water that has been filtered and boiled (if we will eat it raw), and then cook. Oy vey.

Thanks for barring with me through my chaotic posts, if anyone made it this far. I have three birthday cards from three very thoughtful people waiting for me to open on Sunday. I look at them every day, you don’t know how much they mean. So thank you in advance J

This is gonna be a long one. Sorry bout it.

They say in Peace Corps you will have some of the highest highs and lowest lows of your life, and sometimes they will seem to happen in the same day. I have definitely found that to be true. Unfortunately right now is one of the times I'm frustrated to tears so I hope my blog post doesn't reflect that much. This is also my first time using a French keyboard so excuse the mistakes. I'm too tired to write a witty, cohesive post, so this is more or less excerpts from my journal. You should be so lucky.

I moved to Porto Novo last Wednesday and into the house of my family d'accueil (host family) where I'll live for two months. It took me days to figure out which of the many people in the house were family, Beninese culture is very collectivist. My maman and papa have 9 kids, 3 of which live with us. Their orphan niece also lives there and we have a domestique who is 15 I think. These are orphans or children of poor families who work in homes in return for a bed and some pay. I'm still figuring out the dynamic with that, it makes me feel weird. She helped me with my laundry and I tried to pay her which apparently was not appropriate. I'm used to people giving me strange looks and laughing at me constantly. Its frustrating but necessary to accept to be able to do this kind of thing. My host maman is a gracious woman, very quiet. She carries herself like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders and would take on more if her family or friends needed it. She is really quiet, maybe tranquil is a better word, and has a low, deep, soothing voice. She and her daughters spend what seems like all day buying and preparing food. I've eaten well at my house, better than the first few days in training. It was near poverty rations and stale bread was the only sure bet for some meals. I heard at our health check up Tuesday a lot of people had lost weight haha. (In all seriousness we did eat enough. And I was not one of the ones to lose weight.) I have to fix my own water- get it from the faucet, filter it overnight, boil it, let it cool, then drink it. Takes some getting used to. I was pretty dehydrated for a few days before getting in the swing of things.

We have class Monday through Saturday from 8 to 4 and I literally feel like an elementary school-er again. I have a huge backpack with loads of books and my maman gives me lunch money every day. The first morning I woke up early-6 am- to run and my maman didn't want me going alone so she woke up all my sisters and made my 9 year old sister run with me in a square less than half the siwze of a track while my other sisters were posted at each corner. Awkward, I felt real bad. But they insisted and now they let me run alone. Which is like my mom letting me run to the end of the street and back at home. I'll post pictures of my room in the next few weeks because I don't have time to explain it.

My school is abuot a 25 minute bike ride from my house. Through sand. Amidst constant screams of yovo! (foreigner), honking motos (yes, we ride on the same small path) spewing exhaust in my face, trash piles with the occassional wild boar, midget goats (they don't have the full-sized ones that we do), with a huge backpack and a tres chic bike helmet, in the heat of the day. The sand is the worst part though. Better than going with my little sister who usually drives me and has road rage.

It is Benin's Independence Day but I dont know if my family is doing anything special. I spent most of the day at the neighbor's who have a baby they love me to hold and take a million pictures of. Her name is Leila and she's stunning. My neighbors loooove to teach me French words and I think petit a petit I will speak it well. They also love to laugh at or with me every second. Earlier we wrapped the baby around my back like the African women do and had me bounce up and down like that to lull her to sleep. They almost peed laughing. Then we spent days looking for a mirror so they could show me how funny I looked avec bebe.

Way too many things to share but most will have to wait for another day and an American keyboard. Love and miss you guys