Hi! I know it's boring to sit and read and I'm a very visual person, so here are some carelessly selected photos to

Grand HoHo! Merry Christmas, everyone! I'm just gtting around to uploading photos from the holiday season and months leading up to it. For Christmas, about 40 of us piled into taxis and headed West to Grand Popo, only of the only "nice" (i.e. touristy) areas of Benin. On the border with Togo, Grand Popo is a stretch of beach lined with little inns and restaurants. I spent less than $50 in three days and came back feeling like I had just taken a cruise. On the beach one day, we happened upon some men who started and NGO collecting turtle eggs and then releasing the hatchlings to protect them from natural predators. It was amazing to see the little guys head back into the ocean, flapping their little flippers into the surf. Smiling, we watched as they disappeared into the sea foam.

Five minutes later, fishermen pulled in their nets right where we had just released the turtles. Horrified, we inquired as to why the NGO had timed the release this way and the only answer the skilled marine biologists could come up with was "No..." as if we hadn't just asked an open ended question.

West Africa wins again.

Fishermen and women pulling in the net in Grand Popo. The catch (hopefully minus the turtles) was then transformed into a delicious meal for us by Mama Lucy, proprietress of the little Inn on the beach where we stayed for the equivalent of about $10/night. This was a fun shot to take because if the fishermen catch you taking their picture they steal your camera and break it, and the thrill of sneaking around with my camera got me thinking about going into investigative photojournalism. Or espionage.

On the way to Grand Popo for Christmas! We sang Christmas carols for the chauffer, who seemed to love it.

Flooding in southern Benin, between Ouidah and Come.

Grand mosque in Niamey.

Women at the well in village. Waiting your turn to pull water can require quite a bit of patience, as the order is socially driven and a crucial part of village politics.

Me with giraffe. We rented a taxi who took us out into the bush, then founda guide help us search for the last wild giraffe herd in West Africa. We ambled after them over the dry grass, trying to be quiet, and it worked well as giraffes dont' seem to spook easily. The kept their distance but weren't particularly scared of us. We saw a three month old baby and roamed around with them for awhile. It was amazing and they were so graceful, excepting when there was something on the ground they were after. To take a drink, they spend awhile sidestepping into a straddle so that their long necks can reach the ground.

Giraffe.

Giraffe.

Giraffe.

Seed and crop stockage huts in Niger. These structures are built to store dry crops for use during the off season. They are built off the ground to prevent rot and to protect from the sun. They are absolutely critical to staving off starvation during the long dry seasons in the desert.

The Niger River basin. I think. Is "basin" the geological term for a river's banks and surrounding low-lying areas? I'm not sure and Google isn't working. Anyway, in the middle of the photo is the mighty Niger.

Donkeys pulling a day's harvest on the long haul back to village.

Little mosque in the middle of the desert. Everywhere you go, mosques are the center of social activities and the call to prayer takes precedence over all else 5 times a day.

A village outside Sadore where ICRISAT collaborates with a womens group on palm fruit production.

At ICRISAT, agricultural research center outside Niamey in Sadore. state of the art facility researching hundreds of varieties of fruits, vegetables and groundnuts in the interest in food security. The goal is to produce seeds which are more effectively cultivated in the harsh Sahelian climate. We toured the facility all day, indlucing the impressively organized seed storage freezers, which store over 75,000 strains of groundnut seeds produced over the past several decades and stored at temps as low as -20 degrees celsius! Their grounds are expansive and include almost every kind of crop imaginable. They develop the seeds and then collaborate with independent womens groups in nearby villages, who cultivate and produce the foods while collecting data at the same time. www.ICRISAT.org for more in you're interested. Tom is a fruit farmer so we went primarily out of interest in his projects at post. He bought some seeds at the end of the day.

At the artisans' welding workshop, where water-pulling mechanisms are welded and distributed. In villages, people use bicycles, mules, whatever they can to pull water from hand-dug wells. These devices make it easier and more efficient to pull water so it is easier physically and more people can pull water on a given day.

Sangare, Associate Peace Corps Director (APCD) for the Agriculture program in Niger, shows how a hand-crank works.

Foot-pump wells. They have stopped using these as much as it is usually the women fetch water. In a country with a 7.2 (yep. 7.2) fertility rate, women are often pregnant and the hard labor of foot pumping can be dangerous during a pregnancy. Especially since the women work up until they give birth and their backbreaking work often masks labor, a trend toward hand-cranks is rising.

Well parts at the NGO before they are distributed.

In Niamey, a regulation-sized olympic pool was built for athletes to train and to host official competitions and meets. Again, typical: they didn't account for the tiling in the blueprints, so the finished product was a pool a few inches short of the regulation standard. It is now used just for recreation. Go, Niger!

Bank of the Niger at sunset.

Me, Tom, Jeff and Scott on the Niger river. Tom is our Northernmost volunteer and is on his third year. He also speaks Djerma (Dendi) so did some crucial translating on our trip. Jeff is my platonic boyfriend and one of my favorite people on Earth. Scott was my closest postmate during my first year of service and just finished here in Benin. I love these people and couldn't have asked for a better travel group.

Me, Tom, Jeff and Scott with the artists who created the batiks behind us. We spend such a great deal of time trying to integrate into our cities and villages in Benin that for Niger, we decided to adopt a strict "Not My Village" policy and to go all-out tourist by taking photos, asking questions and being just as obnoxious as we pleased.

PIZZA! Best pizza I have found on this continent. Not that I've been to that many places here. But still, the cheese makes me so happy.

As a side note, Peace Corps Niger has since been suspended. Two French men were kidnapped by Taureg rebels in Niamey. I'm glad we got a chance to see the country before it was deemed unsafe. I'm also glad it wasn't us. No more travelling in the North!

Arabica gum at the marche in Niamey. It's hardened tree sap and i'm not sure what it's used for. The guy selling it said it could be sucked on like candy but it had NO taste. Maybe boiled with sugar and fruit then re-cooled?

Rock quarry in Kandi at sunset.

Cows in Kandi. Kandicows. Kows.

Rock quarry in Kandi at sunset.

In line for the Thanksgiving feast.

Eddie and Hillary, two top chefs for our Thanksgiving feast in Kandi. Drunken stagiaires killed the bird the night before, but after a night and a day in a cement sack and six hours in a roasting hot taxi, it turned out okay. No one was poisoned.

Cattle market along PK10 between Porto-Novo and Cotonou. Ths was right before Tabaski, when everyone was buying their animals for the big feast.

A field.

Bridget in her village of Toffo.

A Christian monastery in Toffo.

On one of my post visits. This is Laura in Huegbo, pulling water from the well outside her house.

Angele and Qlef, friends from Djigbe, on their visit to my house in Cotonou. I wished they could have stayed longer!!

A fashion show in Cotonou by designer Wemi from Nigeria. I was invited by a friend's work partners from MTN, a multinational West African telecommunications company. It was really neat to see how the designer incorporated traditonal fabrics (Nigerian cotton) into modern style dress. Also it was fnu to get dressed up and go somewhere for a night.

I gave this little girl an apple from my purse. She had never seen one before, nor had most of the women in this remote village. They passed around to about 15 people, each taking a small bite then scowling at me suspiciously. I guess in a world of bananas, mangoes and pineapples, apples are pretty bitter! (They did end up thanking me and asking for another).

On a trip to Savalou to do a survey with CARE. My work partner and I interviewed local health workers and community leaders on common health practices and community resources to determine the root causes of child and maternal mortailty within the commune. Here we are with a womens group in Awaya. The other yovo is Louise, an intern from CARE Denmark who worked with me for 6 months.

A womens group in Kpekpede shows the cases which they use for microfinancing. Each woman contributes the same amout per month, $ 0.50 for example, and then the fund is divided into smaller funds, one for group purchases such as equipment for soy production, one for small loans to women for their childrens' educations or busniess costs, and a small emergency fund for health or natural disaster-related expenses. Loans are repaid with interest, and when I visited each of these two groups had $500-$600 total saved in their cases. Groups have presidents, secretaris and treasurers, each of who holds a key so that the case can only be oened by all three at once. It's a really neat system that has helped women worldwide to open small businesses, receive educations and pay for lifesaving medication for their children.

Our truck became stuck while trying to cross a waterlogged field. It took about 45 minutes and as many people to free us...

...only to become stuck again thirty feet later.

An example of why a relatively simple excursion can turn into an all day trial. Two hours into our morning, we encountered this rain-eroded hole in the road. We turned around and went back to where we started, then found a different road to travel. No lunch that day : ( but you get to see a lot more in a car than you do when you travel by bike.

Some of the kids in a village where we interviewed a womens group. They were particularly enthusiastic singers, so I got out my camera and snapped a few pics.

The roads are kind of a crapshoot, and when obstacles are encountered it can take hours to pass. I sat with Louise, fellow CARE intern, as our male work partners hacked a path around this fallen tree. They also paid for help from two villagers who were passing by with machetes.

Mist coming down the hills in the morning. Savalou is a hilly area in central Benin, known for its views and Gari production.

View of the sunset from the roof of our hotel.

Students work in the fields each morning before school starts. Pictured are primary school students in Savalou.

This woman was boiling manioc to make Gari (manioc flakes that are sprinked on a meal to fill it out) while sitting in the sun on an extremely hot day. In an almost unprecedented gesture of empathy, an old man came over with the branch you see to her right, dug a hole with his machete, and settled it there to provide her with some shade.

Louise, an intern from CARE Denmark researching soy production, storage and transformation. The white bags behind her are filled with dried manioc and tapioca used in cooking.

On the road from Dogbo to Lokogba. I was on the back of a motorcycle and just blindly shooting pics over my shoulder. I liked the way this one turned out: three women returning home from the well with water in large jugs on their heads. The walk was about 1-2 kilometers from their well to village.

Visiting a friend's post in Dogbo where he teaches English. The three neighbor kids were over playing in his livingroom and discovered I had a camera- then really started hamming it up. The little girl in the middle was simply captivating.

Our house! It's on the second of three stories. Our front door opens onto a porch which look out over the tin roofs and trees of the neighborhood. There is also an AMAZING breeze.

Behind the little chair is a bathroom (why do we need a bathroom on the porch? I haven't found out yet). To the right, through the first set of doors, is the livingroom. The second door leads to a hallway which is open to theo utside on both ends and lends itself to a very breezy home, which we love!

The double doors from the porch to the livingroom.

The livingroom, which we haven't figured out how to use yet except for laying on matresses and watching movies on the ceiling (see below).

The hallway from the porch. On the right are Sarah's bedroom, a guest bedroom, then my bedroom. Each has a ceiling fan and own bathroom with toilet and shower!! On the right are doors to the livingroom and kitchen. The floors are difficult to keep clean but are so pretty we don't care.

Guest bedroom/storage space.

Kitchen with sink!! Real coffee happens here every morning!!!

Our glorious kitchen, where we cook delicious meals centered around tomatoes and bread.

The view from the window above the sink.

Sarah's room.

My room: the whole family is here and I wake up to their smiling faces every day!

My bathroom. I'm actually smiling as I type this. Remember what my latrine looked like? Look at this place! There's a sink and a shower and a toilet and I actually feel clean when I bathe here!

My bedroom. The red design I made by taping pieces of cut-out paper to the wall. Under that is a shelf unit that I keep covered in a pagne. I made the picture collage on the wall with photos of family and friends from home. I love my little room. Still working on the bed situation- getting a double mattress from a friend and then buying a bigger frame.

Mantisfriend. He just landed on the porch one night while we were watching a movie, hung around for 1/2 hour then ook off. I wish he'd taken the ants with him...

Rich brought his projector over and we dragged matresses into the livingroom and watched "Up" on the ceiling. What a great movie! I felt that some of the themes were inappropriate for a young audience, however. They probably shouldn't have spent so much time foreshadowing the wife's death at the beginning. Incredibly sad. I'm still going through the grieving proces.

And... exhale.

At the ambassador's house for PSL 23's Swear-In ceremony!

Buying tissue at the marche. (I went with the one on the left. Her right. Our left).

You must pick only one! Choose wisely!

Independence Day: August 1, 2010. Benin's 50th Anniversary. Everyone and their mother was fete-ing!

A nighttime parade outside the restaurant we went to. No one threw candy but they sure did make a lot of noise...

Painting a mural in Tchaada. This one was about how to make your own oral-rehydration solution for treating severe diarrhea. We painted it on a paillote at the high school in Louie's village. Wish I had pics of the finished product: we did ones for malaria and AIDS prevention too!

At a Yoruba wedding in Sakete, about two hours north of Cotonou, pictured here with the bride. It was a lovely fete. I now have a keychain with her and her husband's faces on it.

Well hello again. Been awhile...

I'm now living in cotonou. Sarah and I finally got a home, thus ending my month of living in the bureau. We moved into our second story apartment in the quartier of "Gbegamey." It's a Muslim neighborhood so I've gotten used to waking up to the sounds of praying coming from the mosque and prayer canters. There are cafeterias everywhere, people are friendly, and it's within walking distance from the PC bureau. It's also within walking distance of CARE International, where I now work every day fom 8-noon.

I lovme CARE so far. I officially started last week and work in conction with Paulin Davodoun, an MPH/MD they hired to consult for a new maternal and child health program. It looks like I'll be serving in a research-assistant capacity as we write a new 15-year plan for CARE's health program. Right now I'm assessing the current maternal and child health situations in Benin, compiling statistics to write the basis/justification for the project. In the next couple of weeks I'll start mapping all the projects currently being carried out in Benin by other major and international NGOs, UNICEF, World Bank, etc. and exploring opportunities for partnership. This will also allow us to target areas where there is currently a lack of intervention. Dr. Paulin really seems to have it together and I'm pretty sure he could easily carry this project on his own, but I'm trying to make myself useful and assist him as it is a major undertaking. The most exciting part for me will be writing and carrying out an "enquette," or large scale survey in village to further assess the current child and maternal health situation. This will help to identify both barriers to adequate care and possibilities for improvement. Also, it will get me back into the village scene, which I miss a lot.

So there's a brief update. I spend early afternoons working out (joined a gym!!) and late afternoons at the bureau assisting Geraldine with sorting mail, organizing things, informing the general services assistant, Madelon, of needed repairs and supplies, ordering things, etc. It's just a hodgepodge of random responsibilities that I try to do as they arise... and now that I'm thinking of it, the monthly report is due Monday...

Thigns have quieted down a lot since PSL 21, the stage from the year before us, have returned home to America and the new PSL , 23, are now spending their first couple of weeks at their posts. I've had time to get settled in our house and it's amazing. Sarah and I cook sometimes and other times we go out to eat. Having running water and toilets (!!) is amazing. Life is so much easier in terms of maintenance, but much busier time-wise. I like the anonymity of living in a city, but then, all transactions and greetings are less personal. I miss the community of village. I love belonging to a gym. I miss the lush greenery of the foliage in village. I love the view from the roof on the 4th floor of our building. I miss our little marche every night in village. I love being able to go to a supermarket to buy cheese and wine (though I can't afford to do this very often). I miss my old neighbors and the sense of community in Djigbe. I love meeting people from all over the world in Cotonou. There are pluses and minuses to living in any sized community, and I was very happy in village, but I'm also very happy now (due in no small part to the fact that we make real coffee every morning and eat oatmeal with apples and walnuts on our front porch), Life is good.

One of my favorite girls and I at Camp GLOW.

Onew of the girls presenting our Camp director, Angelina, with flowers on the last day.

Let your light shine!

I seem to be rapidly losing any remaining large motor skills I may have arrived with. I can't even walk down the street without hurting myself. Case in point: the other night I was out with some friends. I went to the bathroom ("bathroom") and on my way back to the table, suddenly found myself face down on the floor. Without warning, a stair had popped up and tripped me. I don't remember how I landed, but in the middle of the night I woke with a splitting headache which was so bad I vomitted. It was scary but the pressure alleviated almost entirely when I sat or stood.

The next day I went to see the PCMO. Dr. asked about what had happened, took my vitals, then checked my reflexes. Then he looked at my face for a few seconds and said "I'm treating your case as an emergency. You will be surprised how quickly things will happen now." He then sprinted- SPRINTED- into his office to make phone calls, leaving me sitting alone on the table and feeling highly disconcerted as I heard phrases like "S.O.S. med-evac" and "very serious case" wafting into the room.

"Is everything okay?" I called to the Dr. in between his frantically placed phone calls to neurologists and PC Washington. "Yes, Kara, just hold still. Stay there. This will happen very fast- you'll see." Was this supposed to reassure me? What was he talking about? I know headaches can be serious business, but emergency medical evacuation? I decided to wait and see; after all, he's the doctor.

After making whatever arrangements he thought necessary- I didn't catch all of them because he was speaking french very quickly and was in the next room- Dr. came running back into the room and reassured me that everything would happen very fast and would be fine. He then looked at my face and gingerly touched his fingertips to each side of my jawbone. "Okay. Looking at you, right now..." he hesitated. "...Are you okay? It just seems that... your face..." Dr. used his hands to indicate something askew and eyed me questioningly. It took a few seconds, but I soon realized what he meant and why he had perceived the situation as so incredible grave. As the answer dawned on me, a smile spread across my concussed face.

"Are you talking about my crooked jaw?"

"Your...?"

"Yeah. It's been like that since childhood. See?" I showed him all my pearly whites in a big, cheesy smile. Then it was Dr.'s turn for the epiphany. I watched as he realized what had happened and slowly began to laugh.

"You mean... oh! Hahahaha. Oh! Your jaw has always been like that. Okay! That is good, I feel much much better. Because, you see, I thought you had fallen and broken your face!"

Later that day, I had a CT scan and- the best part- a BENINESE EEG. Think of every sci-fi movie you've ever seen, then imagine me as the alien. It was like that.

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In other news, we just finished the annual Porto-Novo Camp GLOW- Girls Leading Our World. 49 girls came from around southern Benin and there were about 15 of we PCVs who worked the week. The schedule was rigorous- 6:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m., but probably felt like a break to the girls, who weren't allowed to lift a finger on chores the whole week!! Each day we started with calisthenics, songs or games. All meals were catered and the PCVs took turns with dishes. During they day, we did fieldtrips to a museum and a computer center, held nutrition and reproductive health classes, discussed financial planning and held a career panel with professional women from around southern Benin. We played sports, put on skits and made crafts like bound books and collages. The goal of the camp was to encourage bright young women and girls to stay in school and finish their educations, so at the end of every day we got together in small groups and discussed how the days' lessons pertain to the importance of education. It was really fun and also really good for my french!

