Maps convey to the viewer that home is never far. It is always in view no matter where one is on the world. Almost as a reassuring reminder that you're never as far as you think you are. I suppose that this is not too far from the truth.

Home is always there, living inside of you. Either chasing you away or calling you back, driving you to be something or ridiculing you for being nothing.

This vision of what home means has become somewhat foggy since I've been back. I remember how crystalline it was back in Benin, the vision of my people and my home and now that crystallization has flipped back, across the ocean to my village of Aklampa.

I see the people I knew frozen in time, going through their daily activities and it's as if I was never there, just a ghost.

Americans, generally, don't have this connection or rootedness to homes. We live in a mobile society, a pioneer society, ready to be moved at an order. The living and breathing quality of being planted to a place, a particular patch of dirt, is not as common amongst us as in other societies.

It is only when one leaves and sees what goodness this brings to life that this way of living is rightly appreciated. People say that home is where the heart is, perhaps a better way to put it is that home is in the heart, a coal that seldom burns out but always blazes inside one's self. You learn to love at home, to cry, to regret. In short to live. Home is life.

Cotonou to Dakar, it turns out, is just as daunting of a voyage as it sounds. Through tropical forests, up and down coffee mountains, through scrub-country and into dry desert, and now bach on the Sahelian coast of Africa. Senegal is the the African mainland's westernmost country, stretching itself out into the great beyond that is the Atlantic Ocean. Dakar is the bee-hive of an African country that has wrapped itself in modern consumerism, with all its perks and pitfalls. The street-hustler here is a breed apart from the ones found in Cotonou, they persist beyond the point of simple annoyance and border on being theives at times. That being said, I myself find Dakar to be a dizzying city, concrete and glass sky-scrappers shoot up into the sky and cars speed down well maintained streets with street cafés that would make the French and Italians jealous. The impact this amazing city has on my senses is compounded by the difficulty it took to get here. A 37 hour bus ride through two countries fueled by instant coffee and cigarettes. This ride felt something akin to being at the bottom of a dirty sock hamper for a football team, hot, humid, hurty. The Bamako-Dakar red-eye we'll call it, as it left the Malian capital at four o'clock in the morning. How do you wake up for a bus that leaves at 4am?, you might ask. Not going to bed is the answer my friends. A nice local bar was very accomadating to us for a few hours as we hobknobbed with local Rastas, Peace Corps Volunteers, ex-pats, and a charming young French journalist who was headed to Dakar with us. This all made the first few hours of our bus-ride all the easier as we all immediately passed out from exhaustion upon arrival. The rest of the trip, not so easy. After having to put up with endless stops and checkpoints and other miscellaneous sheenanigans we managed to arrive in somewhat good spirits. How strange to confront the reality that this will be my last place in Africa before the jump off back into...whatever is waiting. The flight leaves tomorrow night for Istanbul, stay tuned for the next installment. Same bat-time, same bat-channel.

The last day in Cotonou is upon us, our bags packed and the tropical sun seemingly bursting with an intense desire to smother us all, a fitting au revoir. Our last days in Cotonou were a smorgas-board of michievous machinations with some colorful local liasons. Crazy bar full of local boxers: check. Slot machines that take Lebanese currency: check. A disection of the merits of Nicki Minaj's raps at a sodabi shack: don't mind if I do. But really, this sejour was about soaking up the dirty, rotten air of the sprawling sore of urbanity that is Cotonou, a city at once dear and despicable to me. My Peace Corps service has come and gone and I am decidely grateful to have an adventure around West Africa as my denouement. It should be a good way to slowly begin my reassimilation into Western culture. My "gong" ceremony (our closing ceremony where we officially are released from service) was an emotional event. How strange to think of what I've done here in terms of the past when it still seems like yesterday that I was still looking at everything with wide, wet-behind-the-ears eyes. Before going to bed at the hotel last night, I was able to feed the pet crocadile part of my turkey leg, from now on he'll have to fend for himself in his concrete domicile. Of the many things I've learned here throughout my experience here, I am most grateful for learning how to travel and interact with the locals. This should come in handy as we snake our way through West Africa, a smile on our face and shaking hands quite vigorously, not accepting no for an answer. Our sardine omelette with mayo, a breakfast staple over here, did the job, fortifying me for the coastal ride to Benin's sister country, Togo. Our journey begins, no sleep 'til Detroit!

Camp GLOW (girls leading our world) has come and gone already, a more amazing feat when one realizes that this was my last Peace Corps project of my service here in Benin. What a ride it has been. I usually like to think of life as one giant trip, with no clearly demarcated lines seperating the chapters, but instead one infinite ball brimming with whats, cans, maybes, and sheer experience. But how can one deny the emotion of leaving a place just recently become home after two years of following the ebb and flow of what is modern life in Africa. Refreshing it is also. Refreshing to be back on the road again carrying home the spoils of friendships forged along the way. It's really hard to digest what this experience has meant to me, its ethos goes to the core of me and in such a way that can only be felt and not justly explained. Perhaps that's what home is, a feeling of grounded-ness, like the trunk of a tree, to an area. I've reached out across the waters and dropped a complimentary anchor on a people I had no idea existed before, I say complimentary because my roots rightly stem from the Midwest where my people are, but being here has opened my eyes to what it means to make a family, to forge one's roots where before there were none. Where before I was just a strange man living in a strange village, I leave feeling like a son leaving home. A place exists in its people. When I think of home, it's the faces that come up, the experiences, good and bad. Those are the places that mean something to me, a place that flows organically from the names and faces of those dear to me, and because of this, is always apart of me. Thursday is the blast-off. Look out, 'cause here I come.

The dancing was a spontaneous continuation of our evening soccer game. It started on the way back to the NGO center from the field, our first full day of boys camp had just been completed. What had been a tired march back quickly transformed itself into a chanting parade through Ouesse's small streets. This was the scene from boys camp a few days ago and will be the image I take away from the experience, nothing feels better than kicking off the camp season magnificently and we most certainly did just that, summer can begin.

Education volunteers, like myself, have a built in vacation period when the school season ends. This does not mean we just run off to town and leave our communities. Rather, we continue what we know how to do, teach kids. This past weekend was Camp Espoir in Ouesse, a good size town north of my community, Aklampa. Six teams were present at this camp, Aklampa, Tchaourou, Challa-Ogoi, Kemon, Ouesse 1 and Ouesse 2.

Camp, for Beninese children, is really a novel idea. For most children, no school means more work. More going to the fields to help their parents, more going to the well to fetch water. Our goal was to reward our best students from our respective communities and to so them how to continue their education in new creative ways.

Just a quick sampling of our presentations for you; model parliamentary session, sexual health education, nutrition and health, and drug abuse and addiction. What camp would be complete without a movie night, Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, en francais, Indiana Jones et La Derniere Croisade. C'est bon!

The camp really serves to bring us closer to our kids, the people we're most connected with at our jobs. Each member also brought a teaching pal with them from their community making it that much more of a bonding experience. It was more poingent for me and a few other volunteers present as we will be leaving soon. To see the children you've been trying to impact bloom around other students also working with volunteers, just to see them interact and share their experiences in a fun atmosphere meant the world to us.

And so we danced. We danced because we knew we were doing great things. We knew these kids would grow up and make this country better. And we knew, and know, that little time is left. Americans are generally embarrassed to dance, as if they are showing a part of them that is meant for them and them alone. It wasn't worth being afraid to dance on this day.

The realization that I'll be leaving soon has been pushed to the front of my head dramatically by the recent completion of the Close Of Service (COS) conference. Questions such as what has my service meant to me, what have I accomplished, and what do I wish I had accomplished, instead of floating around in my head, have been brought forward and, although the conference is over, remain out in the open, teasing my brain to come up with multiple answers for them. I suppose that is the purpose of the conference, to crack through the hard shell that we've constructed around us so as to not think about the next step, and to force us to face the truth that home is still over the water. Not to say that we've forgotten, but it is often told to us that it's impossible to straddle the Atlantic, one must pick a side, and in order to live on a day to day basis without much mental strain, our America is pushed to the back of our consciousness. We know it's there but feel more comfortable focusing on the task at hand, living in the moment, and what have you. A wealth of information and forms were provided to us to show us that, indeed, there is life after Peace Corps. Most of us were quite glad that we still have a few months to get our act in gear before we shove off for the western land. It's strange to think that the image of my village where I've been living for the past two years is already begginning to crystallize in my mind. Hearing former volunteers speak of their experiences and how they viewed their villages was like hearing an echo from the future, of what we might say twenty years from now about the people we knew au village, the experiences we cherished, and something that will always be with us lying as we continue on our journey. Our hotel, full of modern amenities and conveniences that are now somewhat foreign to many of our thoughts, loomed a giant dock, Benin's window to the world. The cranes moved giant boxes containing goods which continue to slowly weave the small country's economy into the giant global machine that is the world-wide economy. How fitting that this global window, symbolic of where we came from and what development, at times, represents, towers over us at this conference.

