Merry Christmas

And to my mother, Happy Birthday.

They roar past like ghosts on their tired, choking motorcycles. Harmattan sands cake their skin and clothes. Many peer past clouded goggles protecting their eyes from the intrusive grit. These gray specters fly down terre rouge on their way from Nigeria near the end of every December. It's the rural exodus.

Nigeria's farming and lumber industries pay more, drawing economic migration from all over the country. At Christmastime, however, the migrants come home. The small dirt paths leading to villages all over Benin are crowded with moto-caravans, racing by in groups of eight or nine. Big, eighteen-wheel trucks, carry loads men in their beds. Men who cheer as you wave to them. Men on their way home. They're always blanketed in gray, a mix of ash from the fields being burned and the choking dust clouds of Harmattan.

In Manigri, you can tell when someone has finally come home. In my house I can hear cheers erupting from all over Ikanyi, as entire concessions pour out of their homes to greet their returned brothers. It's difficult to describe. For these men, their entire lives were spent in these concessions, surrounded by multiple inter-married and related families. And then they had to leave. Leave their mothers, fathers, wives, children, to seek work and better wages in a different country with a new language. They bring back gifts, the back of their motos are weighed down with cement sacks; pockets heavy with money. But the real gift, of course, is themselves. And it's not just the concession that celebrates- the surrounding concessions come out. Old mamas, babies, papas, brothers, cousins, sisters rush out of their homes to see the stranger who has returned. It's pandemonium and joy and possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

They don't really come home for Christmas, however, as you may think. Christmas is largely seen as a holiday for children. Papa Noel is just some cartoon character that gives presents to little kids. Of course, most kids don't get Christmas presents as families save their kabri for the New Year celebration, a feast that lasts up to three days. That is the real fête. While I never felt as though we celebrated a religious Christmas in my family, there remains a nostalgia for snow, lighted trees, and the general spirit of love, generosity and kindness encouraged through the season. This is the kind of nostalgia that makes me choke up when teaching my students, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" in class. (I'll chalk this emotionalism up to not having had to endure christmas music, obnoxious advertising or shopping mall santas.)

The new pastor and his wife (of the church directly behind my house) are possibly the sweetest couple I've ever met. Their speech is soft and they shake hands earnestly. I like visiting them to ask them about their chickens, the service, the choir, etc. Last time I was sitting in their house, I glanced into one of their side rooms to see a stack of boxes. The side facing me read, "Samaritan's Purse". Where have I seen that before? I got up from my vastly uncomfortable seat to examine the cardboard boxes. "Operation Christmas Child." No. No way.

I was just talking about them last year in a scattered blog post. My sisters and I would get a slip of paper with the information: boy, age 13. or girl, age 3 typed out on it. We'd fill a shoebox with hard candy, small toys and picture books. It was, looking back, one of the better parts of Christmas. And as I wrote last time, as a kid I knew someone would put in a little book about Jesus and Christianity in attempts to proselytize, but that didn't bother me. The generosity and uncommon kindness to strangers was more appealing to me than any religious basis for the organization.

And then, there they were. Shoeboxes little girls and boys filled with hope for a merry christmas to kids they could never hope to meet. Shoeboxes filled with toys that will undoubtedly bring so much joy, excitement (and confusion) to the homes of children who have only tin cans and matchbooks to play with. I remember vividly helping my mom stuff socks and a toothbrush into a shoebox and wrapping it, wondering about the lives of those children abroad in the Philippines or yes, Africa. And now , staring there I was, staring at the same boxes that I had once wrapped. And I know these kids now. And those kids. It was like straddling the continental divide. It was miraculous to me that in all of the churches in Benin, this small mud-brick congregation was a recipient of Samaritan's Purse, and that I had the opportunity to be on the receiving end of someone else's generosity and charity. Someone else's christmas wish, if you will.

I know there are a lot of people out there who don't celebrate or even particularly like Christmas. I used to be one of them. In the United States it's really easy to see the seedy underbelly of this vastly commercial holiday. However, once removed from the status quo of gift-wrapping, terrible television commercials and nerve-wracking economic analysis, I find myself discovering what the holiday means to me. It's a shoebox, wrapped by small hands in the United States and opened in the bush of Africa.

With that I'd just like to say, Happy Holidays. I miss you all.

Mirror Phase

What is the phase in Child Development Theory that toddlers finally understand that just because someone has walked out of a room, they haven’t vanished forever? The way things changed since I Ieft post have been unsettling; as though I expected Manigri to remain static during my prolonged absence this summer. My ‘sister’ Rafia (17) moved out of Mama's house and to Oke, where she's living with her 'husband.' Mama Victoire is now Mama Ines. The new baby is soft and sweet and smells like every other baby I've ever held. Sidou has a new baby brother, now there is a Mama Edison. Jo Jo is starting primary school, and he was so upset about it he hasn't been the same kid. It’s like he finally realized that at some point he's going to have to stop running through the bush naked. He's going to have to grow up; the inertia of the world is far too strong for him and his big belly.

The last time I was here it was the Fete for Ramadan. I live in an all-Christian concession, and so I had to seek out people to celebrate with. I ended up going to Bassila to see Mazou and a few of his friends. We saw a soccer game and ate at my favorite buvette despite the fact that we were invited to swankier restaurant nearby. Yvette, a tanti from Camp Sucess, was there in meme tissue with her friends. She chasitized me for not calling her to tell her I was in town. I smiled because I knew that it wouldn't have made any difference. She's too much of a big shot for me. Manigri was so loud, the air vibrated. I couldn't hear the bleats of goats over the stereos pumping and pilees pounding. Mama made cous cous and goat that actually tasted almost good. I have never been a fan of her cooking. It always makes me a little queasy. Perhaps it was the goat tooth I found in the bushes after throwing up my first night at post. Or perhaps it's just that she actually doesn't care how food tastes, just that it gets made.

Mama's little buvette literally exploded over the summer. She received a loan from her savings and loans group facilitated by (Danish NGO) Bornefonden. She built a small concrete store, where she now sells a lot of liquor and things such as detergent, cous cous, spaghetti, sardines, mayonnaise- basically all of the things that the other stores in Manigri sell. This has greatly dampened my incentive to go into Oke or even into greater Ikanyi since I've arrived back. Why go searching for toilet paper when... Oh yes, she sells toilet paper too. Just steps outside my door. I can yell from my couch and magically it appears in Gi's hands, his grinning face peering through my screen door. As a result I haven't seen my Nagot ladies in a long time, and I haven't gone to salue anyone but Olivier and the Director. Edwidge and her family moved to another town up north, I forget the name, but the same place she was born. I have no idea who the new pastor is. Papa's cousin in Oke died a few weeks ago, I missed the ceremony. KoKaDa (my cat) is pregnant. It's just so strange to be so estranged from a place that is so strange, and yet I am the stranger.

Also, petit chaleur has begun. Right now the sky is threatening rain and I can see lightning bickering around the edges of my back wall, but it is so bright and hot in the sun. I still have full buckets of water almost every couple of days, which is a luxury I am unsure as to how I ever lived without. Harmattan will be here soon and it will grow cold. I smile thinking about how during December the professors would show up at school in their down jackets and hats, asking me how I liked the cold. I always told them I loved it, that it pleased me, that I thought it was so much better than the heat. They'd laugh and shake their heads at my enthusiasm for the la frecheur. I wonder if it will feel as good this year, or if I too will be showing up dressed like a zemidjian, rubbing my hands together as if over a fire.