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Sarah B. and I didn't get the house I wrote about in the previous blog. We have looked at abouta million of them since and all have fallen through. Hoping to finalize something next week. And that's all I have to report for now!

Some of the girls singing on the bus on the way to da Silva museum in Porto-Novo

Leading calisthenics with Lindsay one morning

Making collages

Learning about HIV/AIDS prevention

Learning proper toothburshing methods

Charlie and Miranna Darr, looking out on their bright future of junk-museum ownership

A very, very old printing press

The girls at the National Assembly, where we went on a tour

Future members of congress

Outside the national assembly

Dance Party!!! We had a DJ come play all the hottest Beninese tunes

Teaching the girls about nutrition. I had them draw pictures and them come put them into fod groups and practice making complete meals

Woo! Nutrition!!

All of us at Camp GLOW: girls, PCVs, and facilitators who came for the opening. AMong them was the United States Ambassador to Benin and our Country Director, Brownie Lee, as well as a representative of the Mayor of Porto-Novo's office

A friendly visitor to the Camp

Well, here I am again. I know it’s been forever since I last wrote but between the computer-crash crisis and life in general, I haven’t thought much about blogging. Since I last wrote several things have happened.

I was selected to work stage, which is the term for Pre Service Learning, the 9-week training period that takes place in country before trainees swear-in as volunteers. I was also picked to work week one, which means I’ll get to go to the airport and greet the volunteers, then spend the first week watching their initial culture shock and answering questions. I will also work week 5, and run the technical sessions on the subjects of maternal care, prenatal care, birthing, post-natal care, and immunizations. This should be interesting considering I would have been better suited for the nutrition and baby-weighing week, but I still have the information from last year and I’m going to be well prepared. I’m so excited for July 16th when they arrive! Welcome PSL 23!!

In April, I applied for the position of Peace Corps Volunteer Leader, interviewed with the administration, and was selected on the basis of the interview and PCV comments. The position of PCVL is to serve as liaison between the volunteers and the administration. I will also manage the workstation and dues fund, help with site development, and provide emotional support to volunteers. I just finished a two-day workshop in Peer Support Network training, which I really enjoyed. I found the part about active listening especially helpful, as it reminded me about my interrupting problem and reignited my motivation to work on that. : )

I resigned from my position with AFAP but am working with them until I move to Cotonou. I helped them outline a program for an Environmental Action volunteer and worked with the EA APCD to place a new volunteer with the NGO. I also helped set up an RCH site in Vakon, a village near mine, with another health NGO called Vie et Reinsertion. I went to talk to them about Peace Corps and our mission and what their roles and responsibilities will be as a host structure. I really enjoyed helping to develop these sites and hope they work out for the volunteers who will be placed in them!

The job of PCVL is technically considered part-time so I will also continue working on community projects with the Beninese. Yesterday, I interviewed for a position with CARE International, an international NGO whose Benin offices are in Cotonou but whose projects span the country. CARE works in conjunction with USAID and is in the process of expanding its projects in country. They will be hiring a consultant to expand their child and maternal health programs, as well as leadership initiatives for young women. I will be working with this consultant to come up with innovative solutions to Benin’s development needs (if it sounds like I am not entirely sure what I will be doing, that is because I am not. But I will let you know as soon as I do!) I sent the director my resume yesterday after the interview, and he responded affirmatively, so it looks like I will definitely be collaborating with CARE! I’m very excited about this change and to become involved with women’s issues.

So I’ve been trying to figure out when I’m going to move to Cotonou. Peace Corps didn’t budget for a PCVL house until FY 2011, which starts in October, but our current PCVL is just interim and already has a full-time job, so she is eager for me to come take over. And I am eager and excited to begin! The solution we came up with is for me to live with another Cotonou volunteer until then. However, I went house hunting with my friend Sarah Binder, who is going to be working here with Catholic Relief Services, and we found one that we LOVED and had to have. So we convinced PC and CRS to share the bill and if everything goes according to plan, we will be moving in July! The house has three bedrooms and two bathrooms, running water and electricity, a kitchen with counters and a sink, a little patio, and a giant tiled living room! It is on the third floor of a large building, and a French couple lives across the hall. There is a little boutique on the bottom floor where we can buy all the staples we need, and, oh! Did I mention there’s a PACIFIC OCEAN at the end of our road? Yep. You can smell the saltwater from our deck. J J J J I can’t get enough. There are a LOT of steps to the process though so we’ll see if it works out.

I’ve also been working on helping organize our annual summer camp for girls, Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World). I finished the banner, designed and ordered our awesome t-shirts, and have been helping has out the last minute details. I’m also going to present on health and nutrition during the camp. I’m planning on including a section on how vitamins and minerals found in fruits and vegetables can help the skin and hair, because what is more important when you’re 15? I’ve got to sell this info! I’m really, really excited about the camp, which is one week and aims to encourage girls to stay in school and finish their educations. The ambassador and PC Country Director are coming to the opening on Sunday. Look for pics in the next blog!

SO. That brings you up to speed on my work life. I came home for a visit last month that was everything I had hoped it would be. I already miss Iowa City, family (Grandmas especially), friends, Frisbee golf, boating, bonfires, driving and Dr. Mario. And good beer. Nicole’s wedding was beautiful and I’m glad I got to be a part of it. Iowa, you’re the shit. Keep being flat and greenish-gold, and I’ll come back to you someday.

Back in Benin… I’ll leave off with a story. Two nights ago I ate out with a couple of friends while watching the world cup (USA! USA! Good luck tomorrow!!!) and we were ready to leave to go back to the hotel where we were staying for our Peer Support Network workshop. None of the Zemidjan drivers seemed to know where we were talking about when we said the name of our hotel. I eventually just gave up and said “Camp Guezo,” the name of Benin’s military camp which happens to be located about ½ km from the hotel. After a pleasant ride, my friends Clay, Jeff and I were dismounting and searching our pockets for change when we heard two Camp Guezo guards yell “AVANCEZ! AVANCEZ!” which, given their tone, translates into “Move your asses- this is military property!” I’ve never had a problem in this area of town before- the houses are nice and finished, the roads are paved, and the gendarme (name of the type of police that use Camp Guezo) are always friendly. But apparently at night things are a little different.

Our zems waited while we looked for their payment. This all happened so fast, or maybe it took forever, I don’t know- it’s a blur and it was night, but all of a sudden, a guard was running across the road. One zem gunned it and got away, but the one who had driven me wasn’t as lucky. The gendarme grabbed the back of the motorcycle, pulled it up onto the sidewalk, and proceeded to beat the shit out of the driver. Yelling things like “What were you thinking!?” the gendarme began to slap and punch the zem driver around the face and head. I tried to protest, “No! We haven’t paid him yet!” but quickly realized, thanks to Jeff and Clay, if I didn’t shut the hell up that would be me instead of the driver. The gendarme guard took off his belt and used it to beat the man’s face. He used his baton and fists. These things were retold to me later, as I'd had my hands over my face and was pacing in circles a couple of meters away, listening to the horrible sounds of bones on flesh. I heard the man’s glasses break and his moto tip over. What seems like minutes but was probably seconds later, the gendarme marched back to his post at the gates of Camp Guezo, my zem stumbled to his feet and got back onto his bike. I ran over and pressed a ten mille bill (about $25) into his hand, whispering “Merci.” He drove off and we walked back to the hotel, me screaming “I HATE BENIN” and not being sure what to make of the situation. Why had this happened? Why didn’t the zems move when the gendarmes told them to? Because they needed their payment from us, however minute (less than a dollars’ worth). Why had the gendarme reacted so violently? Because consequence has to be immediate here. You don’t give tickets and collect fines later. You don’t yell and you don’t go easy because that doesn’t make an impact. The only way to keep order is by swift action and brute force. I’ll remember that next time I need to go somewhere near the camp at night. I’m still kind of traumatized.

Okay, so my storytelling is rusty. I’ll work on that. I’ve been making a list of things to tell you all about, so look for more as the housing situation gets finalized, the new PSL arrives, and Benin keeps... Beninning.

A mother in Hondji feeding her two year old boy the soy and moringa sauce we taught her to prepare. We are tracking his health and are soon going to open another nutritional recuperation center in Hondji, near where I live.

I took this pic in my house. We were burning coals for the hooka and they looked pretty, and then I heard about the winter storms there so this pic is for you, Iowa.

Angele and I in the tissue I got us. We are going to wear it to Azolwisse on Valentine's Day.

Erika, Hannah, Kim, Me, Doug, Jennifer and Laura at Hotel Capitale during stage. I promise, you guys... I work too, I just don't take as many pictures of it.

Sometimes, when we all get together, photo shoots happen. I am rather fond of this one of Jeff and Jackie.

The hospital in Tchaada where Lou works. This is the inpatient room, which is quite nice by Beninese standards. The matresses are intact and there are even mostuito nets!

A desk in the hallway with health cards, which are individuals' health files. Each baby gets one when they are born and nurses and sage-femmes use them to keep track of immunizations, clinic visits, etc.

This is the birthing room. The blue handles are for the women to hold on to and the table is where the baby is cleaned afterward. Part of our job is to facilitate the commencement of nursing, something that is rarely done immediately after birthing in Benin.

The daughter of a woman who cooked for Lou and I when I was visiting Tchaada. They have to put on lots of powder to counter the heat and moisture, and I caught her expression right after her "dusting."

Ivy's birthday/ Rich's housewarming party in Ketou, in the plateau region. I played "Happy Birthday" to Ivy on the amazingly fabulous hot-pink recorder from Lyndi. Woo!

Scott, in the Iowa City shirt he got when we were t-shirt shopping in Cotonou.

Twins!!!!!

UPDATE! After one month in nutritional recuperation in Game, Sunday is doing much better. He had gained weight, and as you can see his muscles are starting to develop. He smiled and clapped right after I snapped this photo.

A one-room thatch primary school in Sakete where our NGO is hoping to build a more solid structure with a grant from the American ambassador.

Me with several AFAP employees in a Cacao grove owned by the Chief of the Arrondissement of Aguidi.

Marc combing my hair in my livingroom.

A family home in the village of Bembe. All the houses are built on stilts because of the water level near the river durign rainy season. This village is near mine and is within walking distance. It's beautiful!

The things that are difficult about maintaining this blog are a) conjuring the self-importance necessary to believe that my ramblings actually matter to people other than me and b) the limited medium of digital photographs and words. I want so badly for you to be able to smell the tropical and sometimes exhaust-clogged air, see the round, dewey greenness of the bulbous papayas, hear the bouncy intonations of the various local languages, taste the spicy couscous and fresh hibiscus juice… I could continue to add up the sensations for you but it wouldn’t amount to the feeling of being here. I can’t give you the first impressions, the fears, the miniscule day-to-day triumphs, firsthand. I’m not even sure if you’d want them. I’m not always sure I do.

There is nothing I can say or do to change the fact that you are going to interpret from an American perspective all of the information that I present. This is limiting only if you want to be Beninese- not really a problem. Enojy the pics, read this if you want… take it at face value. The balance gets trickier once you live here. After six and a half months (yes, I want credit for that half month, damnit!), I’m finding that Peace Corps Volunteers are faced with a fundamental problem of perspective, and it’s not something they warn us about during stage.

Here it is: I said before that having American filters is a problem only if you want to be Beninese. I live in Benin. I work for a program that pushes integration- hard. I am supposed to want to be as Beninese as possible. If If a PCV isn’t “bien integre,” they are missing what is essentially the main point of Peace Corps: we are cultural ambassadors, here to teach and learn from Host Country Nationals (HCNs in PC terms) within the context of the HC culture. In our excitement, as we learn local languages and dress in Nigerian cotton modeles and learn to cook akassa with sauce des legumes, we are filled with pride at our successful integration into Beninese culture. Can you feel the approaching “but”?

BUT: a) we’ll never really be integrated because we’re white and American and b) being really, truly, fully integrated would mean almost necessarily that one would lose his American filters. I’ve stopped noticing a lot of everyday things that are just “wrong,” in American context. They begin to fade, as the background noise of life tends to do no matter where one is. In order to be successful in a place entirely unlike your own, you have to do a serious amount of adapting, and in the process you lose some of who you were. This happens when you realize you don’t have the emotional energy to continue regarding things as “wrong” or “bad,” because the thought of having to do so a) usually obliges one to act, and one can’t act on everything one regards as “bad” or “wrong” in a place that’s entirely new, and b) makes 26 months seems like an impossibly long period of time.

So, you start regarding things as “different” instead of “bad.” That’s good. That’s much easier. That’s what they teach us in elementary school: different does not equal bad. So you let go of a lot of that moral judgment as you spend time in your new country and realize that the current micro-systems are more or less working for people and that they are more or less resistant to change. But noticing things that are different takes a lot of energy, too. This is one reason why people are so exhausted after a long vacation: taking it all in is fun and refreshing, but the process of mentally filing every new stimulus, worldly though it may make you, is tedious and exhausting. A person must either assimilate or wear herself out.

PCVs assimilate. Peace Corps selects us based largely on their determination of our ability to do this upon arrival in the Host Country (HC) and once here, we are bombarded by trainers telling us to integrate, integrate, integrate! As if we had any other choice. But here’s the catch: as your American filters begin to fade and are automatically replaced with Beninese filters, it becomes harder and harder to effect change. It’s easy to have high hopes and ambitions upon arrival, only to have them quickly dashed by the sight of people sleeping the afternoons away, owning domestiques and swindling their NGOs. You assimilate to these things, too, after all your questions are answered “That’s Benin,” or “That’s just the way it is.” It is natural for us to want to be like those around us; we’re social animals. Monkey see, monkey do.

So you do what you can to jive with the environment and your neighbors, passing the days and finding your routine until it becomes the new norm. Then you occasionally look in the mirror to see a card-carrying PETA member who barely bats an eye at the fifteen pigs strapped to the top of the bus or the dozens of chickens with their feet tied together; a bleeding-heart liberal Michael Moore-loving self-proclaimed environmentalist who wants nothing more than to live in a ludicrously climate-controlled house, label herself a moderate (gasp!) and wave her American flag cause that’s right, America IS the best damn country in the world and I have the PROOF; a rural community health volunteer who’s charged with nutritionally recuperating malnourished children but suspects that homo sapiens owe the planet their own voluntary extinction in exchange for the chance we blew.

It’s times like this I ask myself how far I am willing to go. How much of me will I be able to get back? How much am I sacrificing by staying here? Is it my job to create the desire for change? For whom, exactly, is “the greater good?” Am I actually hurting more than helping?

I do know one thing: my ability to make a difference here will come from my will to retain as much of my American perspective as possible while managing to fit in well enough to get some work done. There’s a fine line between integrating into a society and actively rejecting the parts of it you find “different” or “wrong.” This line is called “awareness” and it must be maintained if one is to have a successful experience here. Failing to integrate sufficiently will result in a lack of understanding and you will not be trusted or valued. Total integration will result in immersion to the point of failing to recognize your special status as someone with the organizational tools to improve the quality of life for HCNs. Learning to walk the line is my primary personal goal for successful service here. Knowing exactly where and when to draw the line, however, remains to be seen.

This awareness of awareness, then, leaves me with the option to either a) proceed forward with caution and try to maintain my original ambition and motives for being here while integrating sufficiently to function in Beninese society or b) forget about this blog entry, drink a beer with friends and surrender myself to the Now.

. . .b).

`First shirt I saw upon entering the market yesterday. There was a whole shipment from Iowa City and surrounding area. How weird is that???

The American flag at Obama Beach in Cotonou. It was tattered but made me feel patriotic. USA! USA!

At the entrance to Obama Beach, one of the only maintained beaches in Benin.

In case you missed it...

A goat: either she's extrmeely pregnant or she jsut swallowed a surfboard.

Hannah's village, Toweta. There are about 200 people descended from the same man living in fifty or so mud huts. Hannah's house is the only concrete structure in village.

The village pump in Toweta. As algae forms around the base of it, the men in village lock it up so that women can't pull water fom it until they've cleaned it. Then, the men unlock it. Did someone say "unionize?"

The gang at Christmas. NAdine, in the center, is Hannah's work partner.

The table they set up for Christmas eve dinner. It was so lovely! We ate all kinds of things.

Lyndi, I don't know if you read my blog or not, but this on'es for you. I never saw the antlers again. (Lyndi sent me antlers in a care package and they now live on a convent in --truly-- the middle of nowhere).

Katie, myself and Hannah with our Christmas presents from Kim. Mine was crossword puzzles wrapped in Cosmo magazine paper. WooChristmaswoo!

Nadine dancing with her dog. She treats her animals like children, and they are healthier than any I've seen in Benin.

Happy Hannukah! Matzah Ball soup, Latkehs and appley mush stuff that was DELICIOUS! Hannah and Sarah cooked all day. Kim and I showed up with some bottles of wine, just in time for dinner. Woohannuhakwoo!

I just got two packages: one from my uncle Dave and one from my Dad. Also got one from Aunt Laurie a couple weeks ago. Thanks soooo much everyone! I'm really excited to watch the movies from uncle. I can also buy them here from Nigerians. Totally legit. I'm good to go as far as hair ties, bobby pins, toiletries, etc. I have actually managed to search out spots to find everything I need here, but there are a couple of things I want that aren't available: real coffee (I think there is something like a reuseable camping filter?) and good vitamins. Vitamins don't last long here though because of the heat and moisture so it's a tricky thing. However, the ones they give us are tiny little things with little to no actual vitamins in them. Real coffee would be amazing though. After six months of Nescafe instant coffee. . .

Everything else is still going well. Just got done with a two week IST in Porto Novo. It was semi-productive and mildly interesting but I'm glad to be back at post. I missed my concession. Went to see the Chef du village to discuss starting formation with the women there but he wasn't there. I learned from a neighbor last night why the relationship between my NGO and village deteriorated... AFAP was doing microfinancing with womens' groups there and in short, the women were failing to pay back their money on time so AFAP stopped loaning it to them. The women, in retaliation, decided to stop coming to baby weighings, also run by AFAP. It all comes down to the franc. So, I'm going to try and get things back on track with the baby weighings and health sessions, but I'm staying away from the money stuff. I'll leave that for a SED volunteer. Going to talk to the Chef du village and Chef du arrondissement to get some input and support. Wish me luck!