The ocean does something to everyone. In my case it not only has left me with a plethora of philosophical thoughts and metaphysical conundrums but also with a wicked reminder of my skin's incompatability with the sun in this part of the world. Pain aside, Grand Popo is a beautiful place, with a relaxed atmosphere (somewhat rare in the south) and history that can howl, so to speak, giving its proximity to the remnants of the colonial societies of Portugal and France and, in a more contemparary sense, vodoun culture. That's not to say that the only people one sees on the beach there are either wearing a frock coat or cowrie shells, Grand Popo is Benin's most tourist focused city, bringing people here from all over West Africa to get a piece of the tourist pie. We stayed at Lion Bar, home to a charming rasta man by the name of, you guessed it, Lion. The rooms are named after famous reggae singers and reggae permeates one's eardrums all night, a nice duet with the crashing waves a few hundred meters down the beach. It amazes me that the ocean, in all of its epic enormity can seemingly be hidden when one walks 200 meters away from the beach. Looking at it's size one would think that its presence would be felt for miles inland, and indeed its smell is somewhat trickier to get rid of but that does not convey the earth-shattering hugeness that is transmitted from one's eyes down to his fingertips and , if you're lucky enough, down into the depths of the soul upon viewing the great big sea. Most of the time was spent on the beach pondering this great nothing and what it all means and the rest of the time was spent recovering from spending too much time in the sun. The sultry beach air of Grand Popo, named apparently because the Portugese thought the people here had big behinds, did give me good fodder for the Earth Day, Passover, and Easter weekend. The relative coolness of the north, which I have since returned to, is quite refreshing and while the ocean never ceases to amaze my trip has reinforced my belief that I am a landlubber who needs green fields to run around in with hills full of trees as my background, and maybe a good dog to run after me.

The tenth of January is Traditional Religion Day here in Benin, commonly called Vodoun (Voodoo) Day. Though Christianity and Islam, the two largest monotheistic religions on the planet, are the faces most readily portrayed to the outside world by the Beninese, it is clear to all that the life-blood of the nation's religious activities is, and always has been, Vodoun. Vodoun is actually just the Fon word for it. Throughout West Africa it is much the same, the worship of multiple local gods and, most importantly to the locals, ancestors. Vodoun lacks much of the theological complexities of the large Western religions and opts for a smaller more filial setting for its practices, placing food and drinks on the tombs of one's forebears (generally buried under the family house to be closer to home) and telling stories about where one's people came from. That being said, one can't help but thrill at the mention of Vodoun. Thoughts of African mysticism and bayou charm, the slaves from present-day Benin brought their beliefs with them to Haiti, Brazil, and Lousianna, are instantly conjured up in one's mind at the thought of it. The day for me began with a visit to a friend's father's birthday party, a man who passed away in the 1970s. Shots of sodabi, distilled palm wine, were liberally passed around and raised to an imposing portrait of a large man in tradtional garb, his visage daring anyone to smirk at his judging, stern look. Pounded yams with peanut sauce, a local staple, was then consumed in great quantity followed by more shots before I was graciously allowed to head back home and nurse my swollen belly and swimming head, it was not yet nine o'clock in the morning. Adventursome young lad that I am, the rest of the day was spent visiting local temples to particular local dieties, the lightening goddess, the mountain god, and the chameleon goddess. This required a lot of eating to counteract the effects of the alcohol given out, one could compare the day to a pagan St. Patrick's Day in this regard. The culmination of the day was a joint dance party with all of the different temples and the head families meeting on a dusty clearing, the stomping dancers churned up the dust until one could not see and our tongues were caked with Africa's red soil. It's always interesting to talke to Africans with traditonal beliefs, oftentimes these beliefs go hand in hand with their families recent adoption of Christianity or Islam. Is it real? or what do you actually believe in is a common theme that comes up, and it seems like the villagers of Aklampa don't usually think about it on a grand scale like that. To many no one can claim to know what God is like, to pretend to know what is after life seems the height of folly. What is known and accepted is that when you die, you don't leave the family, and who can't find any charm in that? So next time you have a nice glass of wine, why not pour out a sip for Great Grampa? Who knows, he might appreciate it.

How does it always seem that I manage to stay at the workstation longer than even I would like to? A morning turns into an afternoon, an afternoon an evening, and pretty soon its one more day. A metaphor for life perhaps? Nah, just my inner bum coming out once again. One semester has come and gone here in the Beninese school system, leaving one more for my carreer as a Beninese schoolteacher. Christmas break, always a welcome reprieve, hovers over my head as I anxiously wait for it to drop. Two more classes and it's upon us. I had never realized that vacations were more eagerly awaited for by teachers than students. I remember, as a student, always hating my teachers for not having a reason to go on vacation. As if we, as students, were the end-all-be-all of their lives. Well, for the thousands of students out there, I would like to apologize to my former teachers. I now know that you too have lives and are as annoyed with us, as students, as we are/were with you, as teachers. While the mornings and evenings find me in long sleeves and occasionally sweats, I'm sure the "winter" here cannot compete with the one back home. After watching an internet video of the Metrodome collapsing under snow I felt like a dog witnessing snow for the first time, confused and overjoyed at the same time. "Ah yes!," I seemed to say, "Snow does exist!", as if I had forgotten about the defining precipitous moments of Christmas since time immemorial for me and mine. As per usual in West Africa, no snow this year, but while driving through the bush country to visit a friend's farm I was reminded of past Christmases by the long rows of cotton interspersed amongst the yam rows and cashew trees. While the bush is rough, it is not wild. People and small villages line it's numerous winding roads and foot-trails. As we rode past the cotton fields, and bits of cotton fluff floated on by us, I was reminded of the month I was in. In spite of the heat and humidity, the dust and the dirt, it was December and somewhere in this crazy big world of ours snow was falling on my native Mid-West. While a pale substitution for snow, the little white bits flying by me could not but awaken my inner snowman. If only I could say I was there in the heartland in spirit. Alas, it seems spirit and body are here with me in Africa, Humanity's home, for this end of 2010, although Michigan, Indiana, Missouri, and Kentucky are never far from my mind. I know they'll always be there for me, as I'll always be there for them. Though distance my strain the bonds the bind, they cannot be broken, as love's connection is something reinforced by familial passion and not easily forgotten in foreign climes, no matter the heat or humidity. Africa may amaze me, as She constantly does, and speak to me, as again She does, but in my heart and soul I know my home and it's nestled amongst the lakes and hills of America's heartland. That being said, the holiday spirit is no where stronger than here in Benin. Food, non-stop, was on the agenda for the visit to my friend's farm as well as good old fashioned hospitality. I hope for some Midwestern wishes from Santa for Christmas, maybe he'll bring some African affection to my people back home.

Two packages were waiting for me when I walked into the Parakou workstation, my khaki shirt had been turned orange from the road and I hesitate to think of the color it had turned my skin to. While my eyes hurt from the day's sun they attempted to defy their fatigue in order to take in the Christmas decorations set up around the station. What a strange idea, Christmas trees and music while you sweat from the heat and can see palm trees, the idea doesn't seem to get easier to digest the second time around but only serves to remind you where you are. Benin, West Africa, an ocean and a world away from what had been and what is still, despite new cultural ideas and norms, so familiar to you. Thanksgiving has come and gone and I'm as thankful as ever for this experience, for new people that have changed my life and for new ways of thinking about home, family, and the world. And to finally be allowed to hum Christmas songs without feeling ashamed (as Thanksgiving is the legal limit when one can start the buildup to the Fourth of July in December that is X-mas). The packages, while from Halloween circa October, were appreciated as if they had been wrapped in gold, as missives from the other side of the Atlantic always are. The first tests of the semester have been composed and and this little reprieve away from the village was a bit of a reward to myself for completing one semester, and what a reward it was.

In Africa, rain is generally considered a good thing. This being the case, Saturday's swear-in ceremony for the fifty some odd new Volunteers was indeed a good omen. The circus style tents in the ambassador's yard were put to good use as around two hundred people representing current Volunteers, administrators, diplomats, local host families, and others crowded around each other to welcome the newest addition to the Peace Corps Benin family.

