Most of you have already seen this, but the sentiment is timely and necessary:
In the United States today, it is Mother's Day, a day we celebrate and appreciate the women who have made enormous contributions and drastic differences in our lives and communities.
As many of you know, I have spent the past two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer in West Africa, in the Republic of Benin. As my service is winding up to a close, there are a few things I'd like to share with you.
The first is, we cannot hope to reasonably combat abject poverty if we continue to underutilize the population that suffers the most: women. According to some estimates, women make up 70% of the world's poor. According to UNIFEM, Women perform 66 percent of the world’s work, produce 50 percent of the food, but earn 10 percent of the income and own 1 percent of the property. This isn't a political, economic or societal issue- it's a human right's issue through and through.
Now, this isn't new news- multinational and non-governmental organizations have been talking about the "Feminization of Poverty" for years; nor is combatting global poverty revolutionary. However, giving individuals, not corporations or large governments, the opportunity to contribute to individual projects to empower the world’s women, is.
With this in mind, I would like to bring to your attention Camp Success, a Girls' Empowerment Camp in the north of Benin. This week-long camp’s goal is to award high-achieving middle schoolers with the opportunity to learn, lead and navigate their own futures. I urge you, on behalf of all women and mothers everywhere, to support this generation of future mothers, who at this moment in time need all the help they can get.
The link attached to this message is to the site to donate. If you are not interested in donating, or cannot at this time, please visit the site anyway. Your support is not limited to your financial generosity. Please repost this link with a message of support. Or forward this message. Every little thing helps those with nothing.
Best,
Sarah Pedersen
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-210
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Pencils Down
School is winding down. Easter break will begin in just a couple of days. It’s so hard to believe that the school year could begin in mid-October, and finish in mid-May. I know one Volunteer, out of nearly 30, who has said she has almost finished the curriculum for this year. I wish I had more time to complete the lessons I had wished to complete. I wish I had just one more month at CEG Manigri.
But I will not miss it.
I will not miss struggling to keep my temper down as students continue to talk and bicker amongst each other. I will not miss reprimanding 16 year old students for hitting younger students in class. I will not miss staring out at a sea of clueless faces, only wishing to lie face down on the bare cement floor. I will not miss drilling conjugation, sending students to be beaten, chalk dust, or dwindling class sizes as the year rolls onward.
I will not miss it.
I will not miss how kids will exclaim, “Teacharr!” when I’ve finally made a joke they understand. I will not miss the broken English phrases, phrases like, “I finish!”, “May I gho owwt?” and “Give me yo’ pen!” I will certainly not miss the headache of grading papers, filling out page after page of grades in different colored ink, and how no matter how many times I make them go back to their seats; they never wear shoes to the chalkboard.
I will not miss poorly pronouncing their names, names like Mournijatou, Souradji, Samoussirath, I will not miss children speaking to me in Nagot in front of other teachers just for laughs; or responding, knee-jerkingly, “oh-wah” or “moti yo”, to giggling girls in khaki.
I will not miss being strange, foreign, and awkward.
I will not miss acheke at 10am breakfast, or the harried woman who sells it. I will not miss the youngest students running out of their classroom to greet me and take my basket full of books and lesson plans. I will not miss them placing it on their heads and walking quickly back to class, breathing “goo’ morning teachar” through their winded smile. I won’t miss the other teachers, the men with their good-natured jokes and warm handshakes. I will not miss Hafissou asking me, “How do you feel?” and greeting Narcissis, through the door, with a salute. I will miss walking home with Arouna, I will miss getting fresh eggs, wagasi and cashew fruit from my students. I will miss the drumming, pounding and dancing part of singing in class. I will miss Zoumal, Douritimi, Azouma, Bariatou, Fassouni, and all three Azizes.
I will miss all of them. And I look forward to the last day, when I can tell them the impact they have had on me. How my life has been infinitely enriched as a result of their kindness, joviality, and strength. I will never know how (in)effective or influential my teaching or presence has been, but even if I have been a poor teacher, I am certain I am a good student. Finals are coming up.
But I will not miss it.
I will not miss struggling to keep my temper down as students continue to talk and bicker amongst each other. I will not miss reprimanding 16 year old students for hitting younger students in class. I will not miss staring out at a sea of clueless faces, only wishing to lie face down on the bare cement floor. I will not miss drilling conjugation, sending students to be beaten, chalk dust, or dwindling class sizes as the year rolls onward.
I will not miss it.
I will not miss how kids will exclaim, “Teacharr!” when I’ve finally made a joke they understand. I will not miss the broken English phrases, phrases like, “I finish!”, “May I gho owwt?” and “Give me yo’ pen!” I will certainly not miss the headache of grading papers, filling out page after page of grades in different colored ink, and how no matter how many times I make them go back to their seats; they never wear shoes to the chalkboard.
I will not miss poorly pronouncing their names, names like Mournijatou, Souradji, Samoussirath, I will not miss children speaking to me in Nagot in front of other teachers just for laughs; or responding, knee-jerkingly, “oh-wah” or “moti yo”, to giggling girls in khaki.
I will not miss being strange, foreign, and awkward.