I have begun working on planning a bike tour for the Donga Region. I'd like to do about seven or eight hand-washing formations from Bassila to Aledjo and then up to possibly Djougou this Harmattan. After that I will begin planning the "Best Pratices: Camp BLOW and Camp GLOW" workshop for January. Then it's monthly meetings for Camp Sucess and Camp Espoir until July. Oh, and teaching. Of course. And Girls' Club, bien sur.

I have no fear that as I become habituated again I will venture out farther from the confines of my concession and experience more. There are always ceremonies and babies and school activities to go to. There are always people to have late evening conversations with about America, race, gender, development, time and, mostly, the familiar sound of silence. There are a lot of things in my periphery. I just want to focus on the most important ones, which are all right in front of me. My work, my friends, and my life in Manigri.

"We ought to see that the work that needs doing for [the poor] in their misery, not as mere "good work", but as a duty that must not be shirked." Albert Schweitzer.

Au Revoir Nos Cheres Amies

Immediately after returning from the United States, there was Camp Sucess. I didn't have time to go back to Manigri, I met everyone in Djougou with a duffel bag full of tuna fish and ostrich jerky. I had always been told that the highlight of one's service was camp. Within the first day it was easy to see why. The way the girls' eyes lit up when they sang and danced. How motivated and interested they were in every activity- even the more difficult ones. How many of them had never seen a city as big as Djougou, or perhaps had ever been outside of their villages- and there they were, at a cyber cafe in the biggest city in their region, googling Michael Jackson.

My post has had a special relationship with this camp for almost five years. The first Volunteer in Manigri, John, created it with my current counterpart Olivier. Olivier then worked with Carly for two years on the same camp, culminating in a mega-ultra huge wonderful fantastic spectacle known as the current Camp Success, where 12 villages send 60 girls to Djougou for six days. It's the largest girls' camp in the country and also the most intense. By the end of it, there wasn't a dry eye in the room as my girls sang "Au revoir de notre cheres amies", one singer barely able to croak out the refrain, tears streaming down her face.

In teams of eight and paired with both a Volunteer and a HCN "Tanti", they learned about sexual health, stress, the importance of education and self esteem. They spoke to a panel of great professional women, they climbed a mountain, they saw Tata Sambas, they learned the greater art of journaling, they did yoga and sang songs. So many songs. So, so, so many songs.

We talked through-out the planning process about whether or not a girl could come back for a third year to Camp Sucess. It didn't feel right somehow that the same girls could come year after year when in reality we needed to help as many as possible. It was heartbreaking to watch the girls say goodbye to their friends. It was also heartbreaking watching my friends say goodbye to the girls knowing they too would be absent next year. As we do two year tours, so will they. And in between laughing and crying we'll find time to work and teach and learn. (oh yes, I am that cheesy)

Jessica Bruce, Naima Ferrell, Melissa Perry and Benjamin Jakob will all be leaving the greater Bassila Commune in two weeks for their homes abroad. I want everyone to know what an enormous inspiration and help they've been to me this past year, and that no one will ever be able to replace them. I only hope I can do what I can next year to be as half as influential as they have been to me.

I will leave Saturday to work Stage for the new Volunteers who have just arrived. I will not be back in Manigri until likely September. If I am at all difficult to reach during this time I apologize, I imagine a busy and interesting month is ahead.

Coming to America, Coming Home

I feel as though there would be something amiss if I didn't take the opportunity to compare, once again, America and the United States.

I left for Boston the 2nd of June. It was late. With my large army surplus knapsack and small laptop carry-on, aided by my friend Kara, I slowly hoisted myself from the zemidjian and onto the broken sidewalk. My stomach was twitching nervously as I gazed at the large, formerly unfamiliar building in front of me. Kara walked me right to the line to check in and hugged me good-bye.
"Enjoy America," she said.
"I will," I replied robotically, my eyes shifting around to make sure my luggage was safe in front and behind me. Then she disappeared, I saw her blond hair and white arms for just a moment before she shattered into a million pieces and I was on the plane.

The man next to me was a Sergeant with the US Military. I didn't want to talk with him at first. I thought he would try to hit on me. I had been conditioned to not talk to men unless I had to. It's just easier to ignore them outright instead of engaging them and finding it necessary to do so later when they start harassing you to give them your phone number. He was nice. He had a blond mustache. He thought my Nagot was endearing. He was training Beninese soldiers near the Nigerian border. He uniform faded into the gray of his airline seat as I dozed off.

The food. So much food. Every time I awoke, Air France fed me. Dinner, breakfast, lunch and a snack. Real butter. Cheese. Bread. I couldn't touch the wine, worried it would be too rich. Clean, cold water was a blessing in a plastic cup. On the plane ride to Benin the first time, my friends Rich, Bradley and I all got drunk on the complimentary airline size bottles of wine. We were raucous and giddy with red mouths and teeth. I drank because I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep on the red eye flight, never having had to get used to sleeping sitting up. This flight I couldn't keep my eyes open. I didn't have time to watch an in-flight movie or listen to music or read. I just slept, lulled by the peaceful ride and vibration and relative infrequent bump in the road.

At Charles de Gualle I stared in wonder at the series of automatic revolving doors. Thinking about how revolving doors were so efficient. I drank a cup of coffee and listened to my Ipod for six hours, marching up and down the terminal trying to see what I would like to buy. The New York Times was sold out, I settled for the Herald Tribune. I watched lovers entwine their legs beneath cafe tables and harried parents usher small children past men in wrinkled suits with sunglasses. I tried to write. Nothing came out. I was tapped out. Dry. My brain was overloaded in the way that it was when I first arrived in Benin. Culture shock. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want anyone to know who I was or where I was coming from or where I was going. I was anonymous, the way many Americans like to be.

Arriving in Boston I was elated to see David. A pair of cow horns strapped to the top of my knapsack made it difficult to walk, they were almost twice as wide as my body and tied near my neck. People stopped and stared from their cars as we walked to his apartment. I felt as though I looked like a minotaur. I spent two days delirious. When I closed my eyes I'd see JoJo running through the bush, naked, as usual. I'd see my mama walking back and forth from the the house with a pan of water to wash dishes. I'd see Mouda scrubbing laundry beneath the mango tree. Red dust. Roosters. The constant sound of women pounding meager tubers into food. The call to prayer. Then I'd open my eyes and see cars, skyscrapers, white people, glass windows, asian people, curtains, brown people, soft beds, food. So much food. So, so much food.

Finally when my brain caught up with the rest of my body and realized where I was, it was time for all of that good food to make me sick. At a very nice Indian restaurant in Porter Square I suddenly realized I couldn't eat all of those saturated fats and sugars anymore. Perhaps it was a virus or food poisoning- or perhaps I just wasn't used to the way I used to eat. In the United States, food and restaurants serve as forms of entertainment. Eating is a leisure activity, typically served quickly and enjoyed with friends or family in a way that seems more foreign than ever now. Americans don't break bread over the same dinner table as their parents, they're sharing naan at trendy establishments with tall cafe tables and wifi. I can't tell you how many lunches served as 'visits' over the following two weeks.

