~~Disaster Strikes!!!~~Satan Claus~~Pilgrimage~~

December 26, 2007

No, I did not catch a dose of the bird flu that has claimed the lives of at least a few Beninese poultry. No, I did not succomb to malaria, intestinal parasites, yellow fever, hookworm or any other tropical disease. I'm fine, its my (formerly) trusty ibook laptop who is teetering on the brink of death. Every time I try to boot up, the apple screen comes up, and then it freezes with the little pinwheel spinning...after a few minutes, the screen will go blank and the computer will go to sleep :(

If you notice that I have given an overly-detailed description of the symptoms, maybe you have guessed already that I am hoping some mac-saavy friend or reader will be able to diagnose and cure the malady from la-bas.

**cultural note*

La-bas means "over there", but in Benin it frequently is used to mean "back home" or "where-ever-the-hell you come from". As in "Et les gents de la-bas?"--("How are your folks back home?")

Recently at a Christmas party for orphans I heard the most fitting use of the phrase. Santa asked some little kids where Santa comes from, and one responded with an indisputable opinion--"la-bas"

Well, my blog readers, I call on you to join me in prayer, for much as I hate to admit it, the health of my blog depends on the health of my laptop. Not being able to write posts when inspiration strikes, in the (relative) comfort of my home, may make the blog suffer in quantity and quality. I also may have lost 90% of my photos from Benin :( Let's cross our fingers.

Well, I had a most interesting Christmas. First there was a Christmas party for a group of orphans in a fellow volunteer's village. A month ago, my friend had been looking for a hotel in Cotonou, and was helped by a rather colorful guy. His name is Papa Boni, and he is an animateur (mascot) for the Benin Squirrels, the national soccer team. With little dreads, a goatee, clownishly colorful clothes, and a painted bicycle laden with fake flowers, hand-painted signs, bells, whistles and and assortment of other kitchy ornaments, Pa Boni reminds me of Central Park in NYC. It is rare to see such a colorful character outside of Manhattan. Well, my friend is a fellow lover of adventure and nutty people, so they struck a fast friendship. Pa Boni agreed to come out to the village and be Santa for the orphans, for no pay.

It was a noble gesture, and I will forgive the fact that he showed up about four hours late only because a)he is Beninese and that is acceptable here b)his every waking moment is a performance, and that means that he finds himself swept up in little side-plots and mini-dramas at every turn.

While we were waiting, the kids would take turns performing, and I was very impressed. For vocal numbers, a few older boys (8-13 yrs) played drums while one girl would take the mic and belt out some great traditional songs. At least one managed to improvise some praise for my friend who had brought a gift for the kids. They recited poems, told short stories and danced. I would have been floored if I weren't already used to the incredible talent, strength and all-around amazingness of many children here.

Anyway, the kids loved Satan--I mean Santa. (Check out the picture, it's not hard to confuse the two...)

The yovo with the fancy camera is my friend Kaitlyn who is one of three Americans who started an organization called Unseen Stories to create documentaries designed to raise awareness about problems in the world and help people see how they can help.

My friend had plans to go on a Christmas pilgrimage with the president of the NGO where he works (who is also a responsable (pastor) of his church). Every year, the Celestes, known for wearing no shoes and dressing in white robes, gather at the beach for a midnight mass and prayers. I figured it would be interesting, but I didn't realize I was in for one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

Churches came from all of Benin, and delegations arrived even from Nigeria, Senegal, Togo, France and other countries. Each Church set up their straw mats under an awning to protect against the strong sun. Vendors, Celestes and non-Celestes alike, set up stalls or wandered, hawking goods from large backpacks or baskets on their heads. Mostly they sold food and prayer neccesities like perfume, candles, fake flowers, etc., but there were tupperware, sandals, instruments, videos, and a little bit of everything.

It was very intense--I was there for over 24 hours and saw no other white people aside from my friend. Everyone was curious about the yovos who had arrived at their pilgrimage, and it was difficult to walk anywhere without someone stopping me or calling me over to talk. A number of times, my path would cross that of a child, and they would literally jump away, startled and spooked.