I will not miss acheke at 10am breakfast, or the harried woman who sells it. I will not miss the youngest students running out of their classroom to greet me and take my basket full of books and lesson plans. I will not miss them placing it on their heads and walking quickly back to class, breathing “goo’ morning teachar” through their winded smile. I won’t miss the other teachers, the men with their good-natured jokes and warm handshakes. I will not miss Hafissou asking me, “How do you feel?” and greeting Narcissis, through the door, with a salute. I will miss walking home with Arouna, I will miss getting fresh eggs, wagasi and cashew fruit from my students. I will miss the drumming, pounding and dancing part of singing in class. I will miss Zoumal, Douritimi, Azouma, Bariatou, Fassouni, and all three Azizes.
I will miss all of them. And I look forward to the last day, when I can tell them the impact they have had on me. How my life has been infinitely enriched as a result of their kindness, joviality, and strength. I will never know how (in)effective or influential my teaching or presence has been, but even if I have been a poor teacher, I am certain I am a good student. Finals are coming up.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Blood Sacrifice
I have a feeling I'm going to have a difficult time coming to any coherent point in this entry. But I suppose when you consider the three months that have passed since I've last written, that can't be entirely surprising.
Manigri is more or less the same as when I last wrote. The babies are all getting bigger, the children keep growing and the dry stalks that so bravely fought Harmattan winds are now being rewarded with the Mango rains. Cashews are being harvested at break-neck pace, as last year the crop was dissappointing and many farmers are hoping to make up for lost profits and fill hungry bellies. The mangos aren't all quite ripe in Manigri yet. The boughs of the tree in my concession are propped up by big sticks to keep them from breaking and tumbling the unripened fruit on the ground. Everyday a cluster of five or six boys perch outside of my house, patiently waiting for me to motion them inside so they can play with paper airplanes, jump-ropes, chalk, markers, or any of the other 100 children's toys I’ve inherited from previous Volunteers. Typically they only last twenty or thirty minutes before I am throwing them all out for fighting, wrestling or trying to jump off my kitchen cabinet (Jojo). They're good kids, but their boyish energy is much better suited outside in the dirt where they can build cars out of baby powder bottles or ”pumps” out of tin cans.
But I suppose there is news. The presidential election was last Sunday. Since February there had been nearly constant parades of singing, chanting and drumming down the dusty streets, the cheering going well into the night. “ABT!”, women and children would call over and over again. Abdoulaye Bio Tchani was the challenger from the Donga region, his hometown being Djougou. The president, incumbent and front-runner, Yayi Boni, came to visit Bassila and Manigri. I saw him for only a moment as his motorcade drove through Ikanyi on its way to a former Minister’s mansion. Yayi Boni ended up with 53% of the vote, a clear majority given the 13 other candidates. On election day I toured the election booths at the primary schools and CEG, asking questions about ballots, counting and corruption. Mama Latifou, my next-door neighbor, met me outside of the CEG, purple ink still wet on her thumb. I pushed my right thumb to hers, gaining a sliver of purple on the outer-edge. I have one, gross and sweaty, photograph of it hidden in my new camera.
A few weeks ago my friend Djibril noticed that I am frequently sick. It’s usually nothing serious, just stomach pains or diarrhea, but enough to keep me beached on my living room couch for hours at a time. This was the conversation,
“Are you protected?”
“Protected? From sorcery?”
“Yes”
“No one would want to do sorcery on me… would they?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“So do I need protection?”
“Yes.”
And so last night at about ten pm, Bradley and I followed Djibril down the narrow, winding footpaths to his parents house. The wind shook the leaves of the enormous sacred tree as we slowly trudged through the yam fields beneath a moon much brighter and larger than usual. I met Djibril's father, dressed in his clothes from evening prayer, a long white robe and round, embroidered hat. He was washing his hands, face and feet in preparation as we arrived. Djibril's younger brother ushered us inside where a stone-faced man with a voice like a lion's purr sat on a prayer rug, also dressed in white. This was a clairvoyant, a seer, and Imam. Djibril's father sit on the floor and motioned to us two hard-backed chairs. The Imam lit two candles to call the spirits to us to listen, then two sticks of incense to intice them to stay. Djibril's father laid a large platter of corn with four kola nuts in the center on the floor. We exchanged nervous salutations and awkward small talk in nagot. Djibril's father nodded at the Imam, and then they began the prayer. Thirty, forty-five minutes, an hour- I honestly do not know- passed. The sunbaked ciment walls radiated heat from a sun that had set hours before. The Imam stood and then knelt in all four directions. His voiced raised and lowered in pitch, but never in volume which was like a dryer running in a distant basement. Djibril’s brother got up quietly and slipped outside. I glanced at Bradley as I heard the rustle of feathers of the white rooster we had purchased at the market. He was laid down carefully by the doorstep. I quickly began concentrating on my hands and fingers as it began to chuckle to the dark. The Imam’s voice grew louder. It rumbled and rustled the hair on my arms like a breeze through tall grass, wind through leaves. Djibril and his father punctuated the prayer, chanting. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. A distressed cry from the white rooster. Amen. Amen. Amen. I focused on my hands in front of me, willing myself to believe in magic, God and blood sacrifice. The rooster continued to call out into the night. My vision blurred. Then a loud shriek, a gurgle, a sigh.