Community Study: Djigbé/Hozin

RCH PCV CALLAHAN Kara

History of Djigbé/Hozin

(As told to CALLAHAN Kara by BOCO Vitale)

In the middle of the 18th century, three brothers from a village called “Djigbé” in the Adjatado region (near the border of Togo), dissatisfied with the current political state of their village, set out to form a new settlement to the southeast. On their trek, they came to a marshy area that was impassable and called it “Agba Bodji,” meaning “after the great swamp” (the name has since been changed to the french pronunciation “avagboji”). Due to the undesirably wet conditions for settling, the brothers moved on.

The brothers came to another, low-lying area that was covered with snails, snail eggs and snail shells. Wênon, the oldest brother, liked the place and decided to settle there. He named it “Hozin,” meaning “of snails,” but the other two brothers were not as enchanted with it and decided to continue their search. After hiking uphill for about a mile, they came to a large, dry clearing. They named the clearing “Agbagbadji,” meaning “open air.” Ganwa Kponnon, the youngest brother, settled there are founded a vodun center which remains there today, albeit its high walls are only open to a select few. Agbagbadji is in the center of Djigbé and is the namesake of its quartier.

The middle brother, Sinla Madjaholou, traveled slightly farther and founded “Madjavi,” a quartier known today as “Madogon.” Together, the two brothers named their new village “Djigbé,” due to the geographical similarities with their home village. Over the next several decades, many others joined the settlement at Djigbé and the village grew in size. After the turn of the century the village split politically and another village was formed nearby called “Lakéd,” meaning “safe over here.” The village is now known as “Laké.”

The arrondissement came to be known as “Hozin” because when it was determined that a localized government structure was necessary, no one in Djigbé volunteered their land or resources for the project. Those in Hozin did, however, and the arrondissement came to be named after the village. In spite of this, the CEG is named after and located in Djigbé, and the citizens here are very proud of their village.

Places of Interest

The village of Djigbé and its surrounding communities contain numerous sacred sites, including the Sacred Forest of Bèmbé, which can be seen from the road between Bèmbé and Hozin. There are many, many fetishes for various Vodun gods, such as the statue of Heviossa in quartier Gbali, a tribute to the god of thunder, or the justice fetish called “Ogou” (“Gun” in Yoruba). There are also statues depicting commonly held beliefs, such as the statue of two women and a panther. This depicts the belief that if a woman practices infidelity, she will be terrorized by images of dangerous animals both night and day. Nearby there is a vodun fetish house. There are numerous Zangbeto houses in Djigbé, and the Zangbeto in Madogon patrols every night at 23:00 (unless there is a fête). There are over twenty quartiers in Djigbé.

Community Life

No one knows precisely the population of the villages or the arrondissement, as usually the only official census taken is during election season, and then only registered voters aged eighteen and older are taken into account. In 2002 a non-election census was taken which put the total population of Djigbe at 2,816, 1,317 being men and 1,499 being women. The average family had 3.6 children and the total population was 10,076. The average family consists of a mother, father, and four to five children, but this familiar structure becomes muddled when one considers that most men in Benin have two, three, or several wives. Djigbé is no exception and the wealthiest man in town is rumored to have over forty children by a dozen wives. People reside in either cement or mud brick homes. Electricity has been available in the village for about ten years and while most homes have it, there remain many which do not. The system of counters is very political and can be confusing, as many families often hook themselves up to the same counter and it is not uncommon to purchase long lengths of cable to connect a house to a preferable counter, even if it is across town.

If a general issue requiring intervention arises, community members can talk to the chef du village, the chef d’arrondissement in Hozin, or a zangbeto. If a PCV living in Djigbé had a problem, it would be advisable to discuss with their homologue(s), proprietor, work contacts, or whoever else could help them solve it. Community members are very concerned if someone needs help and are always willing to do what they can for that person (this probably applies even more to PCVs than to others).

There is a community development organization, Association de Developpement de Djigbé et Laké (ADDL) which assists with many community projects, including the building of the CEG in Djigbé and providing financial assistance for the maternité et centre de sante there. There are also many NGOs in the surrounding communities which provide assistance in the form of community projects. One such example is Tomorrow’s Children, an orphanage in Djigbé funded by UNICEF, which takes in children in difficult situations and provides vocational training to supplement their formal educations. Borne Fonden is another example of an NGO in the arrondissement which aids mothers and children affected by malnutrition and poverty. It is based in Hozin but works in all six villages of the arrondissement.

The community of Djigbé is affiliated with many religious traditions. Of the Christians, there are Catholics, Evangelicals and Celestials. There are many Muslims, with a mosque at the center of town which can be heard sounding the call to prayer throughout the day. The original spiritual persuasion, Vodun, persists through and has been incorporated into these more modern (to Benin) religions. Belief in witchcraft is very common and is attributed to almost all major events, good or bad. Sorcery is usually blamed for deaths, in addition to (but also secondary to) underlying medical causes. For example, a few years ago a baby choked and suffocated while being force-fed by its mother, but because gavage is a culturally acceptable practice, the death was blamed on witchcraft. The practice of gavage is extremely widespread in Djigbé and there is no stigma attached to it, so sensibilizations aimed at behavior-change would make an excellent primary project for a PCV.

Feeding practices aside, there are also several major holidays which are celebrated in Djigbé. Christmas, New Year, Easter and Tabaski are the big ones. There is a vodun holiday on January tenth celebrated with various displays of magic and followed by a fête (almost all holidays, weddings, funerals, graduations, etc. are celebrated with large fêtes. Deaths, in particular, are marked by loud parades and singing). There are also periodic ceremonies held for other voduns and these are celebrated with dancing and fêtes as well.

Transportation

There are several roads connecting the communities Hozin to one another, but only two main roads in from Porto-Novo. One comes in diagonally from Ouando and goes through Vakon, and one runs perpendicular to the goudron to Porto-Novo. Both are generally passable all year, though immediately following a few days of rain, more time than usual is spent dodging giant puddles. Since motos are the main more of transport, people usually wait until the road is dry or close to it before making the attempt.

Most families in village own at least one moto. There are several motos owned by the families in my concession and because the road is the main byway to Hozin, Hondji and Dangbo, it is very easy to find a zemidjan most days. Sundays and holidays may take longer, but if one is patient, a moto will almost always come within fifteen minutes or so. There is also a chauffeur in town, Ishmael, who goes directly to Cotonou almost every morning, increasing accessibility and cost efficiency. Porto-Novo is about a ten minute moto ride and the cost from Chez Kponou (volunteer’s house) to marché Ouando is 200 cfa, making a variety of foods easily accessible as well.

Safety

The only thing a volunteer in Djigbé could do to increase his or her safety is to watch out for the zangbeto at night. As a woman, I have been warned many times about the potential danger of being caught by the zangbeto. Common sense would indicate locking doors when away or asleep, notifying families in the concession of absences, and going out at night in the company of someone village-savvy. There isn’t much random violence in Djigbé. A few years ago, some students who had come to the area to study agriculture began to have sex with many of the village schoolgirls. When they picked the wrong girl, her particularly aggressive boyfriend decided to get some friends together and show the three newcomers a lesson. There was a large fight and some people were beaten so badly the were hospitalized for weeks. Word spread quickly and after a week, police arrived, taking the aggressors to prison. An incident like this hasn’t happened since.

Violence (as the average American would define it) against children is common but this is violence from an American perspective. Women routinely slap their children, most commonly in the face and head, and hit them with “switches.” This practice may be appalling to an American but is commonplace here, much like gavage. A potential secondary project would be child-rearing practice sensibilizations with the mothers with an emphasis on behavior modification techniques (verbally counting down to punishment to give the child time to adapt his behavior instead of delivering punishment without warning, implementing both negative and positive reinforcement, using reinforcers in placement of punishment, etc). However, the challenge lies in changing perceptions about the harm of physical violence on a child’s psyche, which means shifting a cultural belief with possibly very deep roots.

There is a gerdarmerie in Dangbo, not far from here, and occasionally police pick-up trucks can be seen patrolling the road into town from Porto-Novo. People in Djigbé generally feel safe and are satisfied with the level of protection afforded them by the gendarmerie and zangbeto, though some women have confided that they have more fear than admiration for the zangbeto.

Water and Sanitation

There is a pipe in the volunteer’s concession, chez Kponou, which brings “treated” water from Porto-Novo. The volunteer pays 25 cfa per bidon and the robinet has a lock on it to ensure that others don’t steal water. Because this water is supposedly clean, people do not boil it before drinking it, though recently someone had typhoid fever and diarrhea is not uncommon among children or adults. There are several pumps throughout the village, one in each of the twenty or so quartiers. People use the same water for drinking as for chores. Because the water comes from a variety of sources (wells, pumps, pipes), it is always available. If a pump were to stop working, those who normally use it could go to a pump in another quartier. Water is almost always 25 cfa for a large bowl. People pay before drawing water, and the money goes to the SB (same as for electricity). No one is forbidden from using any of the water sources as long as they pay in advance.

There are latrines in village but they are all private and only some houses have them. Many conessions do not, and these people defecate in the nearby bush. People urinate either in the bush or in the concession. Animals, especially goats and chickens, tend to roam freely throughout the day but some are tied up and let loose to feed or graze only during certain hours.

There is an area where almost everyone puts their trash, in a field right outside the village, and every so often when it gets full, someone sets fire to it. Some people make small, personal trash piles in or around their houses and burn these regularly as well. They burn all types of trash, from natural organic material to plastic (water sachés and black marché sachés). The community is generally clean. People are meticulous about sweeping the yards and roads, so trash is well contained and not of particular concern.

Food and Supplies

There is a marché every night in the village center, though, if someone needs something during the day, everyone knows where the venders live and can just go to their house to purchase something. At Djigbé’s nightly marché, one can purchase soy cheese, tomatoes, onions, pimante, bread, garlic, black pepper, bananas, oranges, pineapples, akassa, maggi cubes, eggs, ice, pasta, rice and a variety of prepared foods. There is also a woman who sells household things like toilet paper, batteries and soap. At nearby Ouando, a person can find literally anything, and though Ouando marché is technically every two days, there are permanent “stores” there that are open every day. There is also a large marché in Hozin every two days, a nightly marché in Vakon as well as a daytime marche in Vakon every two days. Hozin and Vakon alternate and many women go to both of them to vend their goods.

There are boutiques open all the time in village as well where people can find a variety of items ranging from margerine and liquor to hair accessories and beads. There is a season of low production but not a specific season when people are hungrier than normal. There is always food available, it just varies by season.

Income/Business

People work a variety of jobs in the comminuty. Men are menusiers, farmers and moto drivers. They sell cell phone credit, work in buvettes and transport goods. Women prepare food and do transformations for profit, clean their homes and concessions, cook for their families and do most of the other chores associated with household maintenance. They are also responsible for feeding, cleaning and entertaining their children. Some are couturiers or coiffeuses. There are also artisans who make baskets and mats and these can be found in Djigbé’s marché or at Hozin or Ouando.

There is a microfinance organization in Dangbo called CLCAM which distributes loans to women in surrounding areas, and there is a women’s group which meets here monthly to discuss loan arrangements (who is responsible for who in the case of non-payment, for example).

Mais, patate, manioc, beans, rice, cassava, are the main crops are raised in and around the community for both profit and sustenance. Many of the products are transformed and sold at marché. There are mills for processing mais and dry products, and still other mills for processing pimante and vegetables for sauce. There are goats, rabbits and chickens raised for both consumption and profit, cows and pigs for selling at market. In nearby villages Hozin and Vakon, fish are raised for both consumption and sale. The fishery in Vakon is large and well-known in this area. There is a bakery in Hozin which produces a lot of bread for the area.

Schools

There is a CEG (College d’Enseignment, secondary school for first cycle students working on their BPCs) in Djigbé, and primary schools in Hozin, Laké, Akpamé, Djigbé, Tokpa, Hondji. The CEG for second cycle students working on their BACs is located in Dangbo, another arrondissement (and village) in the same commune. Students take bicycles or zemidjans from other villages to attend school there, or, if their families have enough money, take personal motos. There are also two primary schools, one public and one private.

The student to teacher ratio is high at all levels. One young women in her second cycle reported that in her class there are forty-four males and four females studying for their BACs. Students can choose what to specialize in after earning their BPC and they have different teachers for each course (subject).

People stop going to school because they become pregnant, as evidenced by the extreme gender gap in later levels of secondary school. They also quit because of finances (twelve thousand cfa for tuition in second cycle; seventeen mille for first cycle, not including books and transportation). Some students just grow tired of studying and are eager to start working and earning money, or find the rigorous coursework too demanding.

Recreation

There are several recreational activities for residents of Djigbé. Children play everywhere in the village and have toys made from spare auto parts and sticks. There are school sports teams in handball, football and “grimpe” (rope-climbing). There is a soccer field in nearby Laké and another at the primary school in Djigbé. There is a handball court behind Tomorrow’s Children in Djigbé which can also be used for basketball. Both men and women play sports but it is primarily a male activity because women have too much to do at home and less free time, but it a requirement that students take a course in physical education and offer options such as gymnastics and tennis. There are not opportunities for recreation in the house but people do spend a lot of time walking around greeting each other. During school vacations, families take their children to the beaches in Ouidah or Cotonou.

Abandoned Children

A child is considered an orphan in Benin if either parent dies. Because of the structure of the familial economic system, if the father dies, there is no money to pay for food or clothing for the children and if the mother dies, there is no one to look after the children or home. For this reason, if either parent dies, the remaining family must almost always move from the home to live with relatives or, worse yet, disperse to lighten the load on those picking up the slack.

There is an orphanage here in Djigbé, mentioned above. Tomorrow’s Children takes in local orphans, who are generally regarded as a drag on society’s resources and of little value to anyone. If an orphan goes to live with another family or relatives, they may be regarded as equal with the other children or treated like a domestique. It is not uncommon for orphans to experience severe maltreatment, including receiving less food and clothing and carrying a disproportionate amount of the household workload. The orphans at Tomorrow’s Children are given the opportunity to learn trades such as photography, weaving, tailoring and hairstyling but are not provided the resources to attend public school.

Children with disabilities

There is a school for the blind and mute in Porto-Novo but it is doubtful that the average family could afford to send their child there. Instead, a child with a physical disability such as deafness would most likely stay at home with her mother during her school years, and either marry or live out her years doing chores without ever having learned to express herself. Physically disabled people are largely left to their own devices, as rehabilitation and special accommodations are reserved for people of means. I have not seen adaptive equipment such as wheelchairs being used in village.

Mental disabilities are another issue entirely. I have asked several people what services the village provides for children who can’t attend normal classes, giving examples of children with learning disabilities, mental retardation or mental illness and brain injury. No one I have talked to has ever heard of any of these things. Rather than thinking of a child being born with an extra chromosome as disabled, they think of him as cursed. Often it is thought that the child is bringing bad luck into the world or that the mother committed a grave mistake while pregnant. I did not find a definitive answer as to what happens to these children but I have not met anyone who has heard of down syndrome or mental retardation to the best of my knowledge.

There is a man who roams the street in an area near my home. People say he used to have a wife and kids, but that he went crazy one day after eating something cursed by a sorceress or sorcerer. The wife and children moved to Cotonou and the man still lives here. When I asked who cares for him now, I was told “No one, but his wife sends clothes back for him sometimes.” People feel a sense of obligation to family members with disabilities, but that only goes so far. The rest is up to the community, and given the ultimate lack of resources for people with disabilities, often falls far short of adequate care.

Violence

Violence is defined by the community as random acts of aggression committed against innocent victims. Breaking and entering is considered violence; hitting one’s child is not. It is not so much an issue of the physical act committed as it is an issue of who committed it against whom and whether they had that right. The fight mentioned above took place four years ago and large-scale violence is rare in village, however, violence as I personally define it occurs here quite often. People hit children and animals, who often can’t seem to ascertain the cause of the punishment.

If a woman is the victim of sexual assault she can go to one of the hospitals in Porto-Novo or the Centre de Santé at Hozin. There is a maternité in Djigbé staffed only by women, which is open twenty-four hours a day and could assist a recent victim in getting the help she needs. Rape is not commonly reported in Djigbé or in the surrounding communities. It is also not common to see a man hitting a woman here in village. Many people report never having seen this happen.

Host Structure

Although Djigbé has a maternité and a health clinic, and Hozin has the Centre de Santé d’Arrondissement, my host structure is an ONG. I have been in contact with the health centers in my area but will use this space to discuss the goals, projects, services and activities of my ONG, AFAP.

Association Foi á la Providence (AFAP) is an ONG founded in 1987 and officially registered as an ONG in 1994. The objectives include improving living conditions in rural communities, specifically: promoting maternal and infant health, reducing the prevalence of infant and child malnutrition, educating women on the preparation of nutritional meals (enriched foods), promoting the education of orphans, increasing literacy, reducing the prevalence of infectious diseases including HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted infections (STIs), contributing to the quality of life of the population, preventing desertion of children by their parents, promoting revenue-generating activities among rural women and facilitating women’s access to microfinancing.

Community-based services offered by AFAP include tracking pregnant women and nursing babies; tracking the growth of infants and children; recuperating malnourished children; tracking and caring for orphans and vulnerable children; transforming and selling soy-based foods and goods; and literacy programs. Microfinance objectives include teaching short-term revenue-generating activities; transformation of agricultural products; purchase, storage and sale of agricultural products and plant and animal elevage. Right now at the headquarters in Gamé women’s groups are transforming the mais harvest.

My specified duties within the child and maternity health program include weighing babies and children aged zero to five; hosting talk sessions, cooking demonstrations and nutritional recuperations; and holding sensibilisations infectious diseases. Related activities include transforming soy and moringa into useable products, teaching conservation of agricultural produce and installing family gardens. Target groups include children under five ( of which AFAP weighs about 700 each month), orphans, women within reproductive age, the poor and women’s groupements. AFAP serves and estimated 1,700 rural women in 160 groups in sixty villages. Twenty-one of the 407 children taken into AFAP’s charge have tested positive for HIV/AIDS.

There are some difficulties regarding these objectives encountered in a regular basis, including limited access to certain villages during the rainy season, insufficient finances to start new women’s AGR groups, lack of subsidy for orphans including food and sanitation; and lack of means of transporting animatrices (ACs sometimes work in villages far from their own and need at least a bicycle but ideally a motorbike to conduct their programs effectively and efficiently). In reality, funding or the lack thereof affects almost every project undertaken by AFAP and remains a central concern for ours and every other ONG striving to serve the needs of a developing rural population.