By chance, amid the crowd of easily over ten thousand, we ran into my friend's friend from village, along with his friend, who immediately told me that he loved white people, and insisted on holding my hand everywhere we went. I can hold hands--no problem--but this guy, Moise, was ridiculous. After I got fed up, I seized an opportunity to steal back my hand, and did my best to keep it busy scratching my head, holding my other hand behind my back, or hiding it in my pocket. He would grab my wrist, and try to pull my hand from where ever I had stashed it, and I would just look around, pretending not to notice. All this while, for about fifteen minutes while we were walking around with , there was a robed fou (crazy man) who was nearly hyperventilating and yelled at everybody in Fon to watch out for the devils (us). He was bumping into people and scared women left and right, walking ahead to warn the people that we were coming, and coming back to eye us nervously. Luckily, he once strayed too far and we managed to slip away. I later heard that the Gendarmes had taken him in and most likely beaten him.

Returning to camp, the pastor asked if we would like to meet the head of the entire church, whom I and my friend later started to call "the pope". Well, that should be interesting, we thought, but we didn't yet realize just what we were in for. We were lead through the crowd to a huge church, brightly lit with long flourescent lights. There were no walls, and people had gathered all around the outside to peer in from afar, as only the Grands and special invitees were allowed in.

Inside, there was a brass band--about twenty trumpets, one saxophone, and some drummers. We entered, leaving our sandals on the steps as we were ushered past the guards. The floor was sand, and along the sides of the central space, important members of the church were sitting in their robes, rank indicated by varying degrees of color and ornamentation added to the basic white robe. At the end of a long purple runner, in an upholstered throne, the focal point of several cameras, video cameras, and electric fans, sat the Reverend Pasteur. Sporting a regal purple robe with golden embroidery, nonchalant behind his large, tinted glasses, he was a man with presence.

Unshaven, with wrinkled pajama pants and hair slightly unkempt, the "American Delegation" was led up to kneel before "the pope". We were presented with ceremonial flair, and it was explained breifly by the pastor how we had arrived in Benin as volunteers, and noticing that there was a pilgrimage, we had decided to come and see how they celebrate Christmas. All this, mind you, was far from the private meeting that we had expected. Loudspeakers broadcast the proceedings within as will as outside the church. Movie cameras lurked, recording for national news coverage and for posterity.

Had we watched any delegation arrive before us, if we weren't walking into a trippy, alternate reality, we might have realized that we would be handed a microphone and asked to speak a few words, and accordingly, would have prepared a few cogent thoughts and well-chosen words of thanks. Instead, the microphone was handed over, and our minds frantically scrambled for the right words. My friend had the presence of mind to explain that we were here to work with the people of Benin for the good of Benin, and I took the opportunity to wish everyone a happy holidays with the fon "Mi kudo hwe!"

After our moment of glory, we were ushered over to a loveseat of honor, next to the Minister of the Interior, two big-shots representing the Gendarmes, and other Invitees of note. From there we watched as delegations from various countries danced up to the Pasteur, accompanied by the raucous brassband, and knelt down to share their gratitude and a few thoughts.

Afterwards, we were led into an inner sanctum with the Grands Invitees where we shared cold cans of soda in a somber silence.

Midnight mass started surprisingly at midnight, as a slow hymn wafted from the church to our distant camp. Simulcast by radio, the Church's sounds arrived from all directions and washed through the crowd as the congregations added their voices to the waves of sound sweeping across the expanse of people. The first hymn struck me as quite like an enormous group om, and sleepy people slowly stood from their mats, lifted their hands to the sky, and immersed themselves in prayer.

I joined in the repetitive prostrations and standing-up for some time before looking around, noting that about half of the pilgrims were still fast asleep, and deciding to join them.

The next day, after my Church as well as most others started to leave in the early morning, I packed my backpack and went off walking down the beach in search of a fisherman friend who lives in a simple house among tall palm trees on the beach. He goes out on the ocean in his large (very large),motorized Pierogue (canoe) and lays nets to catch fish. This is not his house, but it looks quite similar.