The next two and a half weeks were a whirlwind of faces, similar questions, toasts, and travel. I saw my family for nearly a week and a half, successfully visiting with all of my sisters, friends from high-school, college and gave a small presentation to my sister Bek's 1st grade classroom. I realized dressed in "traditional garb" (A bunch of panges I wrapped around myself because I didn't think to bring any modeles), and speaking in front of a class of students that I was conditioned to speak with an African accent, my voice slow and consonants softened. I had found my teacher voice, and it was from West Africa. I danced the "chicken" dance, a kind of difficult and awkward dance, in a bar in Albany. I fell asleep into my chinese food in Queens after talking about buruli ulcers. I walked through Prospect Park thinking about sacred forests and urbanization. I complained that my friends walked too fast, were too scheduled, that the subways felt like slave ships. There was no time to sit. I couldn't write, I had barely enough time to sleep. I thought back to my days at the New York State Senate and college, how if I had just one day in two weeks were I didn't have plans it was a blessing. If I could finish a newspaper I didn't have enough to do. I began to see Benin as a bit of a haven, where my time was freer, the faces friendlier, and the work rewarding.

Frequently Asked Questions:

So how was Africa?
-- It was/is fine(?)
What do you eat out there?
-- Uh, grits beaten with a stick until starchy. Sauce made from fish and tomatoes.
What else?
-- ? Whatever I can find.
What is the most messed up/ scary thing you've seen?
-- Why would you want to know the answer to that question?
How do you go to the bathroom?
-- I have a latrine.
So no running water, huh? Wow. How about electricity?
-- Yes, but it does go out sometimes. I'm lucky to have it though.
When do you come back?
-- I don't know. Probably September 2011.
Why not sooner?
-- I don't know. I can't make plans that far in advance. On verras.


I met Chris Kotfilia, a friend who also served in Peace Corps Benin, in the same coffee shop where we used to work together. He asked me what kind of Volunteer I became. I instead just listed every kind of volunteer one could be before deciding that I had no idea. I don't have the luxury of categorizing myself and my work in that way. He told me about how he goes to Chinese markets to try to find West Africans. How he now mentors a middle schooler whose family is from Savalou. We talked about how we didn't want Benin to be 'It', the one cool thing you do in your life; the one accomplishment that you always draw on for your world perspective. He's thinking of traveling, but is juggling first world responsibilities such as degrees and long term relationships. I felt relieved to not be wearing the same cement shoes, even if my feet are tainted red.

After another six days with David, I left for Paris. I said to him as I was packing that I was worried I'd be crying into my complimentary wine hovering over the Cotonou airport. However, the plane was comfortable, even though they fed me too much again. Instead of crying on the final descent, I felt relieved. Benin was going to be my home for the next year, and it felt good to be home.

Small Victories in the Bush

Yesterday I made a point of being difficult as possible as I was packed into the backseat of a taxi tottering back from Djougou. As the driver slammed shut the door I protested, "Chaffeur, this car here, it's a five place. Not a nine place. Now with nine people there, this is dangerous." He shrugged and offered the common response to any foreign complaint, "This is Africa." I didn't let him off that easy. "It is not Africa. It's Benin. You think that in Ghana and Nigeria the chaffeurs put the people in the taxis like this? Absolutely not. It's not like this in all of Africa. It's only like this in Benin. Because the chaffeurs want to eat money. They are bandits. They bouf." (Bouf means to be gluttonous, it can be used for food or for money- it's especially used for bribes) I shoved my hand to my mouth to make my point.

A chorus of voices rang out in agreement, complaining that they shouldn't have to be made to sit like spoons in a drawer. Especially, as one woman pointed out, the old mamas in the backseat, hunched over, their tiny backs spindled awkwardly as they rested against the seat in front of them. "It's us who give you money, chaffeur. It is not you who must decide if there is a place for another person. We are the boss. Not you." The chaffeur started explaining that he doesn't make a lot of money, that with the price of gas and the "taxes" (bribes) he must pay, he only makes five mille (ten dollars) to go from Djougou to Bassila. I was outraged that he would dare to tell me that wasn't enough money. That's more money than even I make. I have to pay him three dollars, an entire day's wage, to go from Djougou to Bassila, typically sharing my seat in the front with some stranger, the stickshift awkwardly beneath me, and stop in every small village- sweating in the hot sun. I don't know why, but I couldn't just leave him alone.

I told him that every day there are buses that go from Cotonou to Nati, and that they are less expensive. That in a bus, you have your own place and you don't need to share your seat. That one day, there will be no taxis because there will be enough buses and everyone will know that the bus is better than a taxi because the driver isn't greedy.

The little mama next to me began whimpering a little, which infuriated me further. My legs cramping, I stood up, with half of my body out the window, and sat on the door. My legs and waist rested firmly in the car. I motioned to the mama to rest back against the seat where my back had been. It was far more comfortable up there on the door, my body out the window. The taxi was an old Peugeout, and sputtered at about 35-40 mph. It didn't feel dangerous. The chaffeur started yelling at me, telling me to get back in the car. I refused. The mama looked worried but smiled at me, perhaps grateful for the opportunity to rest.

And so I stayed there. Big trucks rolled by, the men on top of them yelling out, "Heyyyy Batouri!" I hummed quietly to myself and stared at people staring at me. I thought about grabbing my moto helmet and wondering if this was at all against Peace Corps regulations. At the next petit village one of the marche mamas who shared the three place backseat with the other seven people, including two children relegated to laps, got out and began unloading her chickens and cement sacks from the back of the taxi. The chaffuer got out of the car and stared down at me. I met his eyes and didn't dare blink. He told me to get back in the car. I told him I would only get back in the car if he promised not to put anyone else in the back seat. That five people was too many. Four people and two children were enough. He stared at me a moment, then shook his head and sighed, "Batouri...". I shrugged. I was pretty happy sitting up there, and it didn't matter to me if he kicked me out of the taxi entirely- which I knew he wouldn't do because he wanted my money. "On y va?" I asked. "Yes, let's go." I got back in the car, my face a slightly different color than the rest of my body from the dust. The ladies in the back seat looked satisfied, but I knew they were thinking I was absolutely crazy.

And to a degree, I was a little crazy. It's absolutely acceptable and common practice to put nine people in a five person car. Four up front, five in the back. Somedays though, I don't want to deal with it. It wasn't even so much about my comfort, although that had something to do with it, but the fact that this little old lady was visibly in pain by the way we were crammed in together. It was the idea that the passenger is at the mercy of the driver. It was that we were women and relegated to the back of the bus, as it were. I don't usually take it upon myself to yell at Beniniese people and argue with them, because I know that it won't make any discernible difference. However, sometimes you just want to pick a fight. I chose that taxi driver as my opponent.

And I won.

Waiting for the Man

The first set of devoirs are finished, leaving me with approximately 200 papers to grade this weekend. I was hoping that since the material was something we had covered in great detail, and that I held a review session immediately before the exam, they would do fairly well. Unfortunately that was not the case. Not that they did especially terrible, but I am still coming to grips with lowering my expectations.

I am traveling again for most of June, a trip I am incredibly excited for. To do this, I will have to grade another set of 200 quizzes and devoirs. My Director was very compassionate and kind to allow me to finish the school year early, aided by the fact that I was one of very few teachers (Hafissou and Narcissis included) who continued to teach during the strike. Not that I had a choice, I am an apolitical employee and not paid by the state, therefore I have no recourse and could not participate in the strike even if I had wanted to. I guess I am using this opportunity to procrastinate my grading for just a few minutes, until it is time to sit down with the red pen and grade books.

In Cotonou, my dear friend Bradley Mock and I were out at a bar known as "Sunset", which rests right on the beach, overlooking the oil tankers trudging back from pillaging the Niger Delta. The sun was setting over the water in the West. It was cool and the waves were heading out to sea. A group of young men and women were pulling these enormous, heavy nets to shore. They were singing. We watched for awhile, lost in the fantastic reality of their lives. It was then that Bradley stood up, finished his Beninoise and said, "I'm going to go out there." Grinning and sipping my own beer, I told him he probably had to.

