“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.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, January 15, 2010
"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
Saturday, January 9, 2010
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.
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+
"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.
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.
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+
"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.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Merry Christmas
Celebrating Christmas with twenty of your closest Peace Corps volunteer friends has a lot of benefits, but one major drawback. That drawback is that at 930 am I woke up feeling like hell, on Christmas, on merely four hours of sleep. But last night was so much fun. We ate snickerdoodles and had a dance party. Later today we're having a legitimate feast, with cheeseburgers. What luxury.
Right now I'm drinking a cup of instant coffee and blearily squinting at the screen. Soon I'll go with my friend Emily to get bread and eggs for breakfast.
Merry Christmas to all.
Remember that I love you.
Right now I'm drinking a cup of instant coffee and blearily squinting at the screen. Soon I'll go with my friend Emily to get bread and eggs for breakfast.
Merry Christmas to all.
Remember that I love you.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)