Just a few weeks ago I had been training these kids with other volunteers and now they were getting ready to go to their own posts and really start their two year experience. What was I thinking a year ago as I swore in to begin my two years? Wasn't I just a kid too, aren't I still? Has anything changed? Yes and no, like life there's no cut and dry answer to things, especially when working in a developing country. But like all things it amazes me that it's already been more than a year for me and my friends here. I never expected to be able to change all of Benin in one fell swoop, that wasn't my goal anyway. Personal relationships have always held more worth for me than grand idealistic crusades to educate the people, and on that count I've certainly learned about what it means to be personal with people here. How people will call you just to say hello, or just stop by your house and sit around with you for awhile. A recognition of the importance of sharing space with people, albeit sometimes to the detriment of personal time, is something that, while so common here, never ceases to amaze (and I'll admit, at times annoy) me. And yet I can't help but admire that, that people are that comfortable to just come and sit down with you, perhaps talk a bit, but when all the topics of conversation are exhausted they'll find no need to add anything, they just like being around you gosh darn it! Two years seems like a lot but after one year I can see that it's not really even a drop in the bucket. It's more like a tease, you get to know your people and then just as you start to get the hang of it a year has already gone by, and I imagine eventually two years will fly by in just the same manner. What the swear-in ceremony really helped to do, what it gave me, was a renewed interest in what I do here, in what it means to be a Volunteer. There were speeches and food and drink afterwards, and that was all great, but it made me excited, if not more excited, for my post, my village and my job. The new Volunteers would be going to a totally new place and I would be returning to my "totally new place" after a long period of absence. I knew how exciting it would be, how trying at times, and how humbling. It felt as if I was a new Volunteer again and I'd be experiencing all these things again for the next year, and this time I'd know more what to treasure and what to brush off my shoulder. In short, the speeches and pigs-in-a-blanket were good, but they're not what it means to be a Volunteer here. It's what you do that really leaves echoes in time and space, not what you say. I hope to leave a few echoes this upcoming year.

Independence Day! The Fourth of July! Founded on hotdogs, fireworks, and the smell of gasoline. Soccer matches against foreigners count too right? They did for me this past week as the good ole' US of A (represented by a bunch of skinny left leaning Peace Corps Volunteers) took on Germany (represented by large strapping young blond people). It was a game for the ages and was even carried on local radio from the Djougou stadium where we played. I'll state that fact again, our game was broadcast, unknownst to us at the time mind you, to the denizens of the greater Djougou metropolitan area.

While lacking in soccer skills when compared to our competition we made up for this dearth of technical skills with an abundance of patriotic pride, not to mention we were somewhat older than the younger germans, who are preparing for university by volunteering in Benin. Due to this age deferential we beat them up with our superior "dad" muscle, also known as old man muscle in the medical community.

Never before has there been a more glorious tie for the USA, going right down to the penalty kick off. Our German brethern joined us in western European fellowship at the bar afterwards and there was much merry-making.

How strange, to be spending the Fourth with young Germans and Americans in Africa. An environment decidedly unAmerican, at least in my experience. And yet, as the call to prayer sounded from the numerous mosques around the city, and the motos zoomed by, sounding like jet skis, passing the young Beninese pushing their push-carts, I knew that star spangled banner yet flew, over my home, and I was glad to be American.

The end of the school year has always held a special place in my heart, perhaps as I havn't yet outgrown the student mentality yet. Well, it seems that that feeling is all the more present in teachers, speaking from the end of my first year of teaching.

As oppossed to the American big boom finish style, the Beninese schools prefer to limp slowly to the finish line, prolonging the academic angst. Our final exams were taken at the end of May with a month left of teaching. This was mainly due to the strike earlier in the year but this fact did not make the going smoother as us Volunteers were teaching throughout the year, strike and all.

That being said, it was nice to have more time opening up and have the joy that is summer vacation slowly reveal itself until its sunny demeanor is the only thing noticeable. It's also helpful to see some more of the problems in the system exposed to me, as I'm a first-year I hope to take better advantage of the system next time around or at least be better prepared for it.

Ah, summertime! My old friend returns and is reinvigorated by the excitement on the looks my children give me. "No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers (or students), dirty looks." For now the many summer camps of all us teaching Volunteers looms and the new trainees coming from America to join us in a new world.

The moon hung high in the sky, reflecting back to itself in the ocean. Lights from across the abyss floated on the horizon. Unknown crews, unknown cargoes, unknown stories hidden from my consciousness. Teasing me with an impossible barrier stretching out between us. More bitter, more sweet, more "wow".

This was the scene as silent figures began to emerge from the periphery. Stage left and right, an act in and of itself. More moving and full of meaning than any Oscar nominated film on the market today.

We had been lounging at the sunset bar, one of our spots. Spread out at a table like big cats, full from their supper and relieved by the night's chill.

They were fisherman pulling in the catch. Salutations were exchanged and I was forced to squeeze out all of the Fon under my metaphorical belt.

I envied them. Unjustly, I know. Theirs was a job beyond my physical capabilities and without much to show for. But how can I be immune to the romanticism before my eyes, the same act that they've done for who knows how long and they were letting me help them, letting my hands ache with theirs. Behind us stretched a sore of urbanity, unchecked growth and the hopes of a young, small country. In front of us was the dark water and a navy of traders hell bent on having their way with Africa, comme l'habitude. Perhaps I generalize. Either way, they were not the show, merely the background.

In fact it was like reality itself was our background. We were the show, the escape. A brief bit of levity and normalacy in a crazy world beyond the ability to be reached. This was the show and for forty minutes I imagined people stopping and the planet's heart rate lowering as we dragged in the night's catch.

It wasn't much really. Maybe a hundred fish outnumbered by ocean trash. But it was exciting nonetheless. To have fought the outgoing tide and come up with food as the receding water revealed old ships wreaked by the ocean, their mysteries enhanced by the glow from the moon.

"Have some fish," they said. "I'm going home, thank you," I responded. They had given me enough. Close curtains.

The earth had been dry for longer than I had cared to remember. After months of living in a dryer-machine like atmosphere one's brain becomes numb to the heat. Most especially during the peak hours from around ten o'clock to four o'clock. What would back home normally be considered the most productive hours of the day is reduced to a hazy, narcotic like heat trance forcing all ages outside under the nearest mango tree. It never ceases to amaze me what the human body can become acclimated to. And while heat is certainly acknowledged, accepted, and feared, in its ubiquity it is not even an issue but just a physical fact of nature, like gravity.

This was the scene for nearly four months throughout the long dry season. And this fact of life was mercifully broken for a short day by a righteous rain that changed my understanding of what I had always thought was just water from the sky.

Rain is a simple enough concept. Back home, every so often some water would fall from heaven and interrupt our outside activities. At best a nourishment for the yellowing lawn and at worse, and more frequently, a cessation of the enjoyment of the greater outdoors. In Benin not the case.

The big sky was already starting to look angry as I began the walk to school. I had wondered if the kids would show up during a rain storm, especially with the other teachers striking, but responsibility reared its ugly head and I was compelled to take the walk anyway, poncho in hand and binder in the other. Halfway there the slow pitter patter began to increase and I was obliged to suit up. By the primary school I pass on the way this pitter patter had become a downpour. Buckets upon buckets, falling and falling and falling. What I had always thought were dusty creases in the trail become flowing rivers and I imagined tiny towns being carried away in the current.

How different the scene now was as I looked around. The fogginess instilled in my minde by the long dry season's heat had seemed to be lifted and my eyes were new. The laughter came slowly, seemingly answering the pounding of the rain and by the time the poncho was off tears were in my eyes as I could hardly stand due to my cackling. It wasn't funny...Well, maybe a little. At least the thought of how ridiculous I looked in my poncho whilst walking to school. But the laughter was more caused by joy or reverence for the rain. I'm not a farmer, but almost everyone else is in Aklampa and I get my food from these farmers. No water, no food. But then again, the joy I was feeling in my soul wasn't just a, hooray I can eat!-feeling, it was something more primordial. A realization that for at least one more year, the sky hadn't forgotten us. Water fell, like it has always done, and though the dry season tried again to fool us into giving up hope, the heavens opened up and acknowledged us. Hope springs eternal, especially when the spring is the sky. I could hear the children pounding out beats on the desks before I rounded the corner to my classroom and at the sight of me approaching an uproarious shout was let out by the students and the beat stoutly held its line, trying to answer the gratifying noise of rain on tin. Dusty orange and red had already began to change to deep brown and green, signs of emerging life. The smiles on the children confirmed what I had thought on the walk to school. We are born again in Aklampa.