I walked for hours, stopping to swim with a bunch of naked playful men (sorry ladies, no pictures ;) ), and found many nice pieces of beach glass and beach-washed pottery shards which will decorate my home nicely. Eventually I found my friend who promised to take me out for a day of work whenever I choose to return. His young boys deftly climbed these 40-foot trees to find me some delicious fresh coconuts.

After a quick visit to my host family in Lokossa, I've come back to Cotonou to stock up on food and such, and it's back to village to fete-up the new year...

So happy holidays, mi kudo hwe, and enjoy a few random pictures...

The famous mosque in Port Novo. Originally built as a Portuguese Church, it was eventuallty taken over by the muslims and seems to be a popular hang-out for the blind and disabled.

Not too hard to make friends with the kids that wander around their neighborhoods lookin for kicks.

Caught in the act--classic Beninese hand-holding.

I am restored § School Life § Late night mischief § Sax and Gota

Saturday, November 17, 2007 - I am restored

*******Before you begin to read this, let me warn you—I have just read all of what follows, then magically traveled up to the beginning of the post and back in time to warn you against wasting your precious time—this post is just self-indulgent rambling, and if you are reading this to contribute to your understanding of Benin, Africa, or “developing” (i.e. poor) countries in general, you will be greatly disappointed. This post is a firm defense of the blogger’s right to blindly follow the whims of his flitting mind, going on and on without really saying much of anything at all. I didn’t write this post for you, I wrote it for me, and if you have a problem with that I shall have to ask you to step outside. Caveat emptor—consider yourself warned!!*******

It’s almost midnight and the rain has just begun, gently sizzling on my corrugated metal roof. As I write this sentence, the sound is increasing, becoming more of a deafening roar which evokes an irrational fear. I have just run around and closed the windows to prevent leaks, by which I mean I have pushed up on the series of horizontal wooden slats that cross the opening that we call “the window”, regardless of the fact that I have seen very few actual glass “windows” in this or any other village here. “Windows” here are square holes in walls. Sometimes they are crossed by wooden slats, sometimes metal, sometimes (in schools, for instance), they are basically a cluster of concrete blocks that have been formed with holes in them to let light and air enter. Almost nobody has screens, despite the fact that malaria, caused by mosquitoes, is much more deadly here than HIV/AIDS. I digress…
Almost every blog entry I write is sparked by some enthusiastic urge to share a thought or experience with somebody else. In this sense, I am finding blogging much more fulfilling than keeping a diary would be. Ever since my first diary entry of Dec 25th 1987, when my earnest third-grader self wrote something like:
“Today is Christmas day. My gramma got me this diary.
I also got a fishtank. My family is in the process of moving.”
I have repeatedly attempted to keep a diary, sometimes keeping up with it for a week, sometimes a month, but inevitably letting it slip into disuse. <<>> Anyway, the point is, having an audience (you! ;) ) not only motivates me to write, but I consider it very therapeutic. Thanks for listening!
So the impulse for this entry was the utter joy of the discovery that my ipod still works, and is not dead as I had feared… You see, it hasn’t worked for about two months now, and I only just had a chance to restore it (this is a super-cool process by which somehow my ipod, connected through my laptop’s wi-fi connection, talked to the server located probably in the states somewhere, and convinced it to restore it to its factory-original state. Kind of an electronic version of born-again’s re-baptism.) This has incredible ramifications. Now I can lie in bed and drift off to the sweet shahnai of Ustad Bismillah Khan, or wake up to the haunting eloquence of Charlie Parker speaking from on high on “Bird of Paradise”. Now I can gleefully accompany my cooking with the uplifting, delicious flavor of brazilian samba, make cleaning house a joy thanks to the passion of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, come home from a rough day at school and laugh at incomprehensible virtuosity of Art Tatem, or sit my ass down and close my eyes, letting the insistent, glittering, relentless grooves of West Africa’s Kora masters wash over me and restore me. I restore my ipod, it restores me—one hand washes the other.
G’night and thanks for indulging…