I’m starting the second week of IST. We’re staying at a hotel in Porto Novo. It’s exciting, because there are showers, but I’m slightly disappointed that SED and TEFL are being fed while RCH and EA are not. That means street food three times a day, and there isn’t much around here. But there is air conditioning. There are always ups and downs.

It’s strange to be trying to come up with something to share with you at home when new and interesting things happen everyday. I read once that the price of abundance is constant indecision (can’t remember the author. Sorry, author) and that applies here. It’s unclear to me which of these experiences would accurately portray what my life is like, or if that’s even the type of story which should take precedence. What would you like to know?

I fell down some tiled stairs in the rain the other day. Landed on my butt in front of ten people. That was fun, because the ensuing lack of shame indicated I’ve already lost most of my pride through activities like misinterpreting local language, contracting numerous parasites, pooping myself, losing keys and learning life lessons from eight year olds. It’s liberating, really, to realize how insignificant you are and that some people watching you fall on your ass is still in the lower echelons of Embarrassing Moments.

Christmas was wonderful. I spent it in Toweta getting drunk with nuns, so it had all the elements of festivity and religiosity one expects but with elements of the unexpected. For example, the nuns had choreographed hip hop dances to pop music (ask about the video when you next see me). This was not Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act, these were real Beninese nuns in a remote village community in a very isolated setting, so when we asked them if they knew Brittany Murphy had died and one answered “Yeah, cardiac arrest. That was a few days ago…” I was rather bemused.

I spent New Year’s Eve at the host family’s in Porto Novo. We ate, watched TV, drank a little, then I got ready for bed. At midnight, as I was climbing into the sheets, my host sister exclaimed, “But the party’s starting! We’re all about to leave!” I passed out at 12:10 a.m. and left them to it. I heard all seven of them stumble back in at about six a.m. New Year’s Day at post wasn’t much different in terms of me not knowing the routine: people coming to my door all day asking, “Where’s my fete?” and holding out their open palms. I just wished them all a joyous New Year but some persisted. It’s always awkward explaining to someone who doesn’t speak French why you refuse to buy them something. All in all, the holidays went well. I gained the requisite few pounds, thanks in no small part to care packages (thanks, guys!!!) from the states.

Work is going well. I’m learning about a lot of possible funding sources at IST right now. I’m afraid that my ideas for projects are slightly different than my NGO’s. They want me to be in charge of nutritional recuperation and I want to specifically focus on gavage (force-feeding), but I think these two can be combined and tweaked to fit together nicely. I’ve spent the past couple weeks preparing a power point and report about my village which I’ll present here in a couple of days. I’ll put the report up on a separate post here in case any of you are interested in details about Djigbe.

I’m looking forward to seeing all of you in May!

An interesting bug chilling on the window screen. In another life I was an entymologist.

Jeanne chopping up a coconut, given to me by my NGO, with a machete. The kdis in the concession had a lot of fun watching this.

Christmas party in Game. Louise is the one in the middle and I work most closely with her in village. Meg is the volunteer who I replaced (she took a job with Population Services International doing HIV/AIDS work in Cotonou) and she is still in close contact with AFAP.

Handing out bags of beans to celebrate Christmas with original AFAP board and groupement members.

People affiliated with AFAP's headquarters in Game.*************The next two pictures were taken at the nutritional recuperation center at Game. They are pictures of a four year old boy with extreme marasmus, a type of malnutrition in which the body does not receive enough calories (as opposed to kwashiorkor, in which the body receives calories but not enough variety, as in a diet consisting only of rice or tortillas). The boy in the pictures is 4 years old and weighs about 6 kilos (13 lbs). He is staying at the center and being recuperated with soy based meals (for protein) and enriched with powdered moringa leaves (for calcium and vitamins). He is eating a variety of foods, including eggs and vegetables with carbohydrates, starting slowly until his body adjusts to it. He will stay at the center until he is at a healthy weight, but currently he is in very fragile condition. Please be aware the the photos are graphic.***********************************

********These are "before" pictures I took while visiting the center. He is the first case of this severity that I have seen. We invite children to the center when a mother brings them to a monthly baby weighing and we find that they are in the "red zone," meaning that based on their weight-for-age ratio, death is imminent. Usually, she has not brought the child to be weighed for quite some time. If a child is in the yellow zone, or stage 2 malnutrition, we take proactive steps and hold cooking demonstrations to show her how to enrich the food.***After a child is sent home from the nutritional recuperation center, APAF follows up by checking in on the family to ensure the child has not lost the regained weight. Because poverty and lack of access to resources is often a large part of the cause in the first place, many children relapse back into stage 2 or 3 malnutrition after returning home.*********

So, now some happier things. Here is the view from outside the center.

Here is my host sister Liliane, at home in Porto-Novo with her two week old baby, Maurice!!! I took occasion of my visit to share with her the critical important of exclusive breastfeeding. : )

The orphans in Game eating the Christmas cookies I made them. The cookies were ugly but no one complained. Or that the sugar cookies had only half the sugar called for. The kids were grateful for some treats!!

Another beautiful critter resting on the sunny wall of my home. This moth was travelling in a group of three.

Last year, for the christmas fete at the orphanage, the NGO lacked a Santa mask. They had the outfit, but no face. So, someone ran out quikly to find one and this is what they came up with. Yeah. This is the face that gave Christmas presents to orphans last year. In the spirit of Freddie Krueger, Dracula, and the Thing . . Merry Christmas.

Me at the first annual "National Agriculture Day." The office of the minister of agriculture sponsored a contest for groups which conduct transformations of Beninese produce. We work with soy so we set up a booth demonstrating the processes of making everything from clothing dye to food to soap. Our project manager presented to representatives from the minister of agriculture and my NGO won first place, the equivalent of about $300 (or, like, $5, from what I hear of the US economy right now).

Not our main booth, but this one shows the transformation of raw foods into useable products. Palm nuts (vitamin A extravaganza) into palm oil, eg, and the pulp left over from making peanut oil rolled into doughy strips and - what else? - fried.

We just kind of threw out a cornucopia (sp? also, def?) of visual aids belonging to various projects ranging from family planning to nutritional recuperation. On the right is a makeshift scale and some moringa, on the table are bowls of soy in various stages of processing, and on the ground are pineapples, which are make into juice in Game.

The "halftime show," for lack of a better word. A troupe performed traditional dances with agricultural themes: fishing, planting, harvestring etc.

The moon outside my house one night. It was so close you could smell its moon-fumes.

I have not proof-read this blog. Pardon me, please.

There are maybe five gas stations in the country. Really- they are few and far between, and even where “stations” do exist, they consist only of a sleepy man in a rickety wooden chair sitting beside a free-standing pump. That is to say, you can’t go inside and use a flush toilet while deciding between combos and corn nuts (mmm… corn nuts) because there isn’t a building. There were a couple of Texaco stations in Cotonou which have since been closed and probably looted, they weren’t even slightly reminiscent of the gas stations that come to mind upon mention in the states. The solution to this predicament, as probably one in ten people owns a motorbike here, is to “import” (tap a line and smuggle) gas in from Nigeria in large glass bottles and plastic five-gallon jugs strapped to the backs of still more motos. (I was originally supposed to be placed in Game, the site of my NGO’s headquarters, but my APCD [Associate Peace Corps Director] changed her mind upon noting that the headquarters [which consist of an orphanage and health center/maternity ward] were located right on the main road in from Nigeria. For some reason she didn’t think it safe to live a few yards from rusty 1970’s mopeds strapped down with dozens of containers of sloshing gasoline and balancing precariously on partially deflated tires as they hurtle over dusty, rutted roads plagued by potholes and boulders. And she’s right. I’m much safer here in Djigbe living a block from a Zangbeto which, if it sees me out alone at night, will kill me [traditionally; in reality, not so much]). It is thusly distributed throughout the country, becoming more expensive as one moves away from the border. To buy gasoline in Benin, one need only stop at one of the small wooden tables which reside every few hundred yards along the roadside. Upon the table sit old coke bottles and medicine jars full of gas. Behind each table sits a maman or a papan selling it by the litre, usually for about 275 CFA (about 60 cents). This is the only practical way to buy gasoline in Benin, but it’s illegal, so any time a “cop” (used extremely loosely here and as another example of my newfound love of the USA) wants to harass (extort money from) a gas peddler, he can. And yeah, I used “he” intentionally there. So the economy, which is based largely on personal transportation, forces people to either buy and sell gasoline illegally or stay home. And although staying home seems to suit most people just fine, it’s hard to see how a nation can develop when even its most basic needs are hindered by the corrupt system of law enforcement that should be serving it. I know, I know. Corruption in a third world country: shocking, right? It’s not news, but this particular example is new to me, and I find the lack of logic laughable: everybody rides or drives, therefore everyone’s a criminal. America’s War on Drugs, anyone? The Beninese culture is an extremely aggressive, confrontational and violent one. Sometimes I think I would have been much better suited here at age sixteen than I am now. The emotional atmosphere is certainly that of the land of teens. I see adults throwing fits, throwing shoes, throwing down. Shameless displays of foot stomping, scowling and arm-flailing often accompany price discussions. If a child or animal is annoying you, you’re perfectly in line if you beat it with your fists as hard as you physically can. Not only in public, but all the more if you have an audience; there’s a highly theatrical element to the abuse here (it isn’t surprising then that the children and animals play their roles as victims quite well). Desensitization. Acclimation. Habituation. Assimilation. Pick a word: the more time I spend here, the less shocked I am. Maybe it’s critical to my work that I begin to think of these actions as normal and necessary. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’d have to do were I to cling to my American values, including the one of defending one’s values at all costs. Maybe it’s pointless to wonder because now that I have a workable level of French, I understand that it’s futile because most mothers haven’t been to school and the thought of starting over with (desperately tonal) Goun horrifies me. Seriously, what am I supposed to do at a baby weighing when I see a woman punching her child off in the weeds and the only other French speakers are the animatrices, who are busy and who for all I know have no moral qualms with child-punching? If I speak up, my moral objection becomes an issue, everyone belly-laughs like they’re at a (pre-Elf) Will Ferrell movie and I’m left there with my silly American sentimentality like a fool in the rain or a PCV in Benin. I decide to go the work route. Some Good Will Come of This is my mantra. “Your child is very malnourished:” I point to the plot of her child’s weight for age: almost in the red zone. They know what the growth charts mean. They keep them in their home between weighings and are familiar with the colors and range of severity. “Aphoun gploke gbapodo badeya,” the woman translating for me says in Goun. At least, it sounded like it. I didn’t understand a word and she carried on for what seemed like an impossibly long time for translating such a short sentence. Both of the women ended up in laughter, apparently joking about something other than the possible death of her child. The mother is eating rice and beans she bought from a wandering vendor and as she eats her daughter reaches for the food to be met with a swift swat on the arm and a shout of “AHWAWANOPONOUGON!” which I’m assuming means “Stay the hell away from my food you little brat!” but I’m embellishing a little bit because I feel frustrated right now. My point is this: it’s very, very hard to get through to people who don’t already see a problem that needs solving. Sometimes I turn it around in my mind, which isn’t easy but it’s interesting. Do it with me. You’re sitting there at Starbuck’s or at work or just on your porch. Some very, very dark-skinned African woman approaches you and begins to lecture you on the contents of your egg sandwich or cup of coffee. She greets you: “Good morning,“ in a holy-cow-she’s-not-from-around-here accent and waves awkwardly. She tries to be culturally sensitive, albeit rather transparently, as she provides you with unsolicited advice on what you should and shouldn’t eat, explaining politely that although your scientific upbringing was nifty and/or your religious beliefs quaint and nostalgic, there’s also this thing called gris-gris (gree-gree) and your neighbor, who knows exactly how many times your dog pooed on his lawn last week, has most certainly cursed your food so that if you eat it, your dog will die. What do you do? This is so out of context that you are in a bit of a state of shock, but to humor her and because you aren’t sure exactly why she’s here or what she wants from you, you set down the sandwich and finish the conversation as politely and quickly as possible so that when she leaves you can finish your freaking sandwich. It’s like that here. One conversation isn’t going to change behavior. The babies will just be force-fed out of my earshot and people will have conversations about the hilarious yovo, who has never had a baby, giving advice to the pros on how it’s done. But maybe after two years of this, ashift will happen. Best case scenario: I start with anatomy 101. Food groups. Esophageal tract not the same as windpipe but both connected to mouth. Body temperature (baby doesn’t need hat when it’s 40 Celsius). If mothers know how the bodies work they will be better equipped to care for them. I don’t know. I have ideas every day but can’t communicate them and I curse Peace Corps every day for teaching me French instead of Goun. And even then, it’s only an easy target. Worst case scenario: in two years, the babies might be able to run away when mom lurches forward with a tepid bowl of bouille. The bus ride to Cotonou Sunday was interesting, as they usually are. The bus was at least 75 years old and was like a mixed-media contemporary art piece: sheet metal, wood, rubber hosing and chains dangled and clashed in what could scarcely be called a vehicle but for purposes of this story will be referred to as a “bus.” Comfort not being a top priority of the operators of these torture-mobiles, the bus suffered a debilitating lack of shock absorbers- it was like riding in a sleigh made of bricks. This fact wouldn’t be so bad (or unusual) except that there were more than the average 650 people jimmied into the space designed for twelve, as it was Sunday, and that the road to Cotonou from Porto-Novo is riddled with potholes and speed-bumps. It makes for inadvertent intimacy with one’s neighbors, but we’ll get to that. In Benin, annoyance and disdain are expressed by a loud tooth-sucking smack, a sort of exaggerated version of the American “tsk.” As anyone who has ever hurtled over a large, jutting speed bump in a rickety death-trap knows, disdain and the expression thereof is the only available option to those at the mercy of the ruthless and vengeful driver. So every time our bus clanged and jangled its way through a pothole or wobbled and crashed over a speed bump, a wave of lip-smacking tsks would sweep over the heads of its chiropractically-distressed passengers. The tsks would start at the front of the bus and progress toward the back, going in stages as each section was consecutively subjected to the violent thud immediately preceding the bump. They furrowed their brows, rolled their eyes, rolled their heads and scowled in the direction of the driver and at each other as they experienced anew the disappointment that the shocks had not been mysteriously replaced since the last wave of extravagant . Their continued hyperbolic smacking and apparent expectation that it would lead to immediate changes in the anatomy of the bus were what amused me most. In America, we learn early on that doing something which has no result is invariable not worth doing. These buses are anonymous: there are fifty million of them in Benin, most aren’t registered in any sort of way, and the drivers will suffer no consequences if his customers are displeased. Tsking at a bus driver here would be akin to chastising a New York City taxi driver for the gum stuck to the floor of his taxi. Not his problem. They will never see him again and therefore any expressed complaint is completely futile or simply self-serving. Either way, to hear the Beninese smacking after each spine-crushing blow you’d know the true power of an a capella percussion section, or at least feel like you were on hidden camera in the filming of an ad for chewing gum. I took steps to avoid imminent laughter (how “culturally insensitive” would that be?) and took out a book that I keep handy for just such occasions. It was then that the Beninese English student two seats away noticed my book happened to be English as well, leaned over and began reading the back cover. I pretended not to notice and he eventually stopped. Thinking I was in the clear, I absorbed myself in the crescendo to the climax of the Tom Robbins book I’d been saving, leaving the bus entirely and basking in the delight of a Robbins lingual drum-solo when I was yanked violently from my literary haven by the loudly but brokenly spoken “I wish you nice read!” Okay, fine. I’m on it, dude, thanks. I gave the student a polite (if not slightly confused) smile, nodded thanks, and returned to my book. After twenty minutes or so, the man sitting between us got off, at which point the student (whose name, pronounced “monkeys,” is actually spelled Mounkiss) scooted over next to me and began reading over my shoulder. Okay, I thought. He is learning English and although this would normally be invasive, given the fact that I’m on a bus which necessitates being physically entangled with and sitting on the laps of other passengers, anything I bust out is fair game, including this book. I managed to escape once again (Plucky Purcell had just gotten Jesus safely back to the roadside zoo) when I heard my neighbor whispering to me. “…the nation itself is wedded to their aggressive mediocrity…” Oh my god. He was reading aloud. In my ear. I laid the book in my lap, stared at him, then returned to reading with the book angled away from him and toward me, so that I was now facing him with the book positioned directly between our faces. Undeterred, he leaned in even closer, his face next to mine now and almost resting on my shoulder, and, completely forgetting the motive which drove him to whisper during our prior read-along session, began again in a normal speaking voice: “…it is upon their reaction to the discovery of Christ’s body that the future of Western civilization may well rest….” Whether Mounkiss thought he was reading American history or an official religious document remains unclear, but rest assured that despite my own brand of tsking and eye rolling, he was failing utterly to acknowledge my despair and carried on in English, in my ear, as I held the book in my lap (facing him, now; I had given up) and stared out the window, defeated. After trying to justify allowing him to continue and finding it impossible as my blood had reached boiling point and I had no chocolate with which to cool it, I knew some action, any action, must be taken. Mounkiss smiled at me and wished me nice reading again. With a final, gavel-like smack of the lips I dog-eared the page, closed the book like a coffin and gently lowered it into my backpack. Benin wins again. I cast a sickly sweet, wide-eyed grin at my neighbor. “So, you’re a student of English?”

The marche in my village. Every night there is a market in and around these pavillions and across the street from them. Prepared food (rice, beans and bouille), oranges, bananas, pineapples, plantains, tomatoes, garlic/pepper/pimante, fried tofu (when they call soy cheese) and gelatinous wheat/mais/cassava products like akassa are among the things available every night.

Sins for various schools and churches. This is in the center of my village, where the road forms a Y to head to Hozin or Hondji.

A statue of two women and a lion. According to Vodun, if a woman is suspected of cheating on her husband, she enters a house ith only women and looks into a pot of water. If she is innocent, the water will swish. If she is not, the faces of all the men she has cheated with will appear in the pot. If the woman is guilty of cheating, deermined by the non-swishing water, she will see lions everywhere she goes for the rest of her life. So this statue is a tribute to the horrors suffered by women in Benin who have slept with someone other than their husbands. Most men in Benin have two or three wives.

Palm patties drying on the side of a house to later be burned for fire. They squeeze the oil out of palm nuts and then use the remaining pulp to make patties. They smell awful but apparently burn wonderfully.

Not your Iowan cornfield!! That's cassava off on the left, and palm in the background.

A vodun ceremony in village.

The road tp Hozin. I buy phone credit from the little yellow and green "cabine" on the left.