The Cotonou skyline is nonexistent, the city being simply a series of concrete buildings carpeting the beach along the bight of Benin. And yet, I still felt like a farm boy in times square as I look for a zem to the bureau. What a difference living at post will do to one's view of modern conveniences like traffic lights and other new fangled contraptions like running water is quite impressive.

My first trip to the nation's economic nerve center since training. Pizza, internet, movies, all things to be had in this city and to confuse me with their exotic nature. To further complicate matters, the novelty of my being white/foreign/American does not quite exist in this more cosmopolitan center of commerce, where I've become just another face in the crowd. The brief weekend respite from the countryside, while fun, also serves to get me excited to return to "normalacy" back in Aklampa. What need have I for hot water when I have my trusty bucket back home? Who needs to watch "Desperate Housewives" when I have th drama of an adolescent puppy to entertain me (Quite large now, how fast they grow!)? Besides, the new semester has gotten underway and my kids must hit the books. Like all good things, city life is good in moderation here in Benin. The sprawling sore that is African urbanity is better left sequestered down south, to be visited once in a blue moon and only with the intention of a brief stay. In short, Aklampa edges out Cotonou in terms of quality of life, at least community wise. The Mahis up north are more relaxed than their Fon brothers down in the south, and appreciate a salutation more as well. So thanks Cotonou for trying, but I choose you Aklampa.

Just to that tree. That's as far as I'll go. Well, Naturally, I'll have to turn around afterwards. But no farther than that tree. The fields had been trotting by me as I made my way through the country-side, all willy-nilly and what have you.

How far is it anyway? Maybe that's why I asked? Only getting there ever really answers that question. It's fun to speculate but it's the getting there that actually proves it, the "it" being what I don't know. The journey, the quest, the adventure. That eternal voyage where the story lies.

What's it like when you get there? Well, it turns out it's just a tree, as expected, and then I turn around. Is there a new goal? A new vision for my eyes to feast upon? If there is, it's only in my mind. Heck, isn't that what makes a goal anyway? The fact that it's there, in your mind.

While the goal may not be visible, the journey sure is. I see it. Stretching out before my strides. In a blur by me as I pass onlookers with their mouths open and landscapes burnt dry by the scorching sun.

An old woman stops me as I approach. I passed her on my way out and, just as I said in local language, I'm back. She shoves some peanuts in my hand and we say our goodbyes. I couldn't help but take the nuts, the novelty of running with a handful of nuts suiting my comic disposition. What's more, their presence added a rhythmic backbeat as I bounded up and down on the sandy road back to village.

The unbaked clay fetish is still there, as it has been for countless years, as I approach the village limits. Phallus pointed at me, locked and loaded, and a devilish grin, half welcoming half menecing, greets me as I approach. Legba, this region's Pan, Coyote, the trouble maker. I try to stay on his good side more often than not, to varying degrees of success as friends and family can attest. I pass him smiling, mimicking his grin, as I always attempt to do.

Still no goal in sight as the hills recede and signs of habitation increase. Unless, of course, you count the mind's eye. And that, in any regards, is rather shrouded over with thoughts. Dancing Zangbetos mingle with two stepping loved ones and memories of long ago. Regrets and hopes meet in a terrible tango only assuaged by the salutations of my neighbors as I pass.

The goal is made mental by the journey because the journey is so ubiquitous. It envelopes you, surrounds you, chews you up and spits you back out. It hits you, hugs you, knocks you down and builds you back up. Running makes that clear. It's Reader's Digest for life. As I approach my house, I almost wish that it doesn't materialize. That it somehow will stay hidden so I can prolong the journey. But it doen't work like that. It'll show and I'll have to forget all of these thoughts for another twenty hours or so. But ca rest tomorrow. And who knows what the goal (or should I say journey?) will be then.

Camera panning out, view of the cliffs in the background as the sun sets and the horse cart begins to trot away, roll the credits and cue the applause. Your standard ending for most epic movie endings, right? How lucky then, that I got to experience this phenomenon as I left God's gift to Mali, the Dogon country. Perhaps I'm being a bit unfair, the divine Power that be was kind enough to grant Mali a plethora of amazing sights, and somehow lil ole me managed to see a fair share of them; the Niger river, the Djenee mosque, etc.

But I digress, this post is about the Dogon country, a place bigger than a stopping point on my hectic vacation. Rather, one of those places that you just have to see to understand. I had never thought that tourism and traditional cultures could exist so close in tandem but, for the moment, the Pays Dogon is managing to market its incredible natural beauty in a beneficial way, both for the indigenous inhabitants and for those lucky enough to venture out here.

The Dogon chose the cliffs of the Bandiagara for its beauty after traveling around central Mali for many ages. I, for one, don't blame them. One would be hard pressed to find a country more awe-inspiring and spirtual in nature. From the cliffs one sees out over the river (dry for half of the year) and beyond that what is left of the "forest", as the desert in the far distance ever encroaches on the natural rock faces that are these people's homes.

Within the cliffs are hidden more villages and fairytale landscapes just as suitable for a J.R.R. Tolkien novel as for a Louis L'amour western. It was hard to not break into a sudden game of cowboys and Indians as Baba, our guide and friend, took us through what are his stomping grounds and his livelihood.

We waved by to our new friends from our horse cart as the driver began to pull away, the marketplace and other guides came out to wish us on our way. The cliffs stayed with us for sometime but eventually, as we continued, they sank beneath the horizon, following the setting sun and leaving the horse and us in a moonlit landscape with the wind whispering in our ears. Baba's story of the Tellum, the forest people who had lived here before the Dogon, was still fresh in my memory. "Why did they leave?", I asked. "Because we cut too many trees down." And still they cut. Even Baba himself has noticed how small the "woods" are now compared to when he was a child. It was hard not to notice the sand blowing in the wind and the few remaining bastions of skinny trees as we approached the more arid hinterland of the Pays Dogon. The Tellum have already left after trying to teach their lesson, with hope the Dogon will not follow.

Ah, Parakou. The city of lights. Well, not quite, but it's still something for a country-boy like Monsieur Robert coming in from the hills of Aklampa. Flu season is upon us it seems (they get that here?) and that means the backwater folks get to come into the burgeoning population center that is Parakou, a glorified dustbowl during this time of year, for their government mandated stabbing. Minerets replace steeples in this part of the country and shawls replace braids, it being a more Muslim influenced region than in the dirty south. Parakou has become quite the loci for us TEFLers over the last two weeks as it was just seven days ago that we were all here for our brief respite from the school year known as PSW (Personal Strategies Workshop). Thanksgiving, that ancient most American of holidays, found us all together and we had quite the fete, stuffing a guinea fowl in a duck and then stuffing the afformentioned amalgamation into a turkey tastes better than it sounds and throw in some mashed taters and home is just a taste away. The walls of the workstation sufficiently insulated us all from the prayer calls and zemijohn drivers as we all pretended to be back home. As trite as it sounds, there is a lot to be thankful for. Just a brief list to whet your appetite; showers, books, my dog, my family, my friends (old and new), and just plain being. Perhaps another thing to add to that list is movies, it never ceases to amaze me how awe-inspiring movies are after being au village for a month. For a culture shock it's always fun to take a walk outside of the station immediately after watching "I Love You Man" or "The Hangover". Sufficiently inundated with American popular culture and rearmed with new reading materials, Aklampa is calling. A la prochaine Parakou.

The sun rose sharply over the rocky hill, its luminance made less searing by the Harmattan winds billowing in from the North, which makes the atmosphere a smoggy collection of Sarahan sand particles. The trees crowded around me and the rocky crag of a colline I was on in a very African way, erasing my momentary wondering of where I was. I was in Benin, waking up on a local hill close to the village, seeing the day stretch itself and my new world awaken, life is good. Perhaps the understatement that best defines my experience here thus far, life is good.

The great outdoors is something different in America. A slogan for an air freshner, a poster in a classroom, here it's just everyday life, a fact made more clear to me by my first camping experience in Benin. Maybe that's why it was so hard to explain what we were doing sleeping out on the colline to the neighbors. "You're doing what?","What's camping?","You're bizarre, but nice." (That last one being my favourite response). It's strange to think that in America we've become so far removed from the outdoor experience that we've created an entire sporting lifestyle, complete with packaged goods and industrialized retail processes, called "camping". Camping, the hardest word to translate for me thus far. I settled on "faire du sport", as much as that falls short of the intended meaning. Either way, it was worth while. The "wow" moments seemed to multiply as the day went on, a fact owing, I think, to the fact that I was their for the day's birth, the nightly struggle of the sun against the night had been won yet again by the sun and life could go on. Marche day, Parakou bound; all facts making my day worth mention, but made all the more insignificant and wonderful at the same time by that red sun peaking over the hills. It's time to get up Brad.