Thursday, December 6, 2007 — School Life

I have been teaching now for over two months, and I am settling into the job alright. As you may imagine, it’s not easy, but there are plenty of rewards for the work. I will try to describe my school for those of you who are curious…
I teach at the secondary school of my village, on a large plot of land just outside of town on the main road. There are five large buildings, each with four or five classrooms, arranged in a semi-circle around an open space. I would call it a yard, but that would imply its having grass, of which there is none. I believe it is in order to avoid having snakes that every Wednesday afternoon the students have no class and instead spend an hour turning the dirt with hoes to keep the grass at bay. Where American sensibilities lean toward grass and greenery, Beninese seem to prefer large expanses of dirt. In fact, for a new student to enroll, they must furnish a hoe and a broom (which is actually a few palm leaves tied together). I was chatting today with a teacher under the teachers’ tree (our version of a teachers’ lounge), and he said that if you let grass grow in the dirt around your house, people will say you are dirty. So dirt isn’t dirty…hmmm… (cue the mantra—our way isn’t better, it’s just different…not better, just different…)
The classrooms are large open rooms with holes for windows and corrugated metal roofs (no ceilings), and they are full of two-seater wooden desks which have no backs. (This detail becomes more significant when you realize that most classes last two hours and they will do four hours with only one fifteen-minute break). The school bell is a large piece of iron—maybe an engine part?—hanging from one of the large trees in the “yard”. There is a roofed patio where women sell breakfast. Nobody seems to eat at home, they wait for the 10am break and eat fried bread or fried mashed manioc or bouilli (sweetened boiled corn-flour). Teachers often eat pate and fish. There is a large soccer field for P.E.
Teachers arrive on their motos, park under the teacher tree, and systematically make their rounds, shaking the hand of every other teacher or administrator. Sometimes it is a classic European handshake, but more often it is punctuated with a satisfying, synchronized snap. This, however, leads to the inevitable question—“to snap or not to snap?” that you must ask yourself every time. With equals, it is rarely difficult to answer—snap. It gets tricky with administrators and students, with whom snaps are usually avoided, but are not out of the question. A snap between habitual non-snappers can be a mutual recognition, even if on an unconscious level, that a conversation has led to deeper intimacy, even if you do not always snap after that. Snapping with your own students would be entirely inappropriate, although it is acceptable with older students who have become friends outside of the context of school.
It becomes awkward, however, when one person goes for the snap, and is not met halfway. The unrequited snap is not necessarily a slap in the face, but it just makes you feel socially off-balance.
Another possibility is the old Beninese arm-shake. If you encounter somebody who is eating with their hand, you are not pardoned from shaking, you still go for the shake. He or she will then extend a limp dirty hand, which is an invitation to grab their forearm and proceed with the shake (sans-snap, of course). This is not hard to accept. What still feels a bit weird to me is the limp-handed forearm shake with the clean hand. If I try to shake hands with one of my students, or someone who wants to show deference, they will instead offer their arm, as if to say “I’m not worthy of touching your hand”. With students, I can accept it, but it always feels funny if it is a grown man who feels that as an un-educated farmer or mason he must humble himself to me. Sometimes I grab their hand anyway.
Today, I witnessed my first double-dirty-handshake. (I like the sound of that). One teacher with a chalk covered hand offered his forearm to another teacher who was eating. It was incredible, a handshake with no hands!
Friends can display their mutual warm feeling by various modifications. They may also choose to just prolong the handshake throughout a short conversation. This felt weird at first, but in certain cases, usually with old men, I enjoy it very much. When a man and a woman do it, it is flirting, and it is awkward to be a part of, or even just to watch.
An even more insistent kind of flirting is the dreaded “dirty finger”. I don’t know if it is ever used in the states, but I have a feeling it would be well-understood anywhere. The pursuer tickles the palm of his desired’s hand with his middle finger. It is a blatant proposition which is well-hidden enough to go unnoticed by onlookers—pretty slick, or pretty sleazy, it just depends on which side of the dirty finger you are on.
On the subject of prolonged hand-holding—this is common between friends. Walking through the school-grounds or the market, you will sometimes see boys or men absent-mindedly holding hands. This lack of homo-phobia may come from the widespread belief that homosexuality does not exist at all in Benin-it is a white-man’s disease like ADD or depression. What puzzles me, though, is how sensual the hand-holding often seems to be—this is more like stroking than any kind of manly iron-grip. I have participated a few times in this sort of thing, and open-minded as I try to be, I don’t know if I could ever really be comfortable with it.