He came back forty-five minutes later, sweating and elated. He told us that when he went out there they were calling to him, "Yovo!" Brad's post is in a Mahi village, and so he speaks decent Fon. He told them, "There is no yovo here, I'm Fofo." (meaning "brother") As he picked up the net to help pull in the fish, against the current, the young men started chanting "Yovo... yovo... yovo..." As he stayed and continued to work, the chant changed. It was only a matter of time, with the rhythm of their pulls, that they began to chant "Fofo... Fofo... Fofo..." When the fish were in, tangled in garbage and tangled netting, they offered him some. He politely declined. There wouldn't be much use for the fish back at the bureau. I feel a bit strange telling Bradley's story for him, he has his own blog somewhere in the Peace Corps Blogosphere. I only hope he takes the time to tell his own version.

Right now I am baking brownies to give to Narcissis, Okounde and Mama's family. It has taken me awhile to get used to the idea of sharing food in the way that I am encouraged to. A Volunteer was telling me that in her village a popular phrase is, "If there's enough for one, there's enough for two." The numbers are interchangeable depending on how many people are sharing the meal, "if there's enough for three, there's enough for four," and so on. Last week, I was talking to a very drunken man in my village who was describing, in broken French and Nagot, about Fou-fou, or manioc, and some kind of sauce I am not familiar with. He smiled with a far away look in his eyes. "That is the kind of meal that would make you full." It was a startling realization for me that very few people have the resources available to them to eat until they are satisfied. Yet they are constantly offering food to share. While I may still guard my precious tuna fish and other goodies sent from the United States, I do see it as part of my responsibility to share what I feel I can share. My sister sent me some protein powder that I mixed with powdered milk and honey that I gave to Luc and Gi until it ran out. Once, while resting with me in my home, Mouda asked me about an apple that was sitting in my basket. It took a long time to convince him that "pomme" was not "pomme de terre", a potato. He had never had an apple before. When I gave it to him, he was so happy. "Please," he said, "the next time you travel, could you bring me back another one?" I was happy to oblige.

There aren't enough nutritious foods here. Not enough vegetables or fruits, even for someone who is supplementing their African diet with Western goods. The ones that are available are expensive. Yet, I find that the more I give, the more I receive in return. Coming home from Natitingou this weekend, I opened my fridge to see a small wheel of wagasi, the Fulani cheese, wrapped in aluminum foil. A gift from Luc. Edwidge, the pastor's wife who lives behind my concession, brings me tomatoes and little bits of corn when she can. My mama is always asking if I've already made food for myself, inviting me to eat with them. I typically decline the offer, as I prefer my spanish rice to her really greasy, kind of gross, food. However, the sentiment is... heart-warming. I do not cook here because I have to, but because I want to. There are more than enough people who care about me that would take care of me if I needed it. I'm slowly learning about living in a communal society. It's people to share food with, to cook with, to ask advice and laugh with. When bad things happen, they're the people that shake their heads solemnly and click in the back of their throats. When someone dies it is the entire village who mourns, and if the person was old enough, celebrates.

I was complaining to my mother the other day about the stress of living in a concession where everyone feels as though they are part of your family. I do not live in a house, per say, but in very large room in a very large home. If I am not up and my doors are not open by 9am, it is my Mama who comes by the house asking if I am sleeping or sick. If my doors are open past 10pm, it is Papa or Narcissis who will call to me to close my door and go to bed. All day I receive visitors from different places in my village. The children in my concession, other teachers, Edwidge, my neighbors, Papa, they all come by to saluter me and ask if I've slept well, if I am going to cook food, what I am doing for the day. Sometimes it's really frustrating when I think back on my life in Albany, when if someone wanted to come visit me they would call my cell phone before coming over. I could rest in my house all day and do work without interruption. I could lie around naked and socialize via instant messaging or email without leaving my room. I miss that independence, to make decisions for myself regarding where I was going and what I was doing. My Mama will absolutely not accept me coming home from Basilla at night, even though I have no reason to believe it is dangerous. She doesn't want anything bad to happen to me, but at 23 years old, I really believe it is my decision. Still, the few times I have done so, because I had school in the morning or just needed to come home, I was apologizing. "Ne pas fâche, eh Mama?" Don't be mad Mama. Your daughter is a grown woman. She needs to be able to do things for herself.

Speaking of daughters, Mama's third oldest daughter, Rafiatou, is pregnant. She is seventeen years old. I have not had the audacity to ask about the father, and I assume someone will eventually tell me. She is no longer in school and spends her days beneath the mango tree, resting on a mat. I don't feel responsible, per say, but the situation does make me think about how the importance of sex education. Rafia is not in my Girls' Club, as it was a selective process. I wonder if the experience of being in those conversations with the Sage Femme about pregnancy, sexual health and female empowerment would have made any difference. It's a moot point, I know, but it's a sad realization that Rafia will probably not finish her schooling now. On a more positive note, I am excited to meet this baby once it comes into the world. (She says she thinks it's a girl, but we'll find out come November)

Back, a long time ago, I used to go to Christian Sunday School. It wasn't that my parents were especially religious, but the United States being a predominately Christian nation they felt it was important for me to gain a good understanding of the Bible. Every Christmas, after the mandatory Christmas Story Pageant, there would be an "Operation Christmas Child" drive, where we would fill shoeboxes full of small toys and candies to be sent overseas to children who would undoubtedly never have seen a Christmas with presents. I know that someone, somewhere, would add little brochures about Jesus and salvation and all that, so children would understand who was sending them these gifts (and why).

I think I would like to do something similar, but perhaps without the Christian overtones. There are a lot of little girls here who ask me if I can help them get a "bebe", and little boys who would love a soccer ball or a toy car. I know I am not supposed to be giving gifts, in fact, I frequently remind people that I am not "Papa Noel". However, the children that I love and have a personal relationship with I feel deserve at least one toy. I know children will play with anything, I see them stacking dead batteries and playing with empty tin cans and making little cooking fires to play their version of 'House'. Yet, just a few baby dolls or stuffed animals, just a few toy cars or picture books with simple French words, would light up these children's lives. I don't know how I want to do this, but it's an idea that I've been slowly mulling over as I see their small hands working through-out the day, gathering wood, cleaning pots, clearing brush, sweeping the ground, and hoeing the fields.

I suppose that is all for now. Back to the grind. Wish me luck!

Scenes of Benin

My Nagot Tutor and Friendly Roadside Peanut and Okra Saleslady


Mama's Stand (palm oil in the front, cookies in the back)


Door to Door Salesgirls (frequently eggs, this time it was spaghetti and condensed milk)


Looking out my front door


The well where I get my water


A lot of these next photos were taken from a moving vehicle
This is on the way from Djougou to Parakou, in the Borgou region.


Kouffo region (notice all the palms, it's in the south)


Mono region (also south)


CEG Manigri!


Kouffo region on the way to Klouekeme


On the way to the stilt village Ganvie, via boat taxi


A fishergirl in a pirogue. Most fisherwomen/men use nets, i have not seen line and pole fishing at all.


The traditional medicine center of Porto Novo. Everything in this photo, from the dead birds on the tables, to the animal skins on the floor, roots and herbs, are used in traditional medicine.