Then silence.
Right now Djibril is coming with some teasane, a tea-type concoction of leaves and traditional medicines. Then he will take a razor and cut a very small incision into my legs. He will rub ash and poultice into the wound and bandage it. I will drink the teasane quietly and marvel at the cross-section between faith and mystery; medicine and science, as the church behind my house plays its drums to the darkening sky- the evening stars strung out like chicken feed, the moon a red, round kola nut.
Manigri is more or less the same as when I last wrote. The babies are all getting bigger, the children keep growing and the dry stalks that so bravely fought Harmattan winds are now being rewarded with the Mango rains. Cashews are being harvested at break-neck pace, as last year the crop was dissappointing and many farmers are hoping to make up for lost profits and fill hungry bellies. The mangos aren't all quite ripe in Manigri yet. The boughs of the tree in my concession are propped up by big sticks to keep them from breaking and tumbling the unripened fruit on the ground. Everyday a cluster of five or six boys perch outside of my house, patiently waiting for me to motion them inside so they can play with paper airplanes, jump-ropes, chalk, markers, or any of the other 100 children's toys I’ve inherited from previous Volunteers. Typically they only last twenty or thirty minutes before I am throwing them all out for fighting, wrestling or trying to jump off my kitchen cabinet (Jojo). They're good kids, but their boyish energy is much better suited outside in the dirt where they can build cars out of baby powder bottles or ”pumps” out of tin cans.
But I suppose there is news. The presidential election was last Sunday. Since February there had been nearly constant parades of singing, chanting and drumming down the dusty streets, the cheering going well into the night. “ABT!”, women and children would call over and over again. Abdoulaye Bio Tchani was the challenger from the Donga region, his hometown being Djougou. The president, incumbent and front-runner, Yayi Boni, came to visit Bassila and Manigri. I saw him for only a moment as his motorcade drove through Ikanyi on its way to a former Minister’s mansion. Yayi Boni ended up with 53% of the vote, a clear majority given the 13 other candidates. On election day I toured the election booths at the primary schools and CEG, asking questions about ballots, counting and corruption. Mama Latifou, my next-door neighbor, met me outside of the CEG, purple ink still wet on her thumb. I pushed my right thumb to hers, gaining a sliver of purple on the outer-edge. I have one, gross and sweaty, photograph of it hidden in my new camera.
A few weeks ago my friend Djibril noticed that I am frequently sick. It’s usually nothing serious, just stomach pains or diarrhea, but enough to keep me beached on my living room couch for hours at a time. This was the conversation,
“Are you protected?”
“Protected? From sorcery?”
“Yes”
“No one would want to do sorcery on me… would they?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“So do I need protection?”
“Yes.”
And so last night at about ten pm, Bradley and I followed Djibril down the narrow, winding footpaths to his parents house. The wind shook the leaves of the enormous sacred tree as we slowly trudged through the yam fields beneath a moon much brighter and larger than usual. I met Djibril's father, dressed in his clothes from evening prayer, a long white robe and round, embroidered hat. He was washing his hands, face and feet in preparation as we arrived. Djibril's younger brother ushered us inside where a stone-faced man with a voice like a lion's purr sat on a prayer rug, also dressed in white. This was a clairvoyant, a seer, and Imam. Djibril's father sit on the floor and motioned to us two hard-backed chairs. The Imam lit two candles to call the spirits to us to listen, then two sticks of incense to intice them to stay. Djibril's father laid a large platter of corn with four kola nuts in the center on the floor. We exchanged nervous salutations and awkward small talk in nagot. Djibril's father nodded at the Imam, and then they began the prayer. Thirty, forty-five minutes, an hour- I honestly do not know- passed. The sunbaked ciment walls radiated heat from a sun that had set hours before. The Imam stood and then knelt in all four directions. His voiced raised and lowered in pitch, but never in volume which was like a dryer running in a distant basement. Djibril’s brother got up quietly and slipped outside. I glanced at Bradley as I heard the rustle of feathers of the white rooster we had purchased at the market. He was laid down carefully by the doorstep. I quickly began concentrating on my hands and fingers as it began to chuckle to the dark. The Imam’s voice grew louder. It rumbled and rustled the hair on my arms like a breeze through tall grass, wind through leaves. Djibril and his father punctuated the prayer, chanting. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. A distressed cry from the white rooster. Amen. Amen. Amen. I focused on my hands in front of me, willing myself to believe in magic, God and blood sacrifice. The rooster continued to call out into the night. My vision blurred. Then a loud shriek, a gurgle, a sigh.
Then silence.
Right now Djibril is coming with some teasane, a tea-type concoction of leaves and traditional medicines. Then he will take a razor and cut a very small incision into my legs. He will rub ash and poultice into the wound and bandage it. I will drink the teasane quietly and marvel at the cross-section between faith and mystery; medicine and science, as the church behind my house plays its drums to the darkening sky- the evening stars strung out like chicken feed, the moon a red, round kola nut.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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