Now, back to school—students do not move, teachers do. Each class (30-60 students) has one assigned classroom, unless they are a “flying” class who has to squeeze in here and there wherever classrooms are open. Each class elects a “responsable” who is like the class president and taskmaster. He keeps the attendance, keeps the class informed of news and is responsible for making sure the assigned students sweep the class and attend the Wednesday hoe-ing sessions. I like the system, because it does seem to encourage students to take more responsibility on themselves. On that note, the more serious students often help to control the class by telling others to behave or to be quiet. They make my job a lot easier.
Every Monday morning at quarter to eight we perform the ritual of the drapeau (flag). Students arrange themselves by class around the flagpole, and the school’s head responsable gives orders—stand at attention—at ease—stand at attention for the raising of the colors…and one lucky boy (always boys so far…hmmff) somberly and slowly raises the Beninese flag. Then one class is chosen to sing the national anthem. There is an earnest patriotism on display which is growing on me, but for one reason or another, the serious tone seems to always crumble into some kind of joking or another—refreshingly un-military-like. I am standing shoulder-to-shoulder with all the other teachers, and the early morning sun often makes me break out into a sweat. The Director will then give a few words, all but indecipherable to me, send the students off to class, make his way down the line of teachers with handshakes and greetings, and we start another week.
I suppose I have only touched the tip of the iceberg that is school, but in order to keep my readers wanting more, I’ll leave it at that for the moment. I’m off to Bohicon to do a bit of banking, shopping, and internetting. It should be a busy weekend with at least three music rehearsals, my first official Fon lesson (local language) with a fellow English teacher, at least a hundred mid-term exams to finish grading, and another mid-term to write (half the students of one of my classes were given the midterm for the wrong grade level!?!?, so I have to write a new test for them). So in case anyone was worrying, I seem to be keeping myself busy-it’s pretty much an NYC pace of life in a small African village (except for that sweet 3-hour midday repos J).

To everyone who secretly wished me a happy birthday yesterday, many thanks.


Thursday, December 13, 2007 - Late-night mischeif

It’s Thursday night, so it’s my weekend and I’m stoked. Work is work, man. But rather than watch Die Hard, which I was actually considering, mostly because I remember my brother saying something about how great all the Die Hard movies are, I will catch y’all up a bit on things chez moi.
Well it’s Oro season in my village! Sounds like an exotic fruit or something, right? Well the truth is a bit more bone-rattling than that. In a nutshell, it’s a secret society whose members roam around the village after midnight “protecting” the village. If you are a woman or an un-initiated man, it is inadvisable to leave your house after about 10pm. Luckily, I am never out past 10, so mom, don’t worry (yeah, right J). I’d like to share more details but I hesitate to blab to the world about something which I do not really understand yet.
I found out it’s Oro season because yesterday afternoon I saw a procession passing the market on the main road. A man had a goat draped over his shoulders, and he was walking with a bunch of guys in grass skirts, some of whom were playing drums. I was thinking about following them, which is what I usually do when I see a procession, but I first started talking to a friend of mine. He told me they were Oro and this one week they are allowed to go out. They are forbidden from operating the rest of the year.
My friend described a kind of Oro catechism—a bunch of questions that the initiates are taught—in the Yoruba language—which allow them to see if others are initiated or not. If you are out late, during their announced time to go out, it might not be pretty. I don’t really know the details of what they will do, and it depends on the region and a lot of other factors.