A lot of traditional medicament is comprised of two main ingredients: sodabee (palm moonshine) and sticks.
They use this medicine, which is far cheaper than modern medicine, to cure everything from malaria to sexual dysfunction.
These premade bottles of medicament cure AIDS and Hepatitis in 10 months... I don't really know where to begin with that.


The village of Ganvie, one of the three stilt villages outside of Cotonou in the middle of a large shallow lake named Lake Nokoue. According to Wikipedia the village has 20,000 inhabitants. To travel within the village, villagers take their pirogues (traditional canoes). The coolest thing about this is the marche, where women row their pirogues to a central area with their boats full of fish, tomatoes, onions and piment. Villagers then row their boats up to the edges of the market and barter with the floating marche mamas for goods.
Maybe about seven kilometers from land

Aural Memory

“SUPPER!”

My mother’s voice would ring out like a dinner bell in a train yard. On the table there would be a delicious, cold green salad. On the stove, served buffet style, baked potatoes, steak with béarnaise, corn and green beans. For dessert there would be fruit, cookies or ice cream depending on the occasion.


“Vien, Manger!” or “WA, Kadje!”

The child lifts her sticky hand off pate up off the plate and waves it near my face, bringing the scent of the greasy, mutton and tomato based sauce d’arachide. Cornmeal boiled in water and beaten with a stick until it becomes pure starch, it sticks to everything. Pate Rouge, which is cooked with tomatoes, oil and onion and Pate Noir, which is as far as I can tell beans boiled and then beaten to a similar consistency, are two variations of the same meal. The sauce de legumes, de sesame, d’arachide, de tomate are the usual side dishes. You wash your right hand with water from a pitcher, pouring the run-off into a small bowl beneath. Sometimes there is soap. That’s always nice. You use that hand to grab chucks of pate and with some practice you then whip it around the sauce that settles nicely in a communal bowl. If you are wealthy, or at a restaurant, you can have wagasi cheese, goat, beef, or fish. The meat varieties are barely recognizable as they’ve been fried within an inch of their being and hard to chew. Wagasi is delicious, but difficult to find in Manigri. It is sold wrapped in big green leaves that turn the white skin a bright, beautiful red.


“SA-RAHHH, It’s TIME TO GET UP”

My mother’s voice again, jarring me from the dark haze of sleep. I’d fumble around in my bed, wracking my brain for any reason at all why I could not emerge from my room. I’d tumble out of bed and half crawl, half run to the intercom before my mother could decide to ‘beep’ me. My parents installed an intercom in my room when I was thirteen. The beeping sound, even when done accidentally, still irritates me to this day.

[ a cacophony of animals ]

The animals wake around five thirty in the morning. The roosters and goats must wake each other from their own rumbling sleep to then flail about the concession, screaming. Goats that sounds like small children, roosters that must want to fight everything in sight. And the sweeping. The sound of stiff bristles scraping against the sand.

“You fly, I’ll buy”

A monstrous building in the middle of a parking lot that could be full but once a year. Cars. Shopping carts. Seagulls eating trash. You drive yourself there, park it in a space and then march into the supermarket with the intent of only buying one thing. You emerge fifteen minutes later having in fact bought six or seven. Those companies are so much smarter than you. How did they know you’d find the 2 for 1 L’Oreal Shampoo sale so alluring, and when is the last time you ate White Cheddar Cheese-its? But there they are, in your ‘reusable’ shopping bag. Because you care about the environment and will absolutely use those petroleum-based plastic shampoo bottles again and again. And, I don’t know, fix your car with that cardboard box from the Cheese-its.

“Ouebo! Ouebo! Viens! Viens! Wa-Wa-Wa!”

The wrinkled ladies crouch down over their wares like they’d like to strike at your knees. There are people pushing in every direction, their shoulders digging into your back. Huge trays of food pass above as Marche Mamas with babies on their back walk by, balancing their entire stock on their heads. You argue, plead, and feign disgust over their prices. You walk away. You tell them that you know the real price (even if you don’t) and insist that they don’t rip you off just because you’re white. You reach into your pocket to pay her, and then it is her turn to be disgusted. “Il n’y a pas la monnaie!” They’ll exclaim, pouting at you. You stare them down, and for a moment it’s like the two of you will really fight over this transaction. Finally she’ll break down and shrugging walk off, leaving her stand (safely guarded by the other women hovering around anticipating your business), in search of change.
When you’ve found the gari (manioc powder), the okra (known as gumbo here), and maybe the dried beans you came for an hour later, you head is ringing from the incessant microphone that screeches “My Heart Will Go On” as a midi file, and you’re less hungry than you were when you came. Maybe it’s the goat meat sitting on the wooden stand collecting flies. Or the little girl who is peeing right next to the place where you just bought your vegetables.


“Well, what will it be?”

A gin and club with lime. Jack on the rocks. A martini. A seasonal microbrew, maybe with blueberries or orange slices, from the tap. It’s served to you in a frosted glass. The music croons via a juke box in the corner. There are three different televisions showing various sports games. If you’re a regular your drink is waiting before you walk in the door. There is ice. Delicious, cold ice. Everyone minds their own business for hours. There is no eye contact, no joining a stranger’s table, until those who are scamming to pick up sex for the night are left to feed on one another.

“Je voudrais une beninoise” or “Fu me Sodabee”

The skunked beer in a gritty green bottle. She will bring the beer in a little basket, but for some reason- no matter what bar you are in- she has to go back to the same place she came from for the bottle opener. Liquor is ten dollars a glass and they have no idea how to serve it, and so most of their mark-up is lost. The majority of bars have only beer or soda, the beers being limited to five different kinds of domestic or African imports. No two Beninoise beers are the same. Music pumps out of the nearest television at its loudest pitch, encouraging people to dance but making it difficult to talk. The Tantis sit with the men who they think will buy them sodabee, or perhaps pay for other services. There is no ‘girls night out’ in a society where women rarely have their own income, and so it can be assumed every girl in that bar is looking for the same guy (named John). Frequently someone will sit down with you and try to talk to you, to try to befriend you into taking them to the United States. Or give them money. Or buy them beer. Sometimes their advances are funny, usually irritating, and once in awhile just sad. The bartenders (the tantis) may be the worst of them all, but frequently also the saddest.

Happy Birthday Hannah. Hannah Happy Birthday.

The 9th of March and the first rain is here.

For two days it's been unmercifully teasing. The humidity rises, the clouds gather, flashes of lightning were flickering in the distance. But at 10:20pm, the hot silence finally broke and for the first time since October it rained. Odje. Nagot for rain. I haven't been this excited in a long time. The wind has been wrecking havoc all afternoon, kicking up dust and covering everything in a fine coat of brown, including me. I was reading outside and had to retreat into my house to hide from the small windstorm that made it impossible to see.

I lined up about six buckets beneath my roof so the rainwater could trickle into them. I'll use it to wash dishes and clean the sheen of dirt that has consistently covered everything in my house through the screened windows and doors for months. I'll use it to save Luc and Mouda and myself from carrying heavy buckets of water from the well. I'll use every drop. Water is so precious.Life is so beautiful.

Narcissis and Okounde barged into my house just before it arrived, animated and drunk, to talk about their plans to build a tall wooden fence around our row of houses. Narciss will co-opt students who arrive late to school or who are sent to him by frazzled teachers into building this fence. The labor will be free and we will only need to pay for minimal supplies. They are looking forward to cooking outside and sleeping on mats in front of the house. It is unsafe to do so now. I did not have the heart to tell them that I have a gas stove (They've never seen my house beyond it's elaborately furnished front room) and that I have been sleeping outside when the power is out between my shower and latrine on a cot, my mosquito net hung over the clotheslines.