Statues in my village. The one of the left is the God of Thunder and the ones on the right, I forget. Should have done my research but here I am in Cotonou and no one to ask. Guess you'll just have to come to Benin! : )

Hozin or Hondji.

So the pics start with the end of the night first. So shal the story begin. We became rather tipsy from cheap beer and sodabi. I believe there were ten of us in all? It wasw quite a pleasing turnout for living in a country which requires at least 2985647 hours of travel to get anywhere.

Me, Rich, Satin, Kim and Glenna. In clockwise order. I'm holding a watermelon which wasn't. Glenna is a saint. Kim is an animal. Satin was a surprise. Rich isn't rich.

Rich got art-ed while making the crust for pizzas. I put him in charge of this, because he speaks italian.

A REAL pizza. Ohm.

Me, Jackie and Louise, who is an animatrice from a nearby village. I work closely with her weighing babies and giving lessons to mothers about nutrition.

Glenna cooking in my kitchen. Glenna rocks.

Me with the cutest baby ever... again. You've seen her here before and you'll see her again.

This hat belongs to Glenna. It is a fancy hat. It repels bugs, rain, bad karma, salespeople and requests for fashion advice. If you find a hat like this one and send it to me, I will make absolutely positive that something good happens to you sometime down the line. Swear. (Seriously, I need a sun hat. Takers?)

Beachy! Celebrating my birthday (early) in the sand with a Beaufort as the ocean sprays my face: mille francs. Forgetting I am or that there's a beggar sleeping a few feet away or that this sand is gonna stick to me for days because I don't have a shower: priceless!

Woohoo! Beer! Benin! Blast! Bombastic!

Lucy, a neighbor, with the doll Meg gave her and a necklace I made her. She goes all over with that doll tied to her back.

Enjoying the 90 degree, 99% humidity day. I kid you not- we were swimming around my concession looking for air pockets just to breathe...

11/27/09

An American friend who has lived here for a year told me one day, “You know, I love Africa like you love a retarded child.” He didn’t have to explain it to me: a retarded child is completely dependent yet completely charming. The love you feel for him or her is of the purest nature but the inherent desire for improvement is ever present. It’s something you feel guilty about even though you know you aren’t responsible; something you want to change but don’t have the tools for.

Chicken and children. They create the buoyant energy that keeps the village awake and alive during the oppressively hot and humid mid-days. Their footprints intermingle in the dust and tell stories of chases, captures and conquests.

One of the best things you can do in the heat is to go to a cafeteria and order a cold coffee. Coffee beans are impossible to find here, but Nescafe, instant coffee, is everywhere. Cold coffee means a bowl with sweetened condensed milk, instant coffee and ice. You add your water to reach the desired consistency then dip bread in it. It is the most delicious, refreshing thing and I’m becoming addicted. We went for one yesterday and I couldn’t count the flies but I didn’t care. When it’s that hot, you start to see flies as little tiny fans. They are the only things stirring the air and in a humidity-induced haze, you actually start to welcome their incessant nagging at your face, because you can feel the wind from their wings.

I saw a maman force feeding a baby the other day. I ran home, grabbed a spoon, then calmly but purposefully walked over and presented her with it. I said “Pour le bebe” but I knew she didn’t speak French. She nodded and smiled her thanks, tucked the spoon into a nearby bag, then waited for me to leave. When I didn’t, and continued to stand there under pretense of enjoying myself, she gave in and washed and dressed the baby. Having successfully interrupted a force-feeding, I patted myself on the back, despite knowing that no education had taken place. It dawns on me now, however, that next time she will probably just do it somewhere out of my range of sight. I’m going to write a grant to start holding nutrition classes for mothers with infants.

It is impossible to become entirely clean.

I had some other volunteers stay with me over the weekend. Meg made chili and I made oatmeal/banana/M&M cookies. It was amazing. We also went to “Fete de la Biere,” at which one could pay the equivalent of less than a dollar then drink all the beer you wanted- bottles. Of the good stuff, too, not just cheap crappy Beninoise. They had live music and dancing, on a real stage with a real sound system. I have never seen so many Beninese congregated in the same place. We stayed until midnight and had a blast; it reminded me of home.

I’m watching a friend’s cat while she’s up north for a conference. I noticed a roundworm or tapeworm sticking out of her rear the day after she arrived. When I inquired around village about a veterinarian, people became confused, because they know I don’t own a cow and people don’t use vets for kittens here. Kittens either die or they don’t; because they provide no income, they receive no resources. I finally learned of the veterinary clinic in Porto Novo, asked a friend to take us, put Sadie in her makeshift leash, and off we headed. I don’t know if you’ve ever been on a moto hurtling over uneven ground with a feisty kitten (who has been sharpening her claws on my grass mat incessantly since she arrived) in your arms, but I have, and will have the scars to prove it. The clinic experience was ridiculous (they gave her two shots which they would only tell me were for “protection”) and we made it home alive, but Sadie told me that next time she would prefer to just deal with the worms. She snubbed me for awhile but did accept my consolatory offer of dried fish.

My friend Jolene sent me a package which included, among other things, bouncy balls. Word has spread all around the village and I now have kids lined up outside my house asking to do chores for me. Toys = power. Power = laziness. I had one of them do my dishes the other night and the laundry pile is growing… This whole “taking pride in doing everything myself” mentality is getting exhausting. If you want to send something send toys. They make my life so much easier.

I just finished The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien and it was a life-changing experience. I’m going through two to three books a week right now and am in heaven.

I cook most days. On those days which are too hot/long/tiresome for me to cook, I walk to the marche and get beans from the same woman, each time. I also have a banana lady, an orange lady, and a soy cheese lady. Also a tomato/onion./garlic/black pepper lady. Each night they can be found selling their goods in the same place, by the same oil lanterns. It’s easy and comforting and stable. I am happy here. Life is real. I don’t need a treadmill because there are places to walk to. I don’t need free weights because water is heavy. I don’t need a system cleanse because everything I eat is organic, I don’t smoke and my pores are always open. I’m feeling a very natural balance for the first time in my life; the true order of things has been restored and most important of all, there is time to enjoy it.

There are twin babies in my concession. They are eleven months old. I love them. Enough said.

It’s the dry season, although with climate change nobody really knows what that means anymore. If you ask them when the rainy season starts, they will tell you when it used to. It’s throwing off the whole flow of food-production but citizens are largely unaware of the causes, and the smog in the cities remains thick.

I’m coming to the states to visit May 15-31st. Air France has me booked as Monseiur Kara Callahan. I’ll have to figure out how to fix that.

The sunset over fellow volunteer Glenna's village, Azolwisse (spelling?). This is the view from her porch. It's very, very hard not to be jealous.

The valley near Adjoun where much of the regoin's produce is grown.

The river near Adjoun. People bathe in, swim in, do laundry in, haul water from and gaze at the river.

The path along the river in Adjoun. Pictured are Vitale and friend Allinest, who lives there. Adjoun is about 45 minutes North of my village by moto.

I have furniture!!! The couch and table are new. I put my books under the table, then when I go to Cotonou I take all the ones I've read and switch them out at the Peace Corps library. Books in english, woohoo!

HIV/AIDS rapid testing in Lake (lah-kay), the village next to mine. When I did it there were about a hundered teenage boys watching, to see if the Yovo would flinch at the prick, so I smiled, shrugged and said "It was nothing," afterward. They laughed.

A view of the sea at sunset... boats on the horizon.

Right before a graduation ceremony, posing with Vitale's bike and wishing it were mine

Vitale (007)

The beach. The palm trees keep it from all tumbling into the ocean. The small shallow boats are for fishing and I am mystified as to how they control them on the open sea with the little oars they use. The current is so strong that it is difficult to remain standing if you wade in above the knees, but locals dive right in to cool off mid-day. Repairing the knits looks tedious and is very time-consuming. If you do get pulled into the current, I read, you should relax because it won't carry you too far away, it will just take you in a giant loop around the beach. Them you swim in diagonally with the waves. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't drown but I'm not about to find out! I'm content to just splash around on the beach and look for shells.

You can drink a beer and really, really, REALLY let go here. Most relaxing day of my life. Please bear in mind, though, that the life of a Peace Corps Volunteer is very taxing and warrants the receipt of many care packages from home.

A particularly strong wave: Gotcha!

Right outside the concession where my home is. African sunsets are tops!

And then there are fields, forests, and clear blue skies. The variety of landscape here is astonishing and makes exploring fun!

Vitale and Lou take a walk in Tchaada, Lou's village.

The road from my village, Djigbe, to nearby Hozin. This is on the outskirts of my village. The little girl on the left is wearing khaki, the school uniform for all students in Benin.

Me with the cutest baby I have ever seen in my life. Sometimes babies just appear in my house- I swear. Moms get tired of watching them and they just walk in and plop them on my floor, smile, and waltz on out the door, unburdened and breezy. Usually some kids will take the baby before I see the mom again. Babies are less the prized, unique possessions here as we think of them in the states. They are more like communal parasites, to be dealt with until they are completely independent and can take care of themselves, usually around age 2 1/2.

"It's Benin," we tell ourselves over and over again. It's both a spiritual exercise and a realization that becomes less and less shocking with each utterance. It is spiritual in the sense that it takes the place of so many other things a person could exclaim in the ourageous, outlandish situations one finds oneself in almost daily: the 30km trip that ends up taking four hours, smaller quantities of things costing more than their larger counterparts, having conversations in three languages at the same time... these are weak examples and I promise to keep better records of the good ones, but rest assured that when I could justifiably scream and laugh maniacally and pull my hair out and set fire to something with frustration, I'm completely accostomed now to saying to Lou on the phone or myself in my head, "It's Benin." This has become it's own reason and has nullified my original foolhardy desire to try to control anything at all about my circumstances. Others have taken to saying "Wawa": West Africa Wins Again. God, it feels good to give up. Now maybe I can get some work done.

10/25/09

Things are still going well. Still can’t cut chili peppers with my bare hands or my skin catches fire for the next six to twelve hours and I have to sit with my hands in front of a fan, repeatedly dipping them into a bowl of water at my feet and rendering them useless for the rest of the evening. Still studying French, only now I have procured an eight foot blackboard, which is brown and graces my living room wall. Still learning to cook. Still in love with the rain. Still alternating between constipation and diarrhea with an occasional pleasant poop in between If anyone has the time, they can research whether there are long-term effects from being afflicted with giardia for two or more years, because I still have that, too. Third time I’ve taken a stool sample and yep: still got it. Still passing my days mostly in the house, still getting the flow of life without appliances (except my stove and fan, of course) and just learning about Benin. I make cultural faux-pas every day and usually learn I have done so by the imminent raucous laughter. I always join in.

I went to see Louis in Tchaada over the weekend with my friend Vitale. Louis showed us the health center where he works and they may or may not still think he is a doctor. They ask him to do things like sew people up without anesthetic (which doesn’t exist here) and deliver babies. He doesn’t do these things, of course, but he does clean the babies up afterward and gets to witness a lot of really cool stuff. I also met his Chef du arrondissement, which is like a mayor. He gave us cold beer and put on Madonna videos. Amazing!! Lou cooked a delicious meal of rice with yummy tomato sauce, then performed the dance from “High School Musical,” which he adores, in his living room. You HAVE to love Lou. You just have to.

Mosquitoes are ruining my life. Thought I’d throw that in, too.

There is a zit on my face that hasn’t healed in over a month cause I didn’t pop it so it just healed as a hole and now there’s constantly a red scab over it. People are starting to ask me why it’s still there. I tell them I don’t know. I’ve also had a cold for a couple weeks: no coughing, just runny nose. But people in my concession can hear me when I blow my nose (which they think is comically huge) and they are alo starting to worry about that. It’s life in a collectivist community and it’s nice to be cared about, and damn it, I know it’s a compliment when they tell me I’m fat but sometimes it’s hard to know what to say.

I’m still ridiculously happy. With regard to things that go on at home, I do find it difficult to not be a part of some of them. There are moments with my friends and family that I can never get back, but I don’t think I’d trade them for the moments I’m experiencing here. Nope. I’m sure I wouldn’t.

Ongoing Wish List

Here are some things on my wish list if you are just desperate to send me something : )

External disc drive for my laptop! Teehee. Worth a shot.

Bobby pins

Cotton boxers or shorts I can wear around the house or to bed

Mom- my favorite jeans, the express ones. Dark blue. Size 6. Broken zipper. Send them like that and I’ll have the zipper fixed. Shipping might cost a lot but charge it to me. So worth it.

Jelly bellies!!!! My favorite candy. I’m fond of tropical and fruit bowl mixes but would take buttered popcorn and pickle flavors at this juncture. Coconut is my favorite. God, I can taste them!

A case of blue moon (hey, it’s a WISH list)

National Geographic magazine. The last issue I got was in july or august so anything after that would be fantastic!

Decent pens. Seriously. The ones here are pathetic excuses for writing tools. I’d do better with a chisel and some stone slabs.

Contact solution, so when I get my contact I can actually wear it!! I use the complete kind. Though, on the Critical scale, this falls at a mere 6, with jelly bellies and Tom Robbins books at ten and I can’t think of anything to represent zero.

I’m liking drink mixes. The propel ones are yummy, and small so easy to send. Protein mixes are awesome too. So are protein bars, for the matter, but I’m not eating eggs at the moment. . .

Mac n cheese packets! Seriously, buy the mac n cheese, find something else to do with the noodles, and send me the damn packets. I crave cheese and have only had it once in three months!!!!!

Instant mashed potatoes as well. I love love love not having to cook. Sour cream n chive or cheddar cheese.

U.S. stamps to send you letters! We leave them in the office and when someone COSes or goes for a visit they take all the mail to the states, dramatically increasing likelihood of delivery.

Chocolate-- Auntie Laurie sent Godiva which was AMAZING. I’d take anything though!

A Magic Wand (again, I’d like to point out: WISH list)

******Parmesean Cheese****** I think this ranks above jelly bellies, even!!

11/2/09

Happy birthday, Dad! I hope your day was fabulous. Things are going swimmingly on this end. I’m getting to know my village by going for long walks at night, mapping out the pathways and shortcuts, which is what a village mostly consists of. I walk with one or two friends, though I probably wouldn’t feel entirely unsafe walking alone. The moon is so bright here that it illuminates everything like a cool blue streetlamp hovering not miles but mere feet from the ground. It feels like I could reach out and touch it some nights. If I were a child, I would fear it falling to earth and landing on my head. As we trod single file on the narrow footpaths carved through corn and manioc fields, the moon’s rays glint off the perimeter of palm trees which encircle the field. They reflect off the slippery surfaces of giant tropical leaves blooming around us, off the corrugated tin rooftops of the concrete and mud houses as we pass, off of us. Sometimes we dance. Sometimes we sing. We occasionally leap into the plants to safely make way for approaching motorcycles, which rip through the night like thunder. Everyone knows everyone and we stop to talk with people every few minutes: those going to visit someone, returning from market or school, or I try in vain to explain the expression “high on life” but since we’ve been sipping sodabi it sinks in as well as it might. I’m completely in love with life here. Last night it was a full moon and I think I had a life-gasm.

A few days ago we were walking, my two friends and myself, and suddenly we were overtaken by a strange, painful pricking sensation on our legs. We began to slap ourselves and jump and kick as the frequency of the pinches and stabs spread up the skin of our legs. We all had pants on so it was difficult to tell what was causing it, but then we saw in the light of someone’s house the tiny black shadows passing over the tops of our feet. “Fourmis!” Angele cried. We had ants in our pants. Not just a few. Apparently that had crawled up our legs when we’d stopped briefly to chat with some people. We’d had no idea, but we must have been standing on their nest or something. Those little suckers can really bite! They say necessity is the mother of invention; well it was necessary to extricate the ants from our pants and we invented some pretty radical dance moves during the attempt. Needless to say I took a bucket bath the second I got home, but it being after dark, the mosquitoes had their way with me instead. I did indeed feel like a human pincushion as I lay down to sleep that night, but the effects were not lasting, as effects usually aren’t.

Because it is too hot to do much during the day, unless I wished to use up an ungodly amount of water and sunscreen, which I don’t, I spend the time in and around my house, performing maintenance tasks: laundry, dishes, filling water containers and moving water around to various buckets, sweeping, and cooking which, it turns out, takes quite a while to do when you are using real food and fire instead of boxes and microwaves. I’m not saying, however, that there aren’t nights when I would give anything for a damned frozen pizza or some Taco John’s (mmm… Taco Johns. I feel like it’s morally acceptable to crave fast food when it’s far beyond my reach but will probably go back to resenting myself for it when I return to the states in the impossibly far-off future). But if I don’t feel like cooking I can go buy beans, bread, and pineapple on the street and have a delicious meal.

Today I used the foot file that Dad and Jackie sent. I’d never filed my feet before. Almost 27 years: the poor file never knew what hit it. It’s lying unconscious on my bedroom floor right now. Little grooming things like that can change a person’s life, you know. I’m going to pluck my eyebrows for the first time in 5 months for my birthday. On a crazy Saturday night I’m prone to painting my fingernails. Sometimes I even shave my legs!

In spite of the lightheartedness of my average day, which also includes a grueling two-hour French lesson, which I actually enjoy and probably was only inclined to refer to as grueling to elicit reader sympathy, the realities of the comparatively harsh life here continue to hit me. I’ve seen dozens of malnourished kids, some progressed to the state where they will be permanently stunted if not mentally disabled, and that is assuming they survive. Last week I saw a woman sitting outside with her baby and went to sit with them. I then noticed what she was doing: gavage, as it’s called in French, or force-feeding. This is a fairly typical way to initiate a baby to the world of food during the transition from breast, I am told.

The woman was pouring bouille, or porridge, into the baby’s mouth, then holding it closed. The baby, ill from the force feeding, was gagging and coughing, breathing through its nose, untl the mother clamped a finger over the two tiny nostrils. I watched in desperation, paralyzed, as the terrified baby, his fight instinct having failed him repeatedly and unable to flee, figured out to swallow the food in order that he might breathe; waterboarding came to mind. It was one swallow too many, and he vomited immediately afterward while his mother held him by the wrist at arm’s length to avoid getting the vomit on her, or me. She laughed and played with the baby as he continued to scream, giving her what was obviously an expression of “How could you!?”