Sax and Gota

On a lighter note, I’ve played my saxophone a couple times with a group that plays traditional music called Gota. It’s really fun and they seem to love it—it may be the first time some of them have seen a saxophone. They often call it a guitar. There is a lead singer who sings verses, and then everybody sings choruses and people take turns dancing in the middle. We meet in a small enclosure nestled between a couple houses and some banana trees. It’s a cozy tropical open-air rehearsal studio.
There is a lead cowbell playing a repeated clave-like phrase, and another supporting part played on three cowbells. One guy plays a bass part on a huge gourd with a hole cut in it at the top. One hand slaps the body while another hits the hole with a flaccid piece of sole from an old sandal. Another guy plays two medium sized half-gourds which are floating face down in two buckets of water. He plays simple repetitive patterns with sticks wrapped with rubber. One guy sometimes plays a traditional three-note flute, which he will hand off to me if he is going to play the bass gourd. Melodies are unpredictable (to me at least) and interesting. The phrases start and stop in places that are not so obvious, and sound pentatonic, sometimes a bit asian.
Whoever is not playing something is clapping and singing. There is a grandma who always comes, and a guy whose legs are crippled, maybe from polio, and there are so many kids around that they are literally held at bay with a stick, and only a select few are let inside the enclosure. Mama is singing and clapping with a toddler standing in front of her nursing. Yes, Toto, we are not in Bushwick anymore…
They are not as polished as the other Gota group I have seen, but they have a lot of fun and they have been the most welcoming of the four music clubs I have seen here in my village. They have a recording scheduled, and they say they want me to play my saxophone. I’ll believe it when I see it, but I am excited at the prospect. In the meantime, I will start to bring my field recorder to sessions and record us myself …

many more pictures will be forthcoming!!!!!!

Wow, even more pictures! :)

This is a funeral procession in my village. I followed, and was shown the hole in which the person would be buried IN THE SAME BEDROOM WHERE THEY LIVED. Wild partying, wild--they make Michigan frathouses look like nunneries.
Professional drummers at another funeral in ABOMEY.
Me looking fly in tissue with a friend at the Abomey funeral.
Beautiful sunsets happen too often to count, almost once a day. This is at a nearby village where I went to look at a Peul family's collection of cow dung; Parfait was interested in scoring some "shit" :)
Just some guys in the bush-- you will recognize Parfait and the two fishermen...

Tech issues mean I can only post pix today, more blogs on the way...

News-- avian bird flu in benin? hmmmmmmmmmm love to all. Till next time...

Miss Benin Contest, and PHOTOS!!!!!!

Here are some photos...(finally!)
My host family in Lokossa-we are dressed up for a "party" at the mayor's office to thank the families and the city for welcoming us there. I gave a speech in French which was written by a Beninese PC staff member. giving eloquent speeches in foreign languages is fun :)
This is my friend Parfait. He is a beautiful guy, with a sweet wife, and he has truly welcomed my with open arms and made it his mission to make me happy. He spends all week happily growing cabbage, carrots, and lettuce, in a village 7km away, and takes one day a week to go to church and see his wife and baby girl. Always smiling :)
The house on the right is chez moi, my home. There are four apartments on the left. One family with 2 boys and a granny, a veteranarian of my age, a gendarme and his wife, and the owner and his wife. Next time Ill take som pix inside too...
The ubiquitous enthousiastic-kids-in-underwear. They will go around like this, even sometimes in the market. I think this was the first time they had seen a frisbee, but they got the hang of it immediately, and even invented new ways to throw it...they are awesome. The one on the left, Victor, is in my concession, and is impressively mature, respectful, and good-spirited (as are a large proportion of the kids here)

more photos to come...