I had been having an extremely difficult time adjusting back to life in Manigri after IST. It was difficult seeing all of my lovely friends and listening to their stories. My best friend in Peace Corps, my dear Emily MacDonald, is leaving to continue her service in Namibia. I had been depressed that she was leaving. The 107 degree heat and intermittent electricity was of no help either.

However, to bore you with some teaching details, before IST I had broken my classes up into teams. They were allowed to pick their names, and each activity now functions as a competition to earn points. I promised the team with the most points at the end of the year a prize. I think I will do something fantastic for them, but I will not yet say what it is. Anyway, this method has made teaching a lot more exciting for me and the students. They lose points for bad behavior and earn points for answering questions and doing well on exams and interrogations. It also helps that the bulk of my grading for the semester is over- nothing makes me feel more uneasy than staring at a stack of ungraded papers that I know will only make me feel inadequate as a teacher and desperate as a person who hates tedious desk work. I am now in the middle of calculating the averages for the semester, and it's been a pleasure noticing how my grades compare to the rest of the teachers. Either my exams are easier or my students are in fact learning.

Yesterday was International Womens Day. I took ten girls from my GIrls Club to Bassila on Saturday to meet with three other local PCV-run GIrls Clubs in Bassila, Pira and Pennesoulou. The girls had prepared sketches and I was so impressed with everything they had put together. The girls from Pira sang songs and danced, the girls from Bassila did a skit about sexual harassment in schools and unwanted pregnancies, the girls from Pennesoulou did a hilarious sketch featuring the much detested teacher 'Dieudonne'. My girls did a very simple sketch called, "Je suis." Each girl wrote a "Je suis" poem during one of our meetings which we then turned into a larger production where each girl named one thing that she was. Such as, I am a girl, and I am strong. Or, I am a girl, and I am a good example for other girls who want to succeed. I am a girl, and I am intelligent. I am a girl, and I can be the best in every domain. It was cute. We sang a lot of songs, including Rilo Kiley's "The Frug" and a song that proclaimed each volunteer as the mother of a family.

Unfortunately, while at the Maison des Jeunes in Bassila, someone had gained access to my purse and stole my cell phone, about thirty dollars worth of cfa, and about five dollars worth of phone credit. I was pretty upset about it for a short period of time. I just felt so stupid. However, thanks to my wonderful parents I was able to get enough money to make it through the next couple of weeks. When people ask me in village, even those who I haven't told but I suppose found out from others, I just tell them that i'm not upset and that money isn't everything. I suppose it isn't, now that I have some.

My friend Benjamin in Bassila had a visitor this weekend from Hamburg. The three of us spent Saturday night playing poker in a bar in Bassila. It was fun. I took Stephen (the foreinger) to see Manigri. It was kind of nice to have a westerner who hadn't been living here for the past seven months and show them around. He was very impressed by the cows, the flora, and- of course- the poverty. I was talking with our beloved Tanti at Marquis, the buvette I go to with my close-mates, and she told us that she makes 500 cfa, roughly a dollar, a night. Of course, as we discussed in a bit, depending on inquiring male customers, this amount could be raised. He was shocked that even for two dollars, someone could buy a girl. I explained that just about anyone you see in my village makes only 500 cfa on a good day. The women who sell tomatoes at the market, my lovely Petit Mama who sells yams on the road, the zemidjians- 500 cfa a day is barely a wage, but they survive.

I try to stay away from Peace Corps cliches, such as "Ups and Downs" to describe my experience here. However, I find that as it has permeated my perceptions as to my frantic mood swings in this country, that it is the only phrase that will suffice. Despite the fact that I was sad and lonely when I first got back to post, the past few days have been wonderful. Despite the heat. Despite the missing my friends. Despite my cell phone being stolen. I was asked about procuring mosquito nets for a local NGO, and I am going to go see my health center about planting Moringa. There is an orphanage to build in Bassila. There is work to do.

It's Getting Hot in Here

(i am texting this blog post while riding a double decker bus to cotonou. Any grammatical errors must be ignored and all hope for any intellectual scope abandoned.)

First, even though just about all of you who read this never met him, i want to talk about my friend Jonathan Pratt.

You probably know the kind of guy he was. Larger than life. A musical prodigy who flew airplanes and rode his motorcycle on cross country trips at a whim. He wrote exhaustive, meticulous poems in thin black ink. He had a smile that turned the head of everyone in the room and a voice that could break your heart. He didn't walk through the dorms, he strut and swayed, singing The Doors through the halls. He was always reinventing himself while remaining the guy everyone wanted to be friends with. To party with. To play music with. To talk with. He was the guy who when he focused on you, made you feel like you two were seated on top of the world.

When a loved one passes away you're supposed to list their generous, inspirational qualities. People use phrases like 'hero', 'angel', (and 'larger than life') and forget under the niceities, there was a real person. Someone who you loved not only for their gifts but also their faults. It always seemed incredibly disingenious to me, this praise of the dead. I bring it up because i want to try to convince you that i wouldn't exaggerate. If there ever was a Paul Bunyan in my life, it was Jon Pratt.
It was spring in 2005. I was walking from a stuffy lit theory class with my (ex)boyfriend Adam, revelling in the warmth and the sight of lilac blossoms. A wafting acoustic guitar played the most aggressive Dylan i've ever heard. I craned my neck at the sound of Jon's voice. There he was, all six foot three, fifteen feet in the air, perched comfortably on a huge industrial art monstrocity in the middle of the courtyard. Grinning, radiant, beautiful. Adam and i scrambled to the top, to be near him. We sat there for the better part of an hour. Students walked past, grinning outright or with bemused smiles on their faces. It was an afternoon that to this day reminds me of how beautiful it is to be young and in love.

Jon shone in my life for a short three years when he went off with his band to L.A. to record an album. When he came back home he was different, sick in someway we could not identify. He still rapped poetry with the best of us. His fingers still stretched over his keyboard with prolific intensity. But he joked less, his charasmatic smile seemed held back beneath increasingly desperate eyes. Jon killed himself one year ago last week. I haven't been able to listen to Subterrean Homesick blues since without thinking of how when Jon looked you in the eye and smiled, he eclipsed the sun.



A note about comments: apologies are nice, but unnecessary. I'm sorry too, especially for his family. If you knew jon, you would be sorry too. If you didn't, it's really ok. Let's leave it at that.



Chaleur is here. It's been over 100 for the past three days, and i'm sure the worst is yet to come. The humidity is low though, thank god. It still gets cool in the early hours of the morning until the sun rises without all that water in the air. Thank god i was placed in the North.

That's all for now. If i have any time at a real computer this week (doubtful), i'll try to write again.

À la prochain.

"C'mon... Daddy needs a new solar-powered hammer" Erik English

This has been the fastest internet turn-around ever! Mostly due to the fact that Benjamin came to visit me in Manigri a few days ago and brought his computer- and the internet was working. How technology changes all... 

Here's another solemn blog-post for y'all. 

Three days ago, Mama fell while she was sweeping the dirt outside her house.  Sweeping is a daily ritual, between starting cooking fires and cleaning pots.  I doubt there was anything more than just a streak of light in the sky when she fell.  She landed on the hard, mud-topped well, striking her right arm on its thick edge. 