Before you villainize the mother, however, consider the circumstances in which a person raises a baby. In the cultural context, it makes perfect sense: her mother fed her this way, as did as many previous generations, and they were all healthy enough. I had tried to ask her mid-way through why she didn’t give the baby the breast, but the words came out all jumbled. When I’m speaking French it takes all my concentration and I hadn’t been able to formulate a single concrete thought. All I could do was watch. Afterward I walked home, had a breakdown, called my APCD and mother for moral support, then decided that I’m going to write and memorize exactly what I want to say next time I see this. No mother wants to harm her baby, and though it’s hard to imagine she can’t tell the baby is suffering at being suffocated, tough love is more than an abstract parenting concept in an environment where only the strong survive. They really are doing what they think it best, and since I’ve been told that most mothers in my area think gavage is best, I plan to attempt to offer them alternatives and change at least some minds about the necessity of force feeding.

So while I’m personally happy and healthy, this isn’t true for everyone here, which is why our government is spending up all your tax money for me to do health work here. There really is that there is a lot of work to be done, and though at times the urgency and desperation strike me with such shocking clarity I feel compelled to charge out into the street and shake the first person I see, screaming “What the hell is going on around here?” I constantly remind myself that I have two years, possibly three, in which to effect change and that if it lasts, however miniscule it may have been, I’ll have done my job.

Me after the neighbors spontaneously did my hair on the porch one night. I left them in for three days until my sun-scorched scalp mandated that I take them out.

Me holding Marc and standing next to Angele, who helped do my hair.

Before they did it, I learned how to style my hair with nothing but a fan! (This was a big moment for me so I took a pic sans glasses).

Vitale trying to fix my clock while wearing my glasses.

Angele showing me the "right" (i.e. Beninese/ i.e. salty and oily/ i.e. DELICIOUS) way to make couscous. Every time I cook for the neighbors they make tortured expressions and spit the food into their hands or sneak it to the kids. They HATE sugar here so cookies are a big fail every time.

I wish I could upload more pictures right now but I can't! The connection seems to be crappy, as is normal here. I'm very happy that I received packages today! Going to go back to Djigbe and party like it's Christmas!

10/16/09

Things are fabulous. I’m keeping plenty busy and I haven’t even officially started working yet. I ride my bike to surrounding villages about twice a week to weigh babies with a local animatrice, Louise. My ONG is working in conjunction with a university to collect data on malnourishment. They distribute moringa to mothers in certain areas to enrich their children’s food to see if those babies recuperate more quickly than children who don’t receive moringa. They also have about a billion other projects that I will collaborate on when my French gets to that level. I’m working with a very good tutor but I’m also impatient and just want to be fluent, now!

I’ve mostly just been having fun, to be honest. Hanging out with neighbors, going for walks, etc. I love that the primary basis of social interaction here is not eating, drinking, smoking or go-go-going but just talking. Talking for the sake of talking. People walk around the village and there’s no pressure to look busy, no social construct that commands us to feel and act important. There’s nothing awkward about just sitting with a group of people, even if you have nothing to say. I’m not doing a very good job of describing the social atmosphere here, but suffice it to say it’s very relaxed and I’m enjoying it very much.

My friend Vitale took me to a spiritual center in Porto-Novo in which I am considering becoming a member. It’s completely free and is just a quiet place to meditate in the city. They advocate maintaining a positive karma by refraining from taking lives of other sentient beings (meaning a compulsory vegetarian diet) in addition to refraining from intoxicants (this one will be broken), and speaking the truth. I like the idea of getting better at meditation and congregating with other compassionate people, so I might join, but I’m not fully sold. They maintain that Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed etc were all prophets of God and that God is not external from man but just a word for our inner energy that is harmonious with nature. Sounds closer to what I believe that anything I’ve encountered so far and I don’t have anything to lose by spending time there, so we’ll see.

We went to the beach yesterday. I can’t imagine anything more fun than zipping through the Beninese countryside on a moto and relaxing by the ocean all day. You get the adrenaline from the ride and the peace from the waves, all in one day. We swam, walked, played, talked, ate and then came home and studied French for two hours. It was one of my favorite life-days so far.

Every day is full of new experiences and it seems futile to try to represent the ways in which life is different or my feelings about those differences. Maybe there are too many; maybe I don’t know what they are yet. At any rate, I’ll keep you posted.

(No pics this time cause the connection is terrible and keeps resetting. Sorry!)

Meg and outside the house. We took this one to show to people so they could see that there are two of us. (Most people in village still think that I am Meg).

Children in my home using Slinkies for the first time. Wish there were stairs!!!

All tired out. It was neat when I gave them the slinkies-- two of them for five kids-- and they just sat down and worked it out. Lots of cooperation and no fighting over the slinkies. I only had to intervene when they entangled the slinkies. I like typing slinkies. Slinkies.

Marc and I, chillin'. He was far too busy working on his masterpiece to be bothered with a mere portrait.

This was a tribute for Vi. And all the others in my life who love to play with their food. It took long enough to buy, clean and cut the vegetables that I wasn't ready to be done playing with them yet.

Neighbors hanging out on my porch after a tidal wave of a rainstorm. Angela (pronounced "Angel" is sweeping my porch like a sweetheart.

Everyone wants their picture taken. After Vitale took this he pronounced, "Black and white!"

The one on the right is Vitale, who speaks english and is vegetarian (for ethical reasons! so different for a Beninese). I believe he also fancies having his photo taken : )

Rain in my concession

Marc (pronounced Mock), le petit artist

10/11/09 Things are going great. Love, Kara

Me, at my desk in my livingroom/kitchen. A neighbor wanted to take my pic so... here it is.

A friend in my new home. I have several. I can't figure out if the eyes are on the body or the pudgy appendages protruding from the face...

A room outside my house where I can dry things, store things, hide things or throw things.

An eerie underwater-seeming crawlspace-ish hallway thing behind my house. I'll find a creative use for it. Promise!

Where my water comes from. It's kept locked and I pay 25 CFA a bucket (about 5 cents).

The area connected to my terrace/house where I bathe and wash things. The ledge is for laundry, dishes, or hiding and smoking a secret cigarette.

Another view of the same spot, but the door on the left leads to the room where I dry, store, hide and throw, as well as the hallway-ish place.

My latrine. It looks like a toilet; don't let it fool you.

This picture. Again.

"Take our picture!! Take our picture!!" Some of the neighbor kids whom I am currently teaching how to dance to American rock n' roll.

The area where I take my bucket showers. I typically wear a pagne out here, hang it up so I have some pricavy, bathe, then wear it back inside after it has been warmed by the sun. It's a nice little system and I find it thrilling to shower outside!

The front of my home, leading to livingroom or out back.

My house. From this picture, it would seem that a free-standing structure such as this indicates some level of privacy.It does not.

My concession. There is a heavy, green metal door and high concrete walls, and several structures within. I'm still getting to know everybody's names, and sometime's it's hard to tell who lives in the houses and who just hangs out in them! In due time...

"Take our picture! Take our picture!"

My bedroom, from the armoire's point of view. It's really quite spacious.

My livingroom, from the water filter's point of view. The water filter lives on the table that is my kitchen.

See? Bike, desk, kitchen, pantry, containers for water storage... all wrapped up in BLUE.

My bedroom from the doorway's point of view, and me, in this picture, again.

10/1/09

“Winter is coming,” my twenty-six year-old internal seasonal clock tells my warm, sun-heated body as I bucket-bathe in the enclosed outdoor area of my new home. Then, this being October: “Mark my words, it’ll be here soon.”

“Ooh, yeah. About that- we live on the Equator. This is winter,” quips my frontal lobe, still smarting a little from the recent language-shift bombardments but reveling in the freedom and excitement of its new environment. As if to illustrate this point, a feisty little lizard scuttles loudly across the corrugated tin roof of my latrine and leaps over my head, silhouettes mid-arc as I wince into the sun mid-pour, and lands with a clack! on the ridge of the bricks to my back. After completing his reptilian rainbow, the living dinosaur glares in my direction then scampers off in all his flashy, tropical African-ness.

“Whatever,” replies my once-rhythmic seasonal calendar, hurt but smug, “Just wait; you’ll see.”

Later, when it the sun sets at seven with the sand still steaming, my conned circadian clock will find occasion to say: “Screw you both.”

I love my house. My best friend is leaving. Those are the two most urgent recent developments. First the house: allow me to describe it in all its splendor, because by African, Peace Corps, and my personal standards, it excels most impressively, and the subject is cheerier one with which the reader may commence.

I live in a concession, which is a gathering of several small homes within a perimetric wall. My concrete house is on the left upon entering through the front gate and has a lockable little raised terrace in front. To the left is an outdoor area with a high wall around it where I take my bucket-baths, use the latrine, wash laundry and dishes and burn unusable trash (thought I can slowly feel myself mastering the art of re-use. Today I put another bucket under my body as I showered, collected what runoff I could, and used that to flush the toilet that sets upon my latrine exactly once. So worth it). Straight ahead is are screen and heavy wood doors, both of which lock in about a zillion ways. If someone breaks in, it won’t be through the doors; I guarantee it.

One walks into a spacious living room painted an initially off-putting but quickly redeemed-by-its-vividness cerulean shade of blue. To the left, windows that look onto the douche area, my “kitchen” (table with stove and water filter, bookshelf with ingredients and utensils- more than one needs, as it turns out, as most locals don’t have gas stoves) and my desk. There are two chairs, two large grass mats for guests’ impromptu floor-naps (which are far more frequent than you may be thinking; I’ve already had two. The heat and humidity do not discriminate when choosing time or place of victims’ naps) and straw hand-held brooms for sweeping.

There are two bedrooms, each the same shade of green-crayon that results from the compulsive depiction of grass by an overly-enthusiastic kindergartener. At times, I do feel as if I live in a box of crayolas, but ask yourself where you’d rather abide: a buoyant box of bouncy blues or inside the confines of a can of Killz? In one, I think, you’d drown.

My bed size is just right for one; my mattress makes me yearn for home. Think cardboard stretched thinly over styrofoam. Its gives, but just enough not to kill you. The first time I exhaustedly collapsed upon it I had the wind knocked out of me (but quickly put back into me; thanks, trusty fan!) and the second time, I remembered to fall onto my side. However, just as in the states, this bed eats earplugs like a dryer devours socks, so if you are planning on sending something, noise-cancellers of all sorts are useful. Label them deceptively though, lest the devious Neighborhood Noise Coalition of goats, roosters, children, heavy machinery (that’s right- a mill, I think) and motos intercept them and overthrow my sporadic slumbering once and for all.

My bedroom has a bedside table as well as an armoire which zips to prevent curious critters from chomping my rompers or gobbling my garb. At least, it would serve this purpose if I ever zipped it. My windows look onto other people; that is to say, their yards, in which they are perpetually saute-ing, scrubbing, slathering, slaughtering, scrounging, singing, soldering and sanding (the last being inevitable, as sand constitutes the bulk of one’s yard and life here), and as I shamelessly spy I realize what a huge task I have in either redefining privacy or, more feasibly, discarding the concept altogether.

I haven’t found a use for the other room yet and it currently contains my stashables: suitcases, a small empty box, another mat, and so forth. It also has strung cord for drying my private womanly things and two windows which currently serve to support circulatory airflow when all is stagnate and suffocating. I freaking love it here. The heat is vitalizing, rejuvenating, and certain: my favorite aspect. Even when stifling, it can be counted on-- a sharp contrast to the weather in Iowa which was wont to change faster than a Jehovah’s Witness’s theology at the prospect of a new convert (this being based on a one-time conversation in which I attempted to see in how many dogmatic directions I could lead a door-knocker [many] and is not an attempt to degrade, defraud or defrock any particular Witness of Jehovah).

So it can be said that I love the weather, I love my home and I love my village (Djigbe), which is part of an arrondissement (Hozin) of six small villages within biking distance of one-another. Who knew that by joining Peace Corps I’d get my own two bedroom, 1½ bath (I pee in a bucket at night) house with open floor plan in a gated community? And how is it possible that I have less privacy but more space than I’ve ever had in my whole life? More pertinently, how did it happen that I landed on the exact coordinates of the planet which marked precisely where I needed be, as though Santa Claus had some creepy prior knowledge of my wants and wishes, contracted with Peace Corps and my NGO to have me placed here, and offered me this once-in-a-lifetime, unforgettable, very early Christmas present?

…and why not Ragan? My emotional pillar during stage, my go-to girl for all things joyous and tearful, my rambunctious, outspoken, energetic, empathetic, sensitive, fierce, hilarious counterpart is leaving and because human nature demands “What about me?” I feel the tiniest bit abandoned and lacking without her presence here (however, tangible though it was, she lived about fourteen hours north of me). That being said, I promised her once that if she decided on early termination she wouldn’t have to explain her decision to me, and she doesn’t. I understand. The best thing I can do as her friend is trust that she is making the best decision for herself, support her no matter what, and try not to focus on the fact that I am going to miss the living shit out of her when she’s gone.

My host papa, sister's friend, me, and sister Carole

The woman who taught me French for the first four weeks, Leonie. An inspiration.

Wooo! Volunteers!!!

Atop Hotel Dona in Porto-Novo. Kim, Me, Erika, Miranda, Sarah and Tracie

All of us singers singing the Swearin-In song during the ceremony

View of the sunset from atop a hotel in Porto Novo where we partied a few nights ago Four of us from RCH, sitting together before swearing in. It's customary for everyone in a given sector to wear the same tissue.

View of Porto-Novo from the same rooftop

And another one. Was going a little crazy from the awesome vantage point.

Top of hotel Dona.

All of us after getting messy playing football. This is the soccer field at the school where TEFL and SED trained.

Being silly at a bar near Songhai. I think the American flag on my helmet says it all here...

My host parents. This is the picture I took of them and framed as a parting gift.

9/27/09

It’s been a week of parties and goodbyes, with everyone feeling like we’ve known each other for years and no one wanting to face the impending separation. It has loomed over us like a storm cloud (after reading Tom Robbins I’m too ashamed to even attempt a simile more creative than this) and us without umbrellas. The goodbyes are awkward, because although we know they are temporary, in the relative spectrum of the emotional life of a volunteer, they are permanent; two months has felt like a lifetime, and the next three will mimic eternity. The nature of the coming move to post remains a source of great mystery and expectation. Change and assimilation thereto have become the norms but we’ve braved them together; this is the first time in my life, however, that I will make such a major move alone. For self assurance, /I continue to remind myself that not only do I get to actively choose my reaction to novel cultural stimuli (I’ve decided to enjoy moving to village instead of fearing it), but THIS HAS BEEN DONE BEFORE and this experience, while on a micro level is new to me, on a macro level is completed thousands of times a year by volunteers in dozens of countries. I’m also comforted by the fact that there is no shortage of work to be done here; dormancy is a huge concern for many volunteers but my NGO has about a billion projects going right now so upon continuation of my French studies, I will become involved by increasing degrees. I can’t wait!

Last night we all met at Java Promo to eat, drink and say goodbye. There were hugs, someone cried, and we all headed home for our second-to or last night’s stay at our host families’. I gave presents to my family and thanked them for their hospitality. For maman and papa I had a picture of them, which I had taken before a huge fete when they were dressed to the nines, printed and put it in a frame which I had, because I haven’t seen a place yet to buy them here so figured they were kind of a novelty. Everyone seemed quite pleased, myself included, and we stayed up past midnight talking.

When I entered my room and got settled into bed, no sooner did I close my eyes then the miniature tick, click, squeak-chirp-tick of a Tiny Thing living in my room unsettled me. Going straight to the source of the sound (I have become exceptionally skilled at zeroing in on things using only their ticks and clicks), I unveiled behind my large lockbox what appeared to be a bat in the inadequate lighting. I ran back to the living room to call papa in to help-- he hesitated, it being entirely inappropriate for him to be in my room, especially with me in there too, but I believe the urgency in my request sufficiently prompted him. “Oh, il y a un cafard,” he grumbled upon discerning that the Thing was not a bat but in fact the granddaddy of all cockroaches. Together, voices low and adrenaline high, we pursued Grandpa Roach around the room, over and under furniture and ending on the wall by my bed with a resounding smack rendered by papa with my flipflop. “Qu’est-ce que tu va faire au village quand il y a un cafard?” he asked me, laughing, and truth, I didn’t know what I planned to do during such an encounter with a roach at my new home. I could have sarcastically responded that I planned on not leaving food out on the counters all night long, but sarcasm and biting criticisms are not part of the Beninese dialect or my manners so I shrugged. Back in my room, a baby cockroach scampered out from under a suitcase and realizing that this was my opportunity to start small, I took it. I triumphantly paraded into the living room with my flipflop and beaming, showed papa, who nodded his approval. Thus, it begins. Actually, there is a pretty big one wriggling on its back under my couch right now, and my anti-suffering ethic is torn between the struggling roach and my foundering will to kill it. If I sound cruel, it’s because I live in Benin; I must write for the anti-cafard audience or write nothing at all.

The conatant cries of “yovo” on the street have taken on a life of their own in my mind. Originally, missionaries taught the children the song: “Yovo yovo, bonsoir! Ca va bien? Merci!” in order to foster communication and to encourage the children to use manners; however, it has evolved into something of a taunt, and the word “yovo” which can mean “stranger” or “white” has become the subject of almost every song I ever knew. For example, “yovo yovo yovo, I made you out of clay, yovo yovo yovo, with yovo I shall play” and “happy yovo to you, happy yovo to youuuuu, happy yovo dear yovooo…” and so on. It’s taking over my mind. At least in village I’ll see the same people all the time and I can teach them my name or at least to call me madame instead.

Tomorrow morning, I will go pick my up keys from the AFAP office in Porto-Novo, then move into my new home in a taxi rented by Peace Corps (though AFAP offered to move me in their truck, which I regretfully had to decline). I have a mattress, two gas cans and stove, two suitcases, two backpacks and a few plastic grocery sacks full of couscous, flour, vitamins, spices and stale granola bars. Plus two snickers bars I bought at the supermarche. I’m saving them in case of a meltdown. It is actually very comforting to be moving without all the usual hoopla, and I know that whatever I need here, I will be able to find. Not whatever I want, but that which I need, I will have. This is one of the reasons I joined Peace Corps: it’s the little things here that make one’s world go round. For example, I bought a fan yesterday!!! It is mighty, metallic and majestic. I slept with it aimed at my legs last night and temporarily forgot the stale, slimy, stagnant air I have been swimming through in my sleep for the past nine weeks. I can’t believe what a difference the fan has made in my motivation, my happiness, my outlook on life. I even styled my hair with it this morning, and though the humidity sapped it as soon as I stepped into the sun, it was a wonderful five minutes during which I felt like the American me who had some control over her appearance. The little things are HUGE here.