Every little boy knows the voice. The internal dialogue of an announcer calling out the name of a young sports hero as he takes the field. Practiced in school basketball courts and baseball diamonds nation wide, this young boy is no exception. Such was my delight to relive the dialogue this year at the Aklampa students versus teacher soccer game.In my head the public announcement, after a rousing rendition of the Michael Jordan intro music to get the crowd on its feet, went something like this, "And now, from the United States of America, your new English teacher! Monsieur...MOCK...Robert!"Needless to say, the crowd went wild as I took to the dusty Lago field for the final two minutes of the match. The air was electric as I almost was able to touch the ball while sprinting up the field, I'll get it next time boys. While I didn't get to play much in the game, a measly two minutes at the end of the game, I was happy enough to get the nod from the coach, and to show off my speed to my colleagues, the hope being that they'll realize what an offensive weapon they have to use. While I may be a bit rough around the proverbial soccer (or "football") edges, I feel that I have potential and I treated the game as a very poor man's version of the NFL combine. Look out for me next time students! I had to squeeze into the team uniform, a blue ensemble with a corn cob on the front and "Que Le Meillieur Gagne" emblazoned on the right chest and us teachers fought those darn kids to a pretty good nil nil draw.I was happy enough to run around as close to the sideline as possible to be further inundated with adrenaline as a result of the roar of the rabble rousers enjoying the game. Besides my new amateur athletic career in the Collines, I also have a new roommate. Charley the lovable Beninese dog, a cute puppy given to me by a local Canadian and fellow Yovo is my new constant companion. While a bit too young to be used to harass the local neer-do-wells, he is cute enough to stop a thief in his or her tracks. That a boy Charley, kill 'em with kindness. Who needs a soccer trophy with a dog like this?

I could feel my eyes begin to well up as my brain chemistry was transported back to being a five year old boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. While I have been known as a sensitive guy I won't blame my sensitivity this time, no way no how sir. Rather, perhaps a lethal combo of not understanding the language and something akin to homesickness, and yet not. We'll call it foreign fatigue, alliteration trumps convention.

The problem at hand involved my being caught, like a bandit, emptying out my uneaten bowl of flour and water, somewhat of a staple food here, and the food given to me when I returned from a bank visit to Savalou. To add to my uneasiness was the complete lack of blood flow in my derriere due to the long moto ride. While the charm of riding a zem is undeniable, it begins to wear off after the twentieth minute.

I had thought that things were all hunky-dorey with my elderly neighbor/proprietor but it turns out that hell hath no fury like an old wrinkled woman. My colleague informed of my faux-pas and I was forced to face the lion. After a litany of Fon words had been thrown my way Grande-Maman broke the otherwise awkward moment with strange song and dance routine, which I was thankful for. My spirit was instantly lifted. Apparantly, it was a song that kids sing here when they get caught doing something bad, e.g. throwing out there strange flour porridge concoction.

Happiness became me, but I was still a bit shaken due to my road weariness and "foreign fatigue". It turns out everything is okay with my Grande-Maman. Like most things in this country, people begin with shouting and end with laughter, a custom I heartily admire. Dinner with my colleague allowed me to put things back in perspective and the moon and stars did the rest. I'm sure the palm wine helped as well.

A moon halo was my constant companion on the walk back home, where I greeted Grande-Maman warmly, no harm no foul I suppose. Sleep was ushered in by the whistling sound of the zangbetos in front of the temples, as deep night took hold in Aklampa. Remember, like America, if Maman ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Aklampa, like most things in Benin, is hard to describe. In the middle of the country and straddling the split in the national highway (highway equals paved road), the super-village acts like a coin spiral donation thingie (is that what they're called?) found at museums and the like, sucking in the produce from Benin's bread-basket and then sending it out to the rest of the country.

One month down here and I've managed to find internet access in the nearest town on the gadron(highway), Glazoué. School has commenced, slowly but surely, and I'm becoming quite acclimated to the laid-back attitude of my fellow collegues, who act more like the cast from "Saved By The Bell" than like American teachers.

To give a brief recap of my adventures thus far in the shining citadel of Beninese academia I'll start with the "first" week of school. This consisted of the teachers hanging out whilst the soon-to-be students hacked and weeded their way through the overgrown savannah that is CEG Aklampa.

After the first week "netoyage" school could begin to take flight and thus far I am thoroughly enjoying it. Highlights so far include name tag making, roaring like a lion to demonstrate what a lion is, and kicking a few neer-do-wells out of class, that oughta teach 'em! I rule with an iron fist! Not really, but I've managed a pretty good classroom thus far.

The village itself has been just as welcoming and it never gets old to simply walk around outside to saluier the neighbors and make new friends, who are fast dissappearing due to my prodigious canvassing. My place still lacks some basic amenities like a bed and a table and right now resembes an austere college room. That being said it has major potential and I've already commissioned the carpenter to go to town, so to speak, ou bien, go to village.

Food, while delicious, can become monotonous and a bit trying on the intestines but I would still rank it as good, as of right now that is. In Benin, when sampling new foods, I find it better to simply put it in and swallow before asking questions, this circumvents the brain's pesky warning flags and generally makes food more digestable, at least on the surface. The favourites so far in terms of food are 1) mashed yam, 2) tapioca with lots of sugar, and 3) yam fries. The fruit is also delicious, especially pineapple. Papaya, while tasty, has some later side effects that are for the most part worth avoiding.

A bike ride around the terre rouge surrounding the village is fast becoming my favourite pastime. The sacrée forét with a giant tree residing in the middle like a king in his court supplies a much needed burst of fresh forest air that cools the body as well as the soul. Also, if ever I'm in need of a moment to reflect and get a "wow" out, the vistas along the road do just the trick. "Bon arrivée" or "kwabo", the farmers will shout, and I'll simply nod with a silly grin on my face.

"So help me God", these are the last words of the Peace Corps oath, an oath that fifty of us took yesterday morning in Cotonou. What help?, one might ask, and I suppose only God knows the answer to that as well. Either way it is a chest full of fresh air to finally be in Benin as a Volunteer. That is correct, stage is officially over, meaning that today is my first as an official Peace Corps Volunteer, my boss is that disgruntled lot of Americans known as "taxpayers" (thanks guys).

Whats next then, eh? Well, for starters, all of my metaphorical roads lead to Aklampa, my Royaume nestled in the collines of the aptly named départément, Collines (akin to naming Michigan Hand-shaped, how quaint!). Departure time for tomorrow morning is eight-o'clock local time, meaning we should be on the road by ten and with luck, in Aklampa before sundown.

As much of stage was a hassle, it has certainly been a much needed hassle as I've learned so much in the past nine weeks. What is more, I'm sure I'll miss the structure of stage (and I'm being generous with the usage of structure here) once I get to post and will undoubtedly be left to my own devices, Aklampa look out!

As we all scatter to the four corners of Benin it'll be bitter-sweet to part with new friends. After all, parting is such sweet sorrow. The first three months at post are known as lock-down as the Volunteer is not allowed to leave hisher post for anything other than "bank trips". Bien intégre is the goal here and I look forward to the afforementioned task whole-heartedly. As Aklampa lacks electricity this will be a bit of a "Peace Corps Dark" time for me, meaning I'll not be very connected to the rest of global society, yet another aspect that has my Id grinning with delight.

Porto-Novo has been a great host for me during the past nine weeks and while I won't miss the pollution or the honking I'm sure to miss my host family who has been nothing if not kind and welcoming to me. The hot season is just kicking off here and I can't help but extract some symbolic meaning from this. As the season warms up, we as Volunteers are finally warmed up. Our bodies and minds somewhat attuned for life in Benin and ready for our service. I'm sure a more eloquent person could come up with something better, but that will have to suffice for now. The umpire has shouted "play ball!" and we're taking the field. Du courage!

Erected on the beach in front of me stood a massive arch, recalling the splendor of l'Arc de Triumph in Paris, complete with a processional path up and through its massive center. Through the arch stood the ocean, sparkling blue as it had four hundred years ago, when millions of people were taken from their homes and transplanted thousands of miles away in the Americas. Engraved on the arch are images of people; former farmers, warriors, smiths, mothers, daughters, fathers, sons; solemnly facing the ocean and what lies beyond, their backs to Africa.

