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.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
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!
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!
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