That morning my neighbor Okounde was sitting in my living room, asking me for my help in finding him an American wife.  He was in the process of explaining to me why he couldn't take an African wife, something to do with the fact that he is estranged from his family (and therefore perhaps he couldn't afford an African wife? I didn't have time to ask many questions), when Papa came in.  He asked me if I had anything to help with sprains.  After digging through my Peace Corps med-kit I found an ace bandage and a bunch of ibuprofen.  Once I saw her though, I was pretty sure that this ace bandage wasn't going to do the trick.

Her arm was very swollen, black and blue, and her fingers were fat.  I looked at her skeptically for a second, noticing how the arm ballooned about five inches from her wrist.  "Mama," I asked. "Can you move your fingers?" She couldn't.  I'm no doctor, I thought, but this arm is definitely broken.  (It should be mentioned I feel as though I am an expert on the subject. I've cracked all four limbs on two separate occasions. I know very well what that limited mobility means.)

They can't afford a doctor, so my Papa called a traditional healer who assured Mama, despite my protests, that it is only a sprain. He touched her bones through her tender skin and reassured her that they're in place.  I pouted.  Maybe they are in place, which no one can know without an x-ray, I argued with Okounde, but that arm is not sprained. Not in the middle of her forearm. I gave up after just a few hours- when I realized that the nearest place to procure an xray is in Djougou, two hours away, and that I don't think even I could afford the procedure.  

If that arm is in fact fractured (factured?), it's going to have to mend itself just like every other thing that breaks here: slowly and grotesquely.  I've been in the process of searching for a secondary project in Manigri. I've made contact with a group of women who want micro-credit so they can grow vegetables for the marche. I've had the idea tossed at me to begin a small emergency medical fund. There are scholarship girls.  There's the school science lab. There is so much need; so many things that are broken.  I don't want to be a splint on an arm that will never heal correctly. I want to practice good medicine.  

The main thing they impress upon you during training (Stage) is that nothing here is easy, and everything takes time. For example, I want to show the Planet Earth documentaries at the community center, using a borrowed projector from the Parakou workstation.  I spoke with my Director (and Chief de Village) about this a few weeks ago.  He needs to speak to a number of other people before I can be permitted to make this showing.  Ideally, this project, which in the States would be a matter of a couple of days, will take a month and a half to be realized.  Everyone that could have something to do with either the school, the community or the parents-teachers association, has to be notified of this. They have to discuss their concerns, if any. They have to make sure that there is a consensus among the many.  If you do not go through these channels, I've been assured time and time again, your project will never have the community support it needs to succeed.  Unfortunately, writing checks is the easy(ier) part.  

So while I'd love to set up some small medical or educational fund in my village to help people when things go awry, as they will, I have no idea how to see that idea through. Who would qualify? How would it work? How can anyone prove eligibility in a place without birth certificates, addresses or phone bills? How would I make sure that this fund would see people through more than the two years I am here? And even if this were to successfully created, who would be in charge of it once I left and my ties to the community diminished? 

It's obvious that development is complicated.  Charity is easy.  If I didn't care about the longevity of my projects I could go build some latrines no one is going to use because they'd be in a place where no one cleaned the land (true story).  Or I could build a well to help some lady farmers who will then fall apart as a coalition because the ownership of the well will become too large a burden (somewhat true story).  Or I could build one of those hundreds of beautiful, empty NGO facilities that run out of funding because someone in local government sucked them dry. 

It doesn't mean that I don't want to throw myself through a window every time one of my neighbors is sick or hurt.  It doesn't mean that I don't think about how I would love to pay for those little girls in the market to go to school.  It definitely doesn't mean that I don't feel a little twinge of guilt every time I see Mama's arm, wrapped in a scarf, bloated as Liza Minelli on a bender.  I think part of living First Class in the Third World is that your mantra is, "I can't help everyone".  Which is true. You can't help everyone. But there's nothing that says you don't have an obligation to try.  At least that way maybe you can help someone. The problem is if you try to do so messily, without proper planning and political support, you in fact help no one.    

"We have an obligation to fight for the world as it should be." Michelle Obama

turn up the boombox

La Bonheur: Good Morning Manigri!



Manigri-- Narcissis Last Name Unknown and Likely Unpronouncable has been promoted by the Ministry of Education to the position of Surveillant General at CEG Manigri. This administrative position combines the responsibilities of Secretary, Treasurer and Referee with the disciplinary duties of BDSM sadists. Narcissis, age 26, was overheard to have said, "I will beat them well," them referring to his students. A biology teacher at CEG Manigri, Narcissis knows enough about the human body to know where the pressure points are. "I hear he's a real bone crusher, " said American Peace Corps Volunteer and English Teacher Sarah Pederson. Ms. Pederson and Narcissis have been neighbors since they both moved to Manigri. The two reside in the Professional Building District of Oke, after the Grand Mosque and before the swamp. Ms. Pederson remembers the first time they met, when he asked her to marry him. "It was very sweet. He asked me if I wanted to go running with him a few days a week. When I accepted the offer he asked me if I'd like to take a nap with him afterward. I said no, but now that he's the Surveillant..." Ms. Pederson's eyes grew glassy and she quickly became unresponsive with the thought.

The general consensus is that Narcissis, while new to the job, will nevertheless stay on task. He has already arranged an open house and has beaten several children with a thick piece of rubber rope. "It doesn't hurt that bad," assures one 5eme student who requests to remain anonymous out of fear of retribution, or harsher ass-beating by the Surveillant. "My dad hits me harder."
"These are all children of farmers," explains veteran English teacher and scholar Hafissou. "The way that they are treated at home requires us to utilize corporal punishment while they are at school." When asked whether or not Narcissis was fulfilling his responsibility of Ass-Kicker in Chief, Hafissou replied, "I'm sure he will do very well. It is not an easy job, it is a lot of work. But you know," he giggled, "I can take care of discipline problems myself." He brandished a thick stick cut from the surrounding cashew trees.

With the Director also serving his political office as Chief of the Village, the fate of Manigri will rest on Monsieur Narcissis' lanky shoulders. Already underway are plans to arrange a Correspondence Club with Ms. Pederson, and seek funding sources to build a science lab. "He's really hit the ground running," said Ms. Pederson. "I just hope he doesn't need to take a nap," she laughed gaily, her eyes glazing over once again.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Let it be known first and foremost that Narcissis, if he were to see this, would laugh. We are very good friends, and I am very happy he's been promoted. Despite the marriage proposals, which I only find as a minor annoyance, he does always do his best to look out for me. And I appreciate it. Even when his best constitutes beating my students in front of the rest of my class. I know he's doing it so I won't have any problems. It's his way of being nice. Strange, right?

I can't get myself worked up about corporal punishment in schools. I know there are vindictive Surveillants, those who really abuse their power and in turn their students. The same goes for teachers. It's by far not a perfect system, and while I wish there was another culturally-appropriate technique available, the fact of the matter is that the teachers are ill-equipped and untrained. They punish their students the same way they themselves were punished. Rarely is anyone seriously hurt, and as we all know: pain is a motivator. While I have never hit a child, I don't blame those who do. Even if it is technically illegal. This country's education system has a lot of problems, and I would place this policy near the bottom.

Narcissis is a great example of this. He isn't exactly graduated from the University yet. He has finished his core classes and has been asked to serve as a teacher in one of the rural schools of the North. He isn't from Manigri, he's actually Goun (an ethnic group from the South). He didn't know anyone here when he moved in, which is partially why we're such good friends. He teaches ALL of the biology classes in CEG Manigri, ALL of the biology classes for CEG Biguina, and two classes in Bassila. He does this so he can make some money, but he isn't- from our Western perspective- qualified to do so.