This is la Plage de Non Retour, the Beach of No Return, built as a monument to the the crime of slavery at Benin's former slave trading center, Ouidah.

Benin was not the largest supplier of slaves but the country does rest in the geographic center of the region most impacted by the slave trade, west Africa. Close to ninety percent of African-Americans' ancestors were of west African extraction, a fact which made this trip all the more important to me as this was not just a world history lesson but a walk through America's hidden history, part and parcel of our national story. Nothing can be more moving than to look at the ghosts of our past and slavery is nothing if not the skeleton in America's closet, the ground zero of our infatuation with race and racism.

The sound of the ocean has a waxing philosophic sound, and I was obliged to simply sit and listen. I don't don't know what for, but to just sit and take it all in. We were all on the beach as Americans, no matter what our background was, and this beach is as inextricably linked to what made us a nation as the Old North Church at Boston is, or that lonely field at Gettysburg is. There are times when words cannot do justice, and this is one of those times.

The smell was less than flattering as we descended the van and found ourselves on the "dock" area facing Ganvié. I attempted to be lenient with my evaluation of the place as it was after all a lakeside market, specializing in smelly, if tasty, creepy crawlers. Also, it was nice to again smell fresh water and fish in the air. My leniency began to dissipate, however, as the locals began to pester us for "cadeaus". "S'il vous plait, monsieur. Donne-moi de l'argent." It was somewhat amusing to brush these folks off by asking for my "cadeau" first but after the hundredth request my response had turned to English so as to allow me to better express my annoyance, to the utter incomprehension of the beggers.

It isn't fair to portray Ganvié as a collection of people just asking for money. After all, it isn't there fault that white people line up to be boated through their city to a few souvenir shops and then leave. I would probably be annoyed by this common intrusion as well. And many people were quite open in their contempt for our presence, by twisting their faces up when they saw us or by hiding their faces, thereby making it impossible for the savy photographer to document their life. I found myself more admiring these people than the children openly asking me for pens or candy or money or whatever I would throw at them. Don't worry, I didn't give in, no "cadeaus" were given on my part, except my presence in this water town.

To be fair, Ganvié was a very beautiful community. The lake made me think of Michigan and my erstwhile watering holes and that reminiscence was well worth the trip. While it is a longstretch to compare the village to Venice (for one there are no pigeons or opera houses) the simple beauty in how people live was quite humbling. There is just something about being apart of a tourist racket that leaves an acrid taste in my mouth, especially one so far removed, seemingly, from the people it profits off of.

It is my hope that Ganvié (I'm not one hundred percent sure on the spelling) will find a better way to cooperate with the tourist industry, one that is conducive to encouraging dialogue between people rather that operating like a zoo. If not, then it might be better if the rest of the world left Ganvié alone.

Yet another blog post, how redundant Brad. Pardon the interruption, but seeing as in only two weeks I'll be in le Royaume d'Aklampa, sans le courant électricitie mind you, I figured I would use such modern conveniences as the internet rather liberally. That's right, just two more weeks and life as an officially licensed Peace Corps Volunteer begins. Where does the time go eh?

While model school this week seemed to start off a bit bumpy it did manage to go out rather peacefully and for that I am grateful. I do really feel that we are all making so much progress together as we near the end of our incubation period together. There is plenty of room for improvement, but isn't there always?

Tomorrow all of us TEFLers head out to Ganville, the Venice of Benin I like to call it. I'm pretty pumped for Saturdays in general, and when one throws in the novelty of visiting a stilt village in a lagoon my psyche tingles with delight. Perhaps too graphic of a description? Either way, I'm excited about it.

Tonight is a friend's birthday and all of us teachers are all getting together to fete the person right. I look forward to swapping stories of students who, unbeknownst to them, made hilarious sentences in English (par exemple; "do you mind milking the fridge?", "When I am angry I beat my sister" and "If I could fly, I would"). Kids do say the darndest things, especially when they can't speak English. If only there was a French blog to make fun of my linguistic shenanigans then this Karma circle would be complete!

In short, Du courage, as I'm so fond of saying. I'll try to look up a more local expression to share with my occidental friends next time. The sun is blood red now as it sinks over the horizon, à la prochaine.

The days seem to be getting hotter and the workload heavier as we progress through September. What amout of this is based on reality and what amout is due to the patina of restlessness through which I view my world cannot be said, c'est la vie for a Peace Corps trainee aproaching the end of staging with post and life for the next two years finally coming into sight.

As of this writing we are all currently in our seventh week of the roller coaster ride that is stage (pronounded staajzh, in honor of the francophone world and all its glory). It seems as if the information cannot stop coming at us and soaking it all up has presented quite the challenge. While this makes for an exciting pace to life it also makes for an aching cerveau (that means brain, I need to at least attempt some semblance of French immersion whilst on le internet, Du Courage!).

A good diversion lately from the rote rigamorol of model school has been world cup qualifying and cooking sessions with our new Peace Corps Volunteer trainers. The fighting squirrels (yes, that is their real nickname), you will all be happy to know, fought Mali to a one-one draw yesterday. I'm not quite sure what that means for the team (it was the first game of qualifying for mon nouveau terre d'habitude), but it is better than a loss.

On Friday us TEFLers had the annual Iron Chef competition at the SED-TEFL house. In a close competition between three teams mon equipe was able to land a second place finish. I attribute this "victory" to my staying out of the kitchen. I did manage to haggle us some cinnamon for some bon cookies, bon appetit!

The next day was burger night for the SEDers (that's Small Entreprise Development for you civilians). They were kind enough to let us teachers-in-training tag along and sample their American cuisine, bon travail to them. Unfortunately I was unable to stay for the feature presentation of "Star Trek" as I had to haul my gas tank back home after having used it in the competition on Friday.

I suppose it's a good thing to finally be settling into life on this continent. Gone is the constant sense of awe as I walk around the streets. As comforting as this may all seem, I know that it is not to last long as my life at post (le Royaume d'Aklampa) rears its heliopic head. And while Porto-Nova may have lost some of its exotic charm to me, there are still those moments of awe managing to work their way into daily life. C'est la vie. C'est l'Afrique.

My name was the first name drawn from the hat. While I had known that I wanted to go through with it from the beginning, it was still a bit disconcerting to be the first drawn. We had all decided to draw names to decide who the five would be to deliver our five chickens to kingdom come, kingdom come being our famishied tummies.

Now I've never been squemish about eating chickens. In fact, I make it well known that I cherish chicken consumption. That being said, surburbanite that I am, I've never delivered the final blow to a foule, and that has always been fine by me. Until today that is.

I attempted to stay calm and respectful as we walked outside carrying our chickens. I'll not lie, I was tempted to say "dead chicken walking", but the urge soon passed as I looked at my large feathered friend. Large might not be the correct word, the chickens here are muscular and mine was the bulkiest of the bunch, able to leap tall coops in one brawny bound.

For some reason I went last. While this allowed me to take mental notes on the other slayings, it also allowed me to reflect on the ultimate sacrifice this king of chickens was making for me, although I supposse it wasn't really a sacrifice as I was consciously choosing to kill him. Either way, I took the opportunity to wax philosophic and imagine the thoughts of my poulet, comme on dit.

The final moment came and it was curtains for chicken. I'm proud to say that he went stoically, like a vrai roi des poulets, and shamed the other lesser chickens, who by this time were wrapped in a heap with their necks cut open. In line with the local Muslim custom, we cut all of their throuts over a hole in the ground and then covered said hole with a rock. I'm sure there is a deep religious symbolism in this but it escapes me at the moment.

Cleaning and preparing the chicken was a much more involved process. I felt like a med school student using my pocket knife to carve out the intestines and other goodies in the chicken. The whole process was really rewarding as oftentimes people are fooled into thinking that their food comes from the grocer's as oppossed to from a living breathing thing. Someone famous said, "a gentleman should stay out of the kitchen", sorry someone famous.

Next step is a goat, and I don't think I've graduated to that yet. Maybe I'll skip goat and go straight to cow. Who knows, I'm open to suggestions. My host brother asked me what I thought about killing my first chicken, my response, "mon prémiére, pas ma dérniére." Chicken-0, B.R.M.-1.