Next post will have pics of my house. Stay tuned! Knowing that I have a family who cares enough to read this is keeping me going here, so thank you for your support and warm energy-- I can feel it all the way over here (or it could be the equator under my feet) and I love you!

I officially swore in today as a PEace Corps Volunteer! Thus begin two years of service to Benin, provided my body and mind will it. : ) It's a great day. Celebrated with good friends and thai food. Tonight we are all drinking beer and sleeping on a friend's roof.. will be a wonderful night to remember.

Spent the last week drinking too much beer and falling asleep in my sister's bed (in a room I have never entered before) and being horrified, only to find the next day that my family thought it was hilarious. Apparently I underestimated the Beninese appreciation of a good fete.

ALso played a game of "two hand touch" football and had more fun that I have since arriving here. UGh now we're going back to porto novo so no pics this time. Bye!

The view from the van on the way back to Cotonou

Erika snapped a candid shot of me immediately after being attacked by a wave

Kimberly and Ryan (for Kimberly's mom, since I know she reads this- hi Kimberly's mom!)

Detailed view of the carvings on the monument

The Port of No Return monument on the beach at Ouidah

A large tree in the sacred forest

A statue of a voodoo god which also happened to be suffering from an awesome infestation of some kind of small fly...

Remains of a house in the sacred forest

The name of the new language I'm inventing (see below)

Trying not to be eaten by a cheetah at the gate to the sacred forest

I passed my test!!!!! In practical application, this means I can fool an interviewer into believing that I can use 5 different tenses and comprehend well; in reality, it means I practiced a lot and still don't function very well on the street. They don't really even speak French here; they speak Beninese. TOTALLY different.

The view from where I lay outside in between classes at school

We tried Sodabi for the first time right after our language exams... not as bad as I'd thought! Sadly, it didn't have the same effect on me that it had on Lou....

9-18-09

Big news: I passed my final French interview with flying colors!!! I had only to reach intermediate-mid to be sworn-in, but I reached intermediate-high!! My facilitator was so happy, he kissed my hand. Having a rather large brewski immediately preceeding the interview could only have helped matters. Passing the exam was a personal goal I had set for myself and I did devote a lot of energy (if not time) to improving my speaking; comprehension still leaves much to be desired. I can proudly report that I may, quite possibly, know more French than anyone in my village because the local language there is Goun, not French, and I needed a translator for all communication while I was there. The bright side is, possibly soon I will be able to understand my translator when he translates from the Goun into French. In due time.

This morning I will begin to learn Goun. Then, on September 26th, armed with a weeks worth of classes, I will descend upon my village with a pitiful pittance of vocabulary with which to buy groceries and supplies, not to mention greeting strangers and getting to know my neighbors. Or teaching lessons on health, having clothes made, or traveling. The grammar rules of Goun, I have heard, are completely nuts and it is much harder to learn than French. I can’t possibly imagine. We’ll see how much I’ve picked up after two years. In due time.

This morning, we are giving sensibilizations to grade school kids on various health topics. My group of five volunteers will present on diarrhea, specifically the causes, preventions and treatments thereof. We are focusing mainly on hand washing and using oral rehydration soluntion (ORS), and will be teaching them to make their own ORS in case their parents can’t afford it. I’m a little self-conscious today: still bloated from my second (or ninth? who’s counting) bout with giardia, my contact lenses which arrived -finally!- from the states didn’t fit so I’m back in my glasses and I’m pmsing which means it’s connects-the-dots-on-Kara’s-face time again. If I can’t pass off this googly-eyed zit I call my face as an authority on all matters health related, I’ll resort to plan B and just sing to them. They love that. Mission accomplished.

The contacts lenses: they are the wrong fit or something. I know this because mid-day yesterday I began to notice things were quite foggy in the eye with the new lens in it. By the time I took them out last night, I felt like I was in living in a cloud (which is not entirely untrue with the humidity here) but the problem wasn’t corrected upon removal of the lens. For the next hour, every time I looked directly at a light it appeared surrounded by circular rainbows and clouds. It sounds pretty, but I assure you, it wasn’t. So mom used her entire birthday literally saving my life making phone calls to the eye doctor and to my uncle whose friend is an optometrist and such things as that. Of course, it cleared up on its own, as these things often do, but it was a nice change to feel dependent upon someone whose help I actually want instead of strangers and host families. I’m so over that. Bring it on, Djigbe!

9/18/09

Went searching for a newer, stronger brand of vice today after my first Goun lesson, which was 360 minutes of information rolled into twenty. Okay, it wasn’t as bad as I want you to believe, but doesn’t my compulsion toward a victim complex indicate the severity of my situation? After the exhilaration of soaring past yesterday’s French exam, my newfound linguistic wings were brutally bludgeoned by an obscure West-African tonal tongue and I’m still smarting from it. The mournful reality of starting the entire process again has come as a shock to my system and has not fully sunk in. My discouragement at humankind’s crippling dependency on verbal communication grows evermore as I consider that there are over 170 trillion local dialects in Benin. Actually, there are about sixty; Djigbe is three miles from francophone Porto-Novo, a mere bike’s ride, but French is seldom spoken in village. I have decided to create a language of my own in which facial expression is the only component and conveying meaning is as simple as an eyebrow twitch or the voluntary dimpling of one’s cheek. We have, what? about a zillion facial muscles? Certainly there are enough of them that the near infinite combinations of their flexing would produce sufficient variation for vocabulary. Thus sequenced use of the vocabulary would form sentences and would spare homo sapeins the pain of using traditional universal sign language (for those of us who are too lazy to employ our hands for this purpose) or of --GOD FORBID-- trying to learn a West African tonal language. The forehead would be used for expressing tense, eyes for emotion, lips for wrapping up the nouns. Ears could handle pronouns, cheeks adjectives and eyebrows onomatopoeia. A surprising fringe benefit is that through all of the smiling, twitching, winking and furrowing, we would utilize our facial muscles to a degree in which we would all become tighter, firmer and smoother in those areas of the visage where beauty lies, thus eliminating the need for botox or other such measures taken against the inevitability of time. If you’re only as old as you feel, we’d all live forever. An aesthetically pleasing populace is essential to the success of any newly contrived language, to be sure, as beauty inspires jealousy or admiration and hence mimicry. Once my language has been sufficiently propagated that native speakers will want to recount the fabulousness of its inventor, those in the know will make the very face I did while conceptualizing it, and this expression will assume the portrayal of both my name and the official name of the language in reference. The names of the speakers will be inherent in the faces they are born with and will be more unique and descriptive than any spoken name ever could, as those of us who never forget a face already know, and reference to an individual will be made through wildly entertaining attempts to scrunch, twist, stretch and contort one’s face into that of the subject of conversation. Vocalization will be reserved for only those utterances which are instinctive and reflexive, such as laughter, yawning and sobbing; these will resound from preserved vocal chords with such purity and beauty that those with exhausted, worn-out larynxes may not possess the ability or integrity to attune to such frequencies. I am attaching a picture of the name by which said language shall henceforth be referred, and invite you to join me in my quest for a revolutionary new linguistic order. I now commence falling asleep to dream in pictures of things to come. Goodnight!

9/20/09

I traveled to Ouidah, a former slave port, yesterday with the other stagiaires. We broke into groups and toured a nearby sacred forest where voodoo ceremonies are held: the higher the status of the participant, the farther into the forest they may go. As a bunch of American kids, we of course were only allowed to see the museum part but it was nonetheless interesting. We then toured the fort area where slaves were held between capture and export. We saw actual pieces of chain used to bind them together. We learned how tightly they were packed onto the ships and how before being sent away, extreme measures were taken to psychologically damage and confuse them because an America-bound slave with a sense of African identity would be no good to anyone. At night, the women were made to sleep on their backs and men on their stomachs, to allow slave captains to rape them with greater ease. The logic of the captains escapes me; by engaging in sex with the captives weren’t they acknowledging them as human? HOW DID ANYBODY EVER JUSTIFY THIS? There was a large museum with much space devoted to visual depictions of the lives of slaves. I found it stirring and left feeling entirely depressed, guilty, and mad at Europe.

Afterward, we went to the beach. There is a large monument there called the Port of No Return, where slaves used to pass to board the ships. The side facing back toward land is called the Port of Return, where slaves were said to pass back into their homeland as spirits after dying in other countries. The monument seemed to be a huge tourist site, as there were busses and vendors everywhere.

We were able to walk down to the beach and dip our feet into the ocean but the current here precludes one from swimming. Apparently the riptide will have you 100 meters out before you can say “Hey, why aren’t there any lifeguards in Benin?” The whole beach slants at a dramatic angle toward the waves that batter it, sloping downward and pulling everything toward it. I felt a strange gravitational pull toward the waves that was entrancing and frightening, and wondered how many people have drowned here. The waves were of a different nature than those of tranquil, lazy beaches I have been to in the past. I stood where I thought only my feet would get wet but ended up being violently splashed all the way up my skirt. I rode the two hours home sopping wet and smiling.

The ride home was a sandy road that ran right along the beach all the way back to Cotonou. We saw palm plantations, a place for camping, tiny fishing boats out on the water and small villages build from thatch right on the beach eliciting cries of “I want to work in THAT village!!!” from all of us. I hadn’t ever seen an ocean culture that wasn’t based on tourism and found it fascinating. Upon returning home, I drank bad beer with good friends and marveled at my luck over having been handed an opportunity like this.

In one week I will be living in my village and everything will change.

A picture I took at the orphanage in Game, near Sakete. The birds were so pretty and were obviously a couple, as they did everything together.

Pictures: Lou and I at the party last night at Java Promo, a "Fancy" restaurant in Benin. I ate what amounted to campbells veg soup on couscous, but it was good; all of us at Java Promo; Hannah drinking a beer and looking so pretty at a bar near our school; my favotire article of clothing I've had made here- a full length modele with huge flowers on it (I don't have a mirror so I set my camera in my windowsill and take autoshots with it when I really want to see what I look like. Usually they are promptly deleted); Erika and I at the same bar; Ragan cutting her birthday cake; Lisa and I with the cake before we surprised Ragan at school; me baking in my family's kitchen; another angle of my moto helmet, my favotire work in progress. 9/1/09It occurs to me now that I haven’t really provided a breakdown of what it is that I actually do here, for the time being, Six days a week I wake at seven. I immediately tense in case there is a cockroach on me somewhere that I haven’t sensed yet. When the coast is clear, I roll out from under the mosquito net and get started.

I either take a full shower and wash my hair or just take a bucket shower and wash my body. This will change when I get to post and don’t have a shower; then it’ll be buckets every day and hair when I feel like it. I eat a little bread with peanut butter or fruit preserves, and some fresh fruit, and drink a cup of Lipton tea. All these things can be bought here. I walk about two blocks to my school, which is a bunch of one story open buildings, one room deep, arranged in a square around a large courtyard full of palm trees. There is a flush toilet and sink there and some soccer fields. There are latrines too but I usually don’t use them.

I train mostly with other RCH volunteers but the EA (Environmental Action) volunteers train there as well. There are about 25 of us that meet there every day. The other two sectors, TEFL and Small Enterprise/IT volunteers, train together across town. A typical day looks like this: language from 8-10, break 10-10:30 to putter around on the street and buy snacks, technical training from 10:30-12:30, break for lunch til 13:30, language til 15:00, then cross cultural, peer support network, health and safety, or other training from 15:15-16:15. Some days I tutor 1:1 with a facilitator for an hour after class.

Language is amazing (technical language, grammar, vocab etc). I am in a class with two other women and our facilitator is a college professor, as are most of the facilitators. We direct the subjects and methods, to a degree. Classes are tailored specifically to us; this is how Peace Corps accelerates the learning process and I am LOVING it. I wish it didn’t have to end soon but Peace Corps reimburses us for tutoring received at post as well. I am very encouraged when I reflect on how far I’ve come in 5.5 weeks.

Technical training essentially means anything health-related. We take “field-trips” to health centers and healers. Guest speakers from local and national NGOs come and discuss their projects, from social outreach to immunization campaigns. We cover topics such as family planning, HIV/AIDS (though the national prevalence rate here is 1.2%, which is relatively low when compared with Southern Africa, which surpasses 35% in some areas), sexually transmitted infections, nutrition and baby weighing, hygiene and sanitation, disease prevention (malaria and parasites are big issues here), and pregnancy and delivery. I’ve been issued about a zillion books on health topics, which I will have time to read in my first three months at post during which I’m not allowed to travel.

Cross cultural training is varied as well and covers everything from religious ceremonies to etiquette to history to geography. I usually feel more rooted here after these classes, which may be the purpose. We’ve had a few bike trainings where we learn to take them apart, clean them, fix a flat on the road, etc. Basic maintenance.

Every Tuesday all four sectors ride their bikes or zem to a retreat center called “Songhai” and train together. We cover personal health topics most of the morning and administrative stuff in the afternoon. They have a restaurant, a co-op which sells (awesome) fresh organic veggies, a cyber café, a print/copy center and lots more. It’s going to be an excellent resource for me when I live in Hozin and I’m glad I’ll be close. They also make and sell veggie soap there.

During lunch break I usually eat an avocado and onion sandwich, or rice and beans on the street. I have to be careful with the sauce because there are usually fish heads bobbing in it. I go without sauce often but it’s not bad. My diet here is pretty much vegan. Along the street mamans sit with whatever they cooked all morning, and you just walk up to whoever you see sitting on a bench next to a table with food on it. The food is kept in plastic coolers to keep it warm and good vendors cover everything with a sheet to keep flies and bugs out. So you walk up to someone and say “Hello, what do you have?” and they’ll tell you: rice with fish and sauce, egg and spaghetti with soy cheese… that’s about it. I eat a lot of soy cheese. Women walk around with trays of fresh fruit on their heads and you barter for a good price. The pineapples are amazing and they cut them up for you when you buy one. Each costs about $ 0.20 USD. But if you get one that isn’t quite ready, it is too acidic and will burn your tongue.

After school, I usually come home and do laundry, study, or go to a buvette (bar) with friends. I am doing this more often as I consider that training is almost over and solidifying friendships becomes paramount. Today a friend, Lisa, came over and we baked a cake for Ragan, whose birthday is Thursday. We really had to go all out to find the ingredients. There aren’t huge grocery stores here but rather small boutiques and cabines and you have to ask at each one for what you want. So, we rode our bikes all over and would stop in front of houses, walk up to them an ask “do you sell eggs?” or “do you have a sache of sugar?” and most often they can tell you who sells it if they don’t have it. I’m excited at my ability to communicate; my comprehension is improving along with my confidence and willingness to ask for things to be repeated.

Overall, this far in, I’ve found PSL (pre-service learning) to be a very rewarding and empowering experience. I had missed the classroom atmosphere and this brief rendezvous with it is much welcomed. I’m truly impressed by the organization and efforts of the entire PC Benine staff (thought I wish they were better about bringing us our mail!) In a week I’ll be at my post, seeing where I’ll be living for the next two years. Keep me in your thoughts!!!

9/5/09 Went out with a bunch of people last night to a "nice" restaurant, maning that it was expensive and they served some American food, like steak. We went for Ragan's birthday and about 30 or 35 people came. It was the most fun I've had since being here. Let off a lot of steam. Monday I will meet my homologue, the person I will be working with most closely at my post. All the homologues from Benin come to Porto Novo for a two day conference with the staff and facilitators of the Peace Corps and to meet the volunteers, and we then leave for our respective posts with our homologues Wednesday morning bright and early. Wed or Thurs would be a great time to call me if you've been thinking of doing so! I'm nervous and excited... hopefully my french will serve me well. I miss you all so much and dream about America most nights. If anyone is feeling motivated or has some extra money lying around, I would do almost anything for a yoga mat. I am desperate... sitting in class all day and drinking beer is making me so soft and all the floors are concrete here so, yeah. I know I'm going to want to do yoga, esp at post. Even a book on yoga would rock my face off! But I think I can actually order that from Amazon... yeah. Rambling. Love you.

I guess the pics didn't attatch last time but here are a few... my moto helmet which I decorated with sharpies, a rooftop party at another volunteer's host family's place, a dead cockroach in my room (not THE cockroach), and a view of Porto-Novo from a rooftop. Still loving it here. French going slowly. Having lots of dreams about home. Last night I dreamt I had a cavity and so was being med-evacced to the states for ONE DAY to have it filled. I wanted to see everyone and do lots things but there wasn't time. I spent time at mom's and packed some things I wished I'd brought: paper, pens, my favorite blue jeans, a yoga mat, hair and skin products, contact-lens related things, and more that I'm sure I'm forgetting. There was more to it, but suffice it to say I'm missing the states a lot and it's filling my dreams most nights. Went to visit a traditional healer the other day. Learned that if you eat pork salad with papaya you will be immune to HIV/AIDS. They also had a cure for it that costs 500,000 CFA (about $1000 USD) and takes ten months to work. If you eat the left leg of a partridge while pregnant your child will be immune to Polio. So, you can see what a health worker is up against in terms of advocating for condom use or promoting immunizations for babies. Traditional knowledge is very, very hard to contend with and can only be addressed from the context of Beninese beliefs so I'm going to have to learn a lot more before I even try to change anyone's mind about anything. It was interesting, though, to learn how they use different plants and what they presume to cure with them. Love you all!