The pay rate for teachers in this country is politically tricky. While comparatively speaking, they are well paid in contrast to the rest of the country- they are far underpaid as government employees. Most teachers make approximately $25 dollars a month. This changes depending on your school district. Whereas teachers are not civil service employees, but recruited and contracted ones, their pay scale is marginalized. (Sound familiar?) This accounts for yearly strikes by teachers, where the government promises better pay in turn for teacher cooperation. A new contract was signed last year giving teachers a 100% pay raise, which would be a phenomenal accomplishment, but it has been working it's way through the bureaucratic channels for the better part of two years now. Because the pay is dismal, the government has a difficult time recruiting teachers, despite the high unemployment rate of college graduates in Benin. This forces them to contract university students and army officials into being teachers in their lesser paid school districts in exchange for some money and school credit.

The result being, that because most of these teachers have never taken an education course in their lives, they have no training. During Stage my fellow PCVTs and I received nine weeks of methodology and theory. (To be honest, i thought it was a complete waste of time seeing as teaching seems to be equal parts instinct and discipline, but what do i know?) This makes me nine times more qualified to teach in the Beninese school system than my counterparts who have been teaching for twenty of more years. To be clear, that estimation is not mine, but something that has been repeated to me by teachers time and time again. We have no formal training, they say. What can you teach us about teaching? My eyes grow wide with a deer in the headlight kind of look when they ask something like that. I grow tongue tied. I look up to Hafissou, my homologue, quite a bit. He is probably one of the most intelligent people I have ever met. What can I teach him? Should I really be concerning myself with the fact that he makes students get on their knees and them hits their hands with a thick stick? I don't think I can, or even necessarily want to, correct him. He knows what he's doing far better than I do. Even if he results to punishments that make me uncomfortable. I actually pretty sure that everyone knows corporal punishment is forbidden, but they do it anyway because it's effective. (Why mess with success?- tasteless joke)

Narcissis and I were talking about science classes in Manigri a few weeks ago. He was telling me that when he wants to explain what various reactions to chemicals are, he has to draw it on the chalk board or try to explain it via a text. They have no resources for a science lab. There are two broken microscopes in the Surveillants office, and one beaker. Nothing else. I find that really disconcerting considering so much of university level science has to do with experiments and lab reports. How can you ever hope to build a class of professionals in the science fields, including doctors, if you do not have the capability of teaching laboratory techniques? If anyone is at all interested in brain-storming with me how I can help get them a few microscopes and some basic laboratory equipment, I would find that extremely helpful. (Not electric microscopes, the old-fashioned mirrored ones- maybe someone knows of where they go when schools get new, fandangled microscopes)

I find that my french is getting better from day to day. I'm trying to focus better on using grammar and asking to be corrected if I think I am not saying something correctly. Luc, my best friend in village, helps me out a lot with that. I lent him my bike for the day so he could go visit some family 20km away. It's hot so I gave him a water bottle as well. I find I have to be careful when I give away my garbage, it causes jealousy among both children and adults. If I give Gi or Mouda a small possotome bottle, I have to make sure none of their friends are around. If I give Mama a wine bottle, I sometimes hide it behind my back as I walk out to her by the road so our neighbors don't see. It's kind of nice that this recycling takes place, but a little sad as well that I will never find so much treasure in my own trash.

A week ago I went to Cotonou to be checked out for any bugs I may have picked up in the past couple of months. I had a few ameobas and so I've been taking this anti-parastic medicine that really tires me out . It's been kind of nice resting in my house and reading the many magazines my lovely mother has sent me over the past month or two. It's worried my neighbors like you wouldn't believe though. I received so many visitors everyday, neighbors, friends and work colleagues, all making sure I am okay. The former President of the APE (the PTA) came by with a bunch of limes for me, limes and honey being a traditional remedy for stomach sickness. I thought it was sweet, but as David says, the last thing these people want is a dead white person on their hands. Also, maybe, just maybe, they care about me too.

I hope to be starting a Girls Club in the next couple of months. I need to talk to my director, Hafissou and Narcissis to get the green-light and then start selecting girls for it. I want to have some sort of mechanism to train girls to help other girls, in a way that maybe there will be a lasting impact for those who cannot be in the club as well. Girls Clubs here are really interesting because not only are women completely marginalized, but sex education is seriously lacking in this country. The average age of a sexually active individual in Benin, or rather, in my village, is twelve or thirteen years old. Sex education does not begin until most students are seventeen or eighteen years old, and frequently older. Even then, it's abstinence based. I'm sure that type of sex education is the result of some sort of loan conditionality, although I can't prove it (that's the sort of research that requires a good internet connection and a lot of time).

I suppose abstinence based sex education does make sense to a point here, in that condoms aren't free or really even available anywhere- and condoms are a hard-sell just about anywhere. The AIDS rate is lower here than in the United States, but the teen pregnancy rate is astronomical. Birth control may be considered by some to be a human right, but it's expensive. It is not unusual for a student to have a teacher as a sex partner, in exchange for food or good grades. I know a few teachers in my school who have young girlfriends in khaki. It's sickening, but I know that if I tell them I don't like it, it won't change a thing. It will just make them uncomfortable or resent me. There's a lot of tongue-biting on my part here. I am not going to try to impose my view on these people who have more problems than I can understand. That's not why I'm here. I can however, offer education to young girls so they are aware of the consequences of their decisions, and their options. Ideally before they become pregnant by their math teacher.

I just got scolded for leaving my house in just a pagne wrapped around my shoulders. Mama told me to go put a shirt on and come back if I wanted to saluter her. I thought that was pretty funny. "Go put some clothes on!" She basically said. The men sitting at the bar chimed in, "Yes, you shouldn't be out of your house like that." Which was even funnier because their wives were just wearing a few pagnes as well, and they were out of their concession. Maybe my white skin was blinding them.

I don't know if I'll ever really be Benin-Integre here, or even if that is something I'd necessarily want. It's tricky, because no matter what I will always consider myself an American. I've lived in the US for 23 years, and at the end of this I will have been in Africa for only 2.5. And no matter what they will always consider me a foreigner. I have white skin and a funny accent. Even if I learned to speak Nagot fluently and sat under mango trees all day, and wore nothing but tissue, I will always be a foreigner. It seems a little disingenuous and quite insulting to me when I hear about other PCVs (specifically white ones) trying to become fully 'integrated' into their community. It really shows to me a lack of understanding to the importance of history and ethnicity that built this culture. My African American friends have a much easier time being accepted by their villages, which I think makes sense. Many of their ancestors came from places like Trinidad or Haiti, (or East Africa) and culturally speaking they have the ethnic and historic implications of their existence running through their bloodstream. I don't mean this in an Alex Haley 'Roots' kind of way, but in that despite their upbringing in the United States, they're not seen as invaders, or as oppressors. No matter what I do here, the legacy of Western dominance will follow me wherever I go.

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"I have faith. Faith in penicillin, riflampin, isoniazid and the good absorption of fluroquinolones, in bench science, clinical trials, scientific progress, that HIV is the cause of every case of AIDS, that the rich oppress the poor, that the wealth is flowing in the wrong direction, that this will cause more epidemics and kill millions. I have faith that those things are true too. So, If I had to choose between lib, theo or any ology, I would go with science as long as a service to the poor went with it. But I don't have to make that choice, do I?" Paul Farmer, Founder of Partners in Health.