Maman generally clou clous (knock knocks) on my door around six o'clock. While this may sound a bit spartan it really isn't that bad considering that I generally hit the hey around nine o'clock. On a good day I'll manage to get a run in before my bucket shower. Early in the morning is much easier on the lungs I find as running at any other time would be tantamout to smoking a pack whilst jogging, not something coach recommended to me back in the day. I usually am able to get a high-five out of a man who hangs around the gare on my run and at least a few runner's waves from fellow high-speed pedestrians along the way.

After returning from one of my routes I'll partake of the bucket shower. This is really fun as it involves me dumping cold water on myself, and yes I am serious. Cold water is a great way to wake one's self up and after a quick yelp of shock the water is fine anyway. Breakfast is usually a fried omelette, bread, and a cup of café instantanée. While I do love the omelettes every morning, by my eating them I generally negate my early morning exercise, but no matter, a guy has to eat.

The streets are a bit more hectic as I bike to school, but nothing unmanageable. School is school and I'll spare the nitty-gritty. Suffice it to say that I'm learning a lot and yet have much more to learn. Model school has started meaning we get to sharpen our teaching skills on real live youngins'.

For lunch we generally choose between an avocado sandwhich, spicy bean sandwhich, eggs, fish heads, beans, rice, or spaghetti. I generally pick a combo of the afformentioned Beninese food groups, one I generally stay away from, I leave which one to your imagination.

After school we might hang out at the cyber or the buvette or both in no particular order. Back at home I'll hang out with the fam, mange some food, and watch dubbed Spanish soap-operas. They're pretty great, the soap-operas that is, due to their extreme stereotypical plot lines and organ music, someone better win an award for "Destins Du Couer", my personal favorite. I'll generally top the night off with some reading or lesson planning and then wake up and do it all over again with a few quirks and deviations from the norm (I've left said quirks and deviations out of my description).

Happy month long anniversary to Africa and me. I must admit that it seems ages ago that I left home. So much has been crammed into the past month, so many new sights and sounds, that it is hard to keep track of them all. One of the many benefits of keeping a journal I suppose. That being said, I can still clearly remember meeting everyone in Philadelphia when we all began this journey together.

Post visit has been the big news here. All of us TEFLers just returned this weekend from a quick little visit to our future homes here in Benin. It was nice to finally glimpse our houses for the next two years seeing as our African experience thus far has been relagated to two sprawling sores of urbanity within thirty miles of each other on the Beninese coast.

For all of those fans out there dreaming your stereotypical Peace Corps scenarios with me , i.e. me in a village with mud huts and straw roofs, your prayers have been answered as that is pretty close to what my village is like. Excuse me, my kingdom, the Kingdom of Aklampa. It is kind of a big deal with a real live king and everything.

I shall amend that a little bit. Aklampa, three small villages located close together, has its fair share of tin roofs and concrete. It even has a few of its own zemijohn drivers, how exciting. And I do enjoy the sights of the straw roofed buildings in town and the eroding structures made of mudbrick, it adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the village life.

After a riveting bus ride up the highway of the nation, Erin and I, directeurs in tow, got off at Glozoue. Our directeurs, by the way, are tantamount to principals over here, essentially our bosses. From Glozoue, Aklampa is a forty minute zem ride through beautiful countryside. To paint somewhat of a picture for you, the departement where Aklampa is has the name Collines, which in French means small hills.

No electricity, no running water, but tons of character. I would describe the Kingdom of Aklampa as an African Andy Griffith show, full of friendly people and goofy relatives. The highlight of my trip was definitely meeting the king, his royal majesty, the brovo to this yovo...unfortunately I do not know his name, but I am sure it is very royale sounding.

After removing my shoes and being ushered into a room with some of my fellow teachers we were all made to bow down on a rug in front of the suppine king. It was pretty intimidating, this was my first audience with a king mind you and I did not want to ruin this first impression. The walls were covered with tapestries of large men threateningly holding weapons and in other seats were older gentlemen eyeing these newcomers with a decidedly stoic look to them.

John, one of my future collegues, translated a rustic French greeting of mine into Mahi for the king and also translated back into French for me what the king had said. The king thanked me for being here and blessed me. The benediction involved me bowing down and the king tickling my head with his royal feather duster, for lack of a better term. We all drank a round of Sodabee to consecrate to deal, a tasty Beninese moonshine. Head spinning from my royal encounter, mayhaps enhanced by the Sodabee, I went out with my fellow teachers to take in the rest of the kingdom.

Needless to say, posting blogs in a village without electricity should turn out to be a bit tricky. Rest assured, however, that I shall pop up every once in a blue moon, if not for everyone back home, then for my amusement. Aklampa is extremely beautiful and nice and I cannot wait to get to know all of its inhabitants. With luck, my next post will be to bring news of my coronation as a knight of Aklampa, Long Live King...?

Before I get started on this post I would like to point out that the keyboard I am using is somewhat different. I cannot find the coma or apostrophe button so I guess contractions are out of the question as are fancy sounding sentences. That being said I shall start the show:

Zemijohns. While the name sounds pleasant enough, even humourous do not let that fool you. These are the business savy entrepreneurs of urban Benin and they know a good business opportunity when they see one e.g. me and other naive foreigners. I knew this when leaving the buvette late one night with my friends but not as well as I now know it.

It had been a plesant night at the club. Aside from the expected pick pocket attempt, no harm no foul bro, everything was great. As we left however this situation began to change. We were six strong at this point and four of us were heading out. We managed to discouter the price down from eight hundred to two hundred after switching drivers a few times, much to the chagrin of our erstwhile operators. To the angry shouts of gilted zemejohn drivers we made our way through the desolate streets of Porto Novo.

The city is so different at night. Bustling markets collapse into quiet streets with the omnipresent black plastic bags, the tumbleweed of Benin, flying through the air. There is a bit of a taboo about the night here. It is a domain for the vodun and egu spirits and priests and young initiates are generally the only ones out, there drums and shouts I often here from my bedroom.

We passed a few police blockades with stoic guards clad in fatigues holding submachine guns, these types are only slightly less intimidating than the vodun fetishists. At our final destination the drivers wanted more francs. While it was dark we were not budging, sorry guys, the price was agreed to. With that we walked away, making sure to securely close the gate behind us. With luck the drivers next stop will be for the vodun types, Karma west African style.

Flush from adrenaline, we turned in for the night. Exciting zemijohn experience has been checked off of the list, and I do not plan on revisiting it.

Family, it's always been important to me and my new Beninese one is no different. Maman, a large powerful woman, is pretty cool. She rules the household like a benevolent dictator and is quick to laugh at me, which I am used to. I have three brothers and one sister. Aziz, 16, Hauko, 13, and Grace, who is probably two years old. Grace is one of the cutest babies that I have ever seen, he could be the black Gerber baby.

Aziz and Hauko and Joelle, my sis, have been real helpful in terms of speaking French. Being that I have the French skills of a dim-witted young whipper snapper, I can better communicate with them than with Maman whose deep voice can be rather hard to follow sometimes.

Yesterday I was able to partake in the age old rite of passage for all youngsters in Africa, playing soccer in the street while wearing sandals. The sandals, I feel, are very important because they enhance one's inablity to be good at football, especially in my case. I look forward to many more shockingly ungraceful performances on my part as my footballer carreer in Africa progresses.

On more note on African hilarity. My first ride back from the school on my new bike the other day was yet another in a string of "pinch me" moments. Riding through the streets of Porto-Novo on a mountain bike, whaaa?! Allow me to paint you a picture, I'm wearing my best Mormon proselytyzer outfit, a yellow tucked in polo shirt and khakis, with my right pant leg tucked into my woolen sock. Classic, I know. As I approached a group of young beninois fooling around on a moto I believe the sight of me caused the young man to drop his moto.

This in turn, led to me falling off of my bike. An attempt at a conversation followed as we both picked ourselves up. The main form of communication through all of this, owing in no small part to my French disablity, was laughter. It really is the shortest distance between two people and everytime we laugh here together the failure to communicate dissappears, and we see each other all too clearly.

For those of you not in the "know", two days ago was Benin's forty ninth birthday. The big 4-9! Pretty young I know. I think it's interesting to compare how they're doing to how we were back in 1825, when the good ole' U.S. of A. was forty nine. While it's clearly not completely fair, what all with globalization and the like, it's still pretty cool to think about it. What is more, who knows where le Republique du Benin will be in another two hundred years? Look out world!

My adopted Maman, Momzilla I like to call her, took me to the parade in my adopted town, the capital of Benin, Porto-Novo. It was quite the occasion with vodun priests and fire trucks all vying for the crowd's attention. Faux rois shared the stage with army generals and mayors in a ceremony eerily reminiscent of New Orleans during festival.