It's actually the end of week 5, but I'm skipping ahead optimistically. Wednesday night I awakened to something tickling my neck at one a.m.... I surfaced from my dream just long enough to pluck it off and set it next to my pillow. I began to drift off again when I jolted awake, realizing something unusual had just taken place and having just enough night vision to make out a dark shape moving on the white sheet next to my pillow. I darted from the bed, flicked on the light, and observed the most horrifying sight imaginable: a giant, shiny, clicking cockroach, writhing and kicking at the air RIGHT WHERE MY FACE HAD JUST BEEN. Words can't describe the adrenaline rush of going from stage 4 sleep to a near death experience. I sat at my desk trembling and listening to the thus of my heart in my face as I contemplated my next move. If I tried to grab it too softly, it would escape me and scuttle away. If I grab too forcefully, I will be able to feel it and it might grow fangs and bite me... or worse. I compromised and settles on dousing it with DEET. I yanked back the mosquito net and sprayed it in the face, and the guilt was all-consuming, but it had to be done. The beast hissed and kicked but didn't die. Now time was of the essence because I was aware of its suffering, but I stood in distress and hesitation, each second feeling like eternity. I decided to try my failed tactic again. I sprayed for ten seconds but it still writhed. Panicking, I grabbed my TP and pulled off a hefty bunch. I ran back to the bed, made a swift motion which essentially amounted to punching the bug, then picked it up and stared at it. The kicking legs pled for mercy but all I heard in my mind was "Survive... survive" over and over. Under my breath I muttered "survive," and slowly reached up with the other hand. With one final **CRACK** I split the body of my nemesis into halves. His suffering ended; mine did not. Rapidly and with shaky hands I dropped his lifeless body into sa small black sack, ran through the house, and plopped it by the fornt door. I sprinted back to my bedroom but found no sactuary. My bed, now a stranger to me, mocked my heavy eyes as I sat and wondered what to do with the adrenaline still raging through me. Then the rabbits in the hutches outside began to kick and fight, trying to chew their way out of their prisons. No doubt they were being devoured by mosquitos as I was being devoured by my weakness. Sitting in my room, unable to go to bed but unable to stay awake, terrified to make a decision and suffering along with the rabbits outside... this was my lowest moment so far.

BUT: my french is improving. My friendships are solidifying. I got some fun clothes made and decorated my moto helmet. I'm learning a lot and in another week and a half I will spend five days alone at my post. I couldn't be more excited or nervous. It's the exact same anticipation I experienced before coming here but now I know I can survive it. I have daily spiritual catharses and feel closer to complete than in a long time. I realized that for me, suffering and pleasure are equally valuable in terms of the intensity of the experience, and that often I learn more from the former. However, suffering is relative and I also realize that I know nothing of it on a grand scale.

So much to report, so little time to blog about it. I'll probably just keep using this as an outlet for learning to tell stories and save the details for my journal. Love you all. If there is anything specific you want to know, write or call me! I've only received one letter since arriving here, and am not sure where they are lurking, but it would be great to get more!

Just got back from a visit to Bante, a village about 200 km North-Northwest of Porto Novo (250 km drive, though, due to having to take a major detour south through Cotonou because it is really the only highway in Benin). Four of us from the RCH program headed up there on Wednesday morning and returned Saturday afternoon. We visited a volunteer in her 50’s who does RCH work up there in conjunction with the local health center. As part of the “technical” aspect of our technical visit we zemmed out to a nearby village, Banon, and observed/helped with a baby weighing and immunization session there.

This was my first taste of true village life in rural Africa. Upon arriving (I was first), I was offered a chair and there I sat while the worker from the health center went to find his counterpart in village. Children, adults, animals even, gathered in a large circle with myself perched in its radius repeating “bonjour” as I made eye contact or, rather, tried. It seems the children are shyer than elsewhere and uncomfortable with being singled out like that so I put on my sunglasses and sat for almost twenty minutes, a one woman show with no lines and an unlimited supply of self-conscious smiles. At one point a scraggy dog approached me, sniffing the ground near my feet, to which a woman promptly responded with a painful war cry, kicking off her sandal in a blur and walloping the dog on the hindquarter before I had even a thought of acting to prevent it. I mumbled “that’s uncomfortable” to myself as a meager attempt at humor/consolation but nothing doing. I failed to comprehend her reasons for beating a half-starved mange-ridden dog because I remain a culturally insensitive American with one month‘s history in Benin to work with. The difficulty, now, lies in attempting to reconcile my (painfully) deeply ingrained beliefs about the treatment of animals and children with the often seemingly opposite beliefs about said treatment held by the Beninese. I am going to have to understand and accept that there are everyday occurrences over which I have no control, but acceptance in Banon became much harder as my visit to unfolded.

We began to weigh babies when all of the paperwork was in order and the mothers were gathered round, waiting. A couple of hours into it, during the immunizing, I looked over and saw a girl of maybe seven or eight holding the tiniest, frailest baby I have ever seen. I said to my friend that the baby looked severely malnourished, but he replied “Its head is cone shaped from being born. It’s still less than three weeks old.”

“Nah, something about her proportions just looks intuitively wrong,“ I replied unconvincingly. True, her overall size would have indicated a newborn, but her face. She had but a tiny patch of hair on her head, a soft black triangle at the tip of her forehead, and the skin of her scalp and face was loose. Her eyes were wide open, big, round and shiny and looking everywhere with intent, not the way the puffy new lids of a three week-old house straying, wandering new eyes. She knew how to use her eyes, had had plenty of practice. They were sunken though, and as seemed to be common practice in Banon, ash or some other form of eye makeup had been applied around her lids, adding to the effect not of vitality but of sickness, weakness. My eyes moved from the wrinkles on her face and scalp to her limbs. Her arms were thin and limp. She laced and unlaced her fingers in tactile exploration over her puffy, swollen tummy. Her little legs appeared bowed from shin to ankle, either due to a vitamin deficiency or from not having enough meat on her bones. Her feet were crossed. The girl holding her looked at her lovingly and bounced her as though she were a Cabbage Patch doll, then smiled at me, no doubt having taken interest in my unwavering gaze at the little life in her arms. We were both fascinated by the baby girl, each for entirely different reasons.

I learned shortly that the baby girl is five months old. She weighs three kilos, or 6.6 lbs. We have learned in classes that it is highly unlikely that a baby this malnourished can be saved, . I plotted her growth on the chart: indeed, very deep into the “red.” Soon, she will die. I was in Banon Friday morning; she may even be dead now. I do not know, and never will.

Why, right? Why why why why why. Ask it as many times as you like and I’ll give you the same answer: money. Her mother is neither wicked nor evil (I realize in hindsight; picturing her as villainess provided me an outlet for my outrage and helplessness while in Banon). She has another baby and several other children to care for. I learn through translation, for she does not speak French but only Cha, the local language, that the baby will nurse but will not gain weight. This means she is most likely infected with a parasite or other disease preventing her from growing properly, and her mother states she does not have the money to travel the 10km to Bante (which costs about 500CFA, or $1 USD) and have her baby seen at hospital, which would cost more. I want to tell her that a funeral is going to cost more, but I know the baby cannot be saved by me, and I don’t have the words or power within me to change this situation.

Frustration? Doesn’t come close. Helplessness? Closer. Utter exasperation at the system and terror of the insignificance of my role within it? Closer still. I don’t speak French yet. I can get around and survive, but I’m not about to enter into an argument with a mother I don’t know about her economic circumstances and the impact on her family’s health, even is she did understand French. The conflict in me… SAY SOMETHING! THIS BABY IS GOING TO DIE IF YOU DON’T! Beaten out by It wouldn’t matter if you spoke Cha. It wouldn’t matter if you handed her the cash to have her baby treated. The girl would most likely die anyway, I can’t make it right. I can’t fix this. And it isn’t my job to. I am here to teach mothers about the importance of breastfeeding and slow weaning, proper nutrition for themselves while they are pregnant and breastfeeding, utilizing a variety of foods for a well-rounded family diet, hygiene and sanitation, etc. Prevention. Yes, I will catch babies who may be slipping toward the dreaded yellow line on the growth chart, will discuss with their mothers how to bring them back up to the center of the green “safe” zone, but No. I am not a miracle worker and I can’t save a dying baby. If I can accept this, I will have more success in ensuring the health and safety of babies and mothers at my post and the surrounding communities, but if I assume personal responsibility for each of them, I will become overwhelmed and fail. All I can do is provide education, tools and resources to help people take care of themselves. I cannot do it for them and I must promise myself I will not chase the impossible, lofty goals so many of us imagine upon signing on to a job like this.

I am focusing on the fact that my witnessing a phenomenon doesn’t cause it to happen. It is a reality external of my observation of it. I take, if not solace, than a degree of relief in this knowledge. What I haven’t figured out yet is the extent to which my observation obliges me to act. I am drawn into to everything I see, but isn’t it almost egomaniacal to think that I must be a part of it? The ethics of my position here continue to evade me, but I have plenty of time to figure out and really could go on forever in knots. Maybe Shane can help me untie them when next I see him.

The rest of our visit to Bante was nice. I learned what has been causing my diarrhea: Dr. Lomo called from the PCMO office to say there was Giardia in my stool sample. Went to pharmacy and she prescribed Tinidazole over the phone. Took 4 tabs that night, and with the one-dose blast to the system, I am pleased to report that the Giardians have either died or moved on, no longer finding my upper bowel a cozy habitat for their swimming, leaping and churning. I don’t miss them, but nonetheless I have a notion that if they fail to visit in the near future, one of their close cousins will come to call.

In the meantime, I continue to sort out Life In Africa. It’s new to me, you know.

Today was awesome! I got my “hands” dirty (by which I mean feet, because a baby peed on them). The RCH trainees went to Vikon, a village quite near my own future village of Djigbe, and weighed babies! It was really fun. Hectic, but the moms were way into it there so it was encouraging to see. Some of them were so fat they were almost too big to fit into the sling! It’s funny cause we plot their weights on a growth chart for each baby so the mom can see the month-by-month trajectory for her child’s growth for the first three years, and it’s supposed to facilitate a discussion about malnourishment or just praise that the mother is doing well, but some of the babies were beyond the “healthy weight” category. There must have been about 75 mothers and babies there. We split into two groups of 7 volunteers and weighed all of them. Then one of our facilitators asked for a spokesperson to speak to the chief of the village on behalf of our group so I got up and thanked him for allowing us to come into his village and learn about babies’ health.. I also said something in Goun, not sure what but a PCV whispered it to me beforehand, so when I said it they all laughed including the chief. Must have been a good thing. It was a really enriching experience. I came home and Carole and I went to the Yovo store, la Championne or something like that. It was nice- I got 6 rolls of TP (thank god for buying in bulk), some weird marmalade to try (it’s delicious), some soap and a pack of cigarettes, just cause. We then stopped at a family friend’s home and they gave us a cold beer which was amazing. Now I’m at the cyber café and quite sad because although the speed of the internet is good todits of americana. e lots of good ones to share! I’ll try them on Facebook and see if that works. Miss you all and love you!

P.S. If you are dying to send me something, items on my wish list include: face wash (anything that exfoliates- don't care how cheap!), candy, pens, a ped-egg or some kind of foot file, a loofah (seriously- this one's important as I can't seem to wash the dirt completely off, ever), and other little bits of Americana. Or just call me... that's on my wish list, too : )

The pics are of my bedroom, the front of our house, the front courtyard/gate, and two more of my room. Also, the map of the southern half of Benin shows the location of my post. And, there's one of Lou dancing in a village near there. Yesterday, I found out where my post will be!! I will be living in Hozin, about 10 km north of Porto-Novo. This means that I will be very close to my host family, which Maman is extremely excited about (she’s already talking about me coming for Christmas) as well as many other things, like the huge Ouando market where I can buy all kinds of vegetables and even some imported things, like apples and nutella! I will be living in Djigbe, a village of roughly 2,800 people (not to be confused with all the other places in Benin called Djigbe; this one isn’t on the map but is located within the arrondissment of Hozin, approx. 10,000 people). The major languages spoken there are Nagot and Goun. My host family speaks Goun, so maybe I can get some training! I will be working with an NGO called Association Foi a la Providence (Association for Faith in Providence), or AFAP for short. AFAP currently works in 24 villages and they also have a hostel in Porto-Novo which I can use anytime I want to come work here. AFAP will be paying my rent and I will report to them for project ideas, etc. My main job duties will be health and nutrition education, HIV/AIDS education, cooking demonstrations, nutritional recuperation, hygiene and sanitation, soy and moringa activities and installation of gardens.

The NGO has its main center near where I will be living. They are very active in health education and training women in breastfeeding and nutrition. They also have extensive infrastructure, including an orphanage, a health center, a training center, and a 4x4. They have several health workers that work in surrounding villages and all of them sleep at the center. I will be most likely be assisting with and/or conducting baby weighings once a month in each village surrounding me and there are about 55 babies at each weighing. AFAP is also very involved in soybean education and production. I will be learning how to make soy cheese and teaching mothers how to make it as a nutritious protein supplement for their children! I am so excited about this and can’t wait to get started.

I have electricity and cell phone coverage in my village. My house has two bedrooms and a living room. I am replacing a volunteer who was there for a year then transferred to Cotonou to help with projects there, so I will have access to her knowledge as well. I’m sure she will be a vital resource to me during the upcoming time of transition. I have heard from people who stayed with her, “Ooh! You have such a nice house!” so I feel very lucky about my post. In terms of work, proximity to fresh produce, proximity to my good friend Lou (he’s within bike riding distance!!!) and getting to live in a village while having access to a city, t really is just exactly what I wanted. I am so excited and can’t believe I have 6 more weeks to go until I get there! If only I absorbed French as easily as the technical training…

Home life is good here. Things are going smoothly. There was a cockroach in my room the other night and we did battle… did you know that they fly? Well, the ones here do. They are loud as hell and utterly terrifying, so by “did battle,” I mean that I hid under my mosquito net while it dive-bombed at my face and hissed and buzzed angrily. Clearly, it was out for blood. I managed to find a chance to sneak over and open my bedroom door, while it was across the room rummaging noisily through my things, but when it returned it hesitated then went BEHIND the door. Lodged between the door and my wall, the entomological frenzy increased until it sounded like a war was being waged between a jackhammer and a dying hyena. I put earplugs in when I stopped trembling and eventually my heart rate slowed to a pace which allowed me to drift off (at least, until I woke up an hour later to run to the toilet for the thirteenth time that day and yes, I kept track). I awoke in the morning to find my opponent belly up, having died from exhaustion. I realized that in the states, this is something I would have felt bad about, a needless death which I could have prevented by catching it and taking it outside. Here in Africa, it was one of my first major triumphs. Falling asleep while knowingly in the company of a raging, bloodthirsty beast, while surely not the most difficult obstacle this far, but nonetheless I was able to tell myself “I WILL become accustomed to this.” It’s all about first steps right now.

Day 19. Tomorrow, I find out where my post will be. I am terrified, anxious, thrilled and ecstatic. Things are great here and I’m journaling everyday. There are a lot of things I’ve had to de-sentitize to, such as the role of women and the way children are regarded, the treatment of animals and the environmental quality, but not to such an extent that I am traumatized or depressed. Benin keeps me guessing with its limitless surprises. I love the little lizards of every color that inhabit the concrete walls of Porto-Novo. I love the tiny footprints in the sand that tell stories about the children who have played there. I love the freshness of the food and the availability of produce on every street corner. I love the street culture: the people here live OUTSIDE their homes, not in them, and know the names and families of most who pass. I love the collectivist mentality and the communication among neighbors and families. I love the simplicity of the pleasure of doing laundry by hand. I love getting to explore a new city by bicycle. I love the exhilaration of zooming around on the back of a Zemidjan and the knowledge that I can get to where I need to go, alone. I love the support of my fellow PCVTs and knowing that all my “first times” aren’t solely mine. I love that I get to come to the states and visit in nine months and tell you all what it is like to live in Africa.

Some details for now: The yards are sand and must be swept of trash daily. Trash is burned where it lies. My house is made of concrete and is very nice by Beninese standards. We have a well in the yard as our water source. I bathe in a bucket because although we have a shower, it is cold and I like to be able to control the flow of chilly water over my body (I can wash and rinse my hair and body with about two gallons of water). My family raises rabbits and they are kept in a hutch in the backyard. I have crashed my bike three times because I hit sand pits in the road and I fishtail and fall off. People (mostly children) yell “Yovo!” at me everywhere I go, but what a friend told me to say is “On veulent dire ‘Madame,” n’est-ce pas?” which (if I spelled that correctly) means, “We can say ‘Madam,” can’t we?” Apparently it stops them dead in their tracks and they just gape. Implying that someone has bad manners is a major stab here- it’s like insulting their mother. The ‘Madame” phrase isn’t exactly doing that but it’s getting there. One thing a volunteer told me that stood out is that in an argument with a Beninese person, you can just repeat a statement over and over and this is just as valid as arguing a point. He is an environmental action volunteer and the example he used was “We should plant trees.” He was met with some resistance at first (economic resources, mostly) but after and hour or so heard “Wait… you know what we should do? We should plant trees!” I am told that this method is effective in all walks of life, and have found it to be true when haggling with Zem-drivers (since I don’t know French, I just repeat “Cen francs” (sahn-frahn) until they agree and nod the go-ahead for me to board. No point arguing with a yovo who doesn’t understand anyway!

I purchased a bunch of tissue (fabric) at the market on Saturday and took it to a tailor. I’m exci9ted to see how the clothes look. I picked designs from some posters full of photos of dresses and skirts, and will get the clothes in about a week and a half. Must try to stay the same size until then : ) I eat a lot of rice and pate (pronounced pot) with oily sauces. Very yummy food but not easy on the waistline. I think when I cook for myself I will use a lot less oil but I am LOVING having my family cook for me because they actually know how. My dies is essentially vegan except for the bi-daily egg. They gave us multi-vitamins today but they are tiny so I’m not sure how complete they are. Mom’s sending more (thanks mom). I am stuck in my glasses due to tearing my final contact lens (I now have two functional left lenses and no rights. I tried wearing both the lefts- only lasted two seconds). I just realized I use a lot of (parentheses). Wearing glasses while biking in the rain nets some funny looks and an interestingly distorted perspective of the road.

Electricity is on and off, depending on availability and usage. When too many people use too many appliances there are blackouts which vary in size and length. I have lantern and two flashlights in my room, though. We have a flush toilet, too, which rocks. A fellow PCVT told me there was a rat in her toilet this morning. It wasn’t dealt with humanely, but that is simply not a way of thinking here. Maybe I can talk to new friends about this when I get to village and at least introduce the concept. PCVTs have been afflicted by all kinda of things: food poisoning, repeated bike crashes, getting lost, bug caught in the eye, diarrhea, constipation, bitten by a dog, broken teeth (3 of us now), sexual harassment, rashes, fatigue, etc. Fortunately, the Peace Corps gives us tools to deal with ALL of it and the med unit is quite nice (I considered bashing out another tooth so I could spend the night with an air conditioner and take a hot shower in the morning). I haven’t used nearly as much electricity as I thought I would either. I haven’t charged my ipod or used the rechargeable batteries I brought. Many things I brought will not be used until I get to post because I do have such a modern set-up here and my family takes good care of me.

I purchased a cell phone, as well. The number is (229) 96 73 67 40. This is all you need to dial- 229 is the country code. If you do chose to call, I suggest looking into a calling card. I hear they are much cheaper. I miss you all terribly!!! Love you