After our return, a family friend took me on a walk through the quartier. While I am generally liberal minded, I like to think, it was hard for me to get over the fact that my friend kept on holding my hand. Apparently it is quite common for men to hold hands as they walk through the streets here and for a nation that doesn't believe in homosexuality ("what is this thing you speak of?") I found it somewhat humorous is not extremely so.

As Odilla and I walked through the blood red streets of Porto-Novo, hand in hand, we came across a festive crowd. We were in luck, for we had stumbled onto a football match. When I say football, mind you, I mean soccer, African style. When I say African style, mind you, I mean on the sand with goals the size of shopping carts. Even then, the crowd was quite into it. It was small enough for jokes to be heard throughout the stands and yet large enough to feed the electricity being channeled troughout the thriving throngs, craning their necks for a chance to see a goal. We were able to see a goal, always a perk in soccer, and for the celebration one would have thought they had won the world cup.

We left the game and returned home, walking past a fetish mama's hut and the passing crowded buvettes packed with people celbrating life and their nation's birthday. The people here and their attitude toward life is astounding. To be thankful to have so little and to laugh with such gusto. La vie est grande.

Another day here in the humid African air of Cotonou. It seems as if I'll never lose my awe of this place. Yesterday I had my first zemijohn ride through downtown Cotonou (don't worry safety police, it was only a training run so we would know how to do it on our own). For those of you who aren't experts on West African modes of transportation, a zemijohn is essentially a motorcycle taxi and is the most common way to get around the bustling city of Cotonou.

What was interesting about this ride was that it was through the more well-off section of Cotonou. I actually saw my first traffic light and all the roads were paved, zut allors! It never amazes me how shocked people are to see a white person in their neighborhood. They will literally stop in their tracks and stare and the kids will jump and shout "Yovo, yovo" with a huge grin on their faces, it's pretty entertaining and I get a jolly good kick out of it.

After the zemijohn ride we did a tour of the market district. While at first I found it extremely intimidating (I can understand hardly anything!), I settled down and really enjoyed taking in all the sights. It should be an interesting experience when I attempt to haggle for my first couple bananas or yams.

My interview with the TEFL (Teaching English as a Foriegn Language) leader was today and it was just great. Maria, a local Beninois, is her name and her energy is so infecting. I can tell that she has so much to share with all of us and I can't wait to get started. In an interesting side note, she says I remind her of her son, so it seems I have a West African dopelganger!

Homestay begins tomorrow so, needless to say, we are all quivering balls of emotion. I can't wait to meet my new family as I'm sure it will be quite the experience. Rest assured that I'll do right by you all and share many stories from home with them, especially embarrassing ones, those are always the best.

Greetings from the land of friendly people, Benin. It feels amazing to finally be in Africa and I'm trying to soak up everything around me. The flight here was long but pretty fun. Also, I hope my scattered brain can be forgiven as I feel like I've been given new eyes here.

I went to church yesterday and had quite the experience. While it was Catholic I don't think that was the main obstacle to my understanding of the operaton of the service. If you think French is tough (and I do) then do not go to a catholic service where Fon and French are preached. Not only preached mind you, but mingled into an indescernable jumble of words, beautiful jumble, but jumble nonetheless.

The novelty of white people was quite the experience for the worshippers there and the preacher managed to work us into his sermon as we were asked to stand and given a round of applause (the woman next to me actually had to tell me to stand, yes my French/Fon is that good). I was also able to shutup a crying baby, as my sight caused his crying to turn into a curious gaze worthy of a Hallmark card. Oh, and they have good music here, who would've thought? In all seriousness, I absolutely loved the music and dancing. I have no doubt that church turnout would be much higher in the states if you took a cue from Africa and got down in the name of God. Praise Him!

Also, everyone will be happy to know that I was able to run this morning. While my lungs may regret it, my legs sure don't. It felt good to stretch out my stride on African soil, and I also enjoyed the stares and shouts of "Yovo!" from the peanut gallery (Yovo=foreigner).

More to come very soon from my new home. I love everyone here thus far and the excitement and commitment is extremely palpable, I like it! Bonne Chance et Du Courage!

City air makes you free, as the old German expression goes, and never has a saying seemed more appropriate. Philadelphia has truly been the city of brotherly love for me these past two days as like minded people gather and exchange aspirations and anxieties for our upcoming trip.

Everyone has been amazing and exactly what I expected from Peace Corps people. I look forward to getting to know them more as our time together continues. How fitting that our last city in the States is Philadelphia, a city rich with history and culture. The second capital of the U.S. of A. for you trivia buffs out there.

To those thirsty for some knowledge I'll drop a few names for you, I'll let you wiki them though, that's the fun part anyway. Good ole' B. Frank (Benjamin Franklin), the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, the First and Second National Bank of the United States (no relation to President Obama's policies), and many other cool things to wake up those brainwaves from the gelatinizing television programs that pass for entertainment these days.

Time is burning, as it always does, and I do believe that I require some more of that city air. I'm not sure about the air situation in Cotonou, although stay tuned for updates. As Benjamin Franklin once said, "Rock on dude," (in more or less words).

The deer perked his head up toward me as I entered the park. I knew that jumping the construction fence was worth it as soon as our eyes locked. "Long time no see," seemed to be what the deer wished to convey to me. After all, it had been quite awhile since my feet tread upon Marshbank, the place where I first fell in love with running. Just like getting on a bike though, the movements came back to me quickly.

With the construction going on throughout the park my friend seemed to realize that we were on the same side. He was as unwelcome in his home, Marshbank, as I was and together we would be the incognito freedom fighters of the park.

Here it comes again, I thought to myself, that irrepressible running urge. The bushes became the stands and the trees in them my spectators, all itching to see what the young man and his quadrapedal companion could do as they wrought havoc with the fury of their feet. This is why I had come back here. The hills maintain their magic even though we might lose ours. The flies nipping at my head seemed only to spur me on faster toward that elusive goal. I'm home boys, if only for one more night.

My last run stateside. Wow! Enough said. I had chosen the run in late afternoon purposefully so as to catch the last bit of daylight and watch the world slip into dusk. As I came up the hill to exit Marshbank I imagined my fellow deer-ninja running in the woods alongside me. Godspeed friend, mayhaps our paths with cross again, mayhaps not, either way I'll not soon forget you.

After delaying the inevitable as long as I could I finally found myself back in front of my house. Mmm, burgers, beans, and America, that is what was on the menu, and the pungent smells of the afforementioned delicacies greeted my sore muscles as I trotted in. The shadows cast by the setting sun played pleasant tricks with my eyes and I was happy to be home, at least for one more night.

All in all, the last run, like most runs, was more than a run. Rather, it was a dip into my idyllic, prelapsarian childhood, when the world was pure and whole, small rather than large, and welcoming rather than intimidating. As my feet may move me farther from my home, I'm sure my cup will continue to overflow, if from nothing else than from this, my last run in Michigan.

I've decided to forgo a mission statement or any other form of structured rules to this page. Plans generally don't go along the desired path and, as has been observed before, I'm no planner, so I'll leave as much room for change and dynamism as possible.

With that being said let me shout out a collective phew for all my people out there, "Phew!" While I'm not in Africa yet it feels good to finally have pushed this crazy boulder down the slippery slope. It's been a long road to get here but hang in there, I do declare that the slope shall get more slippery before it's all said and done.

How strange to be in my peaceful suburban basement as I write these first paragraphs. Yesterday I said goodbye to my eternal city, Ann Arbor. A week ago I was in New York City. One more week prior, Saint Louis. It's a wonder my head is still attached, and I believe it still is...yup, it's there.

So now begins the, how shall we call it, process I suppose, of starting something new. They say that every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end (the first of many song quotations friends) and what an ending this has been!

Thanks to everyone who has been apart of shipping me off right these past few months. Your thoughts, company, and love has been far more than I'm worthy of. It is your love that is my most cherished possession as I start down this road, wherever it may lead, and it is with all of you in mind that I hope to do right by the world. Think of me fondly and I shall return the favor.

Sentimentality, ah how I can smell its thick scent in here! I'll not linger much longer as there is much to be done. Stay tuned for more action packed scenes from the life of a Peace Corps trainee! Will our hero succeed in making his flight on time? What awaits him on the other side of our planet? All these questions and more answered in our next installment of...HERE AND THERE! (Brought to you by our sponsors, Borders bookstore, The University of Michigan-Ann Arbor, the beautiful city of Ann Arbor, my family and friends everywhere, and these United States of America.)

Mock, out.