Friday, November 9, 2007

This morning, I am enjoying the rare luxury of a greasy morning (la grasse matinee), as the French say. I woke up not because my alarm compelled me to rise even before the sun to complete the lesson plans I had been too exhausted to finish the night before, but because of the light and the sound of someone drawing water from the well not far from my window.
Having enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of peanut butter, nutella and bananas on French bread, and my daily cup of “coffee” (Nescafe seems to dominate almost all poor countries), I have now decided to ride my bike 8 or so Kilometers to visit my friend Parfait the gardener and his fields of cabbage, carrots, lettuce, and other luxury produce. Aside from his crops, one finds just onions, tomatoes, garlic, corn, manioc, okra, beans, a couple types of leafy greens, papayas, pineapples, oranges, bananas, and a few others.
Okay, I admit it, when you make a list, it seems like a lot of choices, but if you people in rich countries even tried to make a list of the produce you could easily get your hands on, you’d die before you listed half the choices.
Anyway, I’m interested in seeing his methods (he actually studied gardening in a technical school for a couple years), and getting my hands dirty for the first time since arriving in this country of farmers.
Last weekend was a rare PC-sanctioned trip to Cotonou where I represented my fellow newly sworn-in volunteers in a conference aimed at improving next year’s training of incoming volunteers. I would say I profited nicely—beyond adding my two cents to the conference itself, I crammed a whole lot of big-city fun into my few days there. I prepared a decadent American meal of eggplant burgers, French fries, cole slaw, and chocolate cake with a friend who lives there. I went swimming at the pool of an American Diplomat who makes his fabulously luxurious pool available to us once a week. I spent hours at the PC Bureau trying to catch up with my cyber-life (on that subject, from now on, just use the my first and last name @gmail dot com). I danced for hours to a live band with a friend and some French girls we met, a decent portion of a bottle of tequila in my stomach.
Maybe most excitingly, I attended (for an exhorbitant $10) the Miss Benin pageant, whose winner will go on to represent Benin at the Miss World or Milky Way or Universe or whatever it is. My two friends and I were about the only people there at the advertised starting time of 9pm. The show started right on time, about two hours later. Interestingly, the contest was conducted like a science experiment, where variables were carefully limited. Instead of expressing individual tastes and displaying differing manifestations of beauty (of which there was an abundance), the ladies paraded one after the other in identical outfits, with even the same hair-style. Hmmm…
Instead of the usual singing and dancing which you find at our Pageants, we were pleased to see the women display their traditional dances, even if their “traditional” outfits were generally more like comic-book versions of traditional African garb. Think mini-skirts made from whole animal skins, helmets with antelope horns, coconut-shell bras, etc. (Why, oh why do I always forget my camera at the worst times?!?!) Silly and degrading or not, the effect was generally alluring. (But then isn’t that usually the case with Beauty Contests?)
Tempted to stay and find out the winner, not to mention hearing the entertaining “interview” portion, we left at 3 a.m. overcome with exhaustion. The two women whose responses we heard left me with little hope of hearing something profound. Asked about Benin’s energy issues, the first contestant suggested that people not open their refrigerators so often. I’ll spread the word around the village for her, even if I don’t know anybody with a fridge. The second interviewee (who I later learned was the winner) was asked about global warming. Now my French is mediocre at best, but I could have sworn she said she would tell all her friends, family, and neighbors to “go plant a tree”.
Coming back from an exciting weekend in the big city is always a great feeling. Inevitably, upon stumbling out of a taxi packed with people like a circus act, I am welcomed home by many familiar faces even before regaining sensation in whichever limb fate had destined to go numb this time. (It’s incredible just how many different ways there are to be uncomfortable in a bush-taxi, I reckon the possibilities are near-infinite.)
I take a few breaths, and look around, smiling. I am set at ease by the sound of women, children, and men murmuring in the market, the flicker of orange flames from small lanterns made of used Nescafe tins. The inevitable questions are asked—have you been traveling? From where? What have you brought me from your trip? Interestingly, it is quite similar to what I feel when coming back to New York from a trip to the country. It is a feeling of security, of belonging, of being once again home.

Finally!

at cybercafe now; found high speed internet, its awesome!

Friday, October 12, 2007

Sitting on a chair in front of a table, not to mention a laptop computer, I feel so civilized, and nicely at ease. For the first week in my new house, my furniture consisted of a single foam mattress on the bare cement floor. Buying a couple of kitchen stools which raise my ass almost a foot off the ground made me feel like a king, but the novelty soon wore off, and it wasn’t until I received the table and two chairs that I had commissioned that I once again felt like I’m on the way to being comfortable in my home. Now I tell myself that the three sets of shelves which will arrive next week and allow me to organize my belongings, for the moment lying in disorder around the periphery of each of my three rooms, will surely make me feel like myself.
Dangling carrots in front of myself with each new piece of furniture, I am buying time for the real process which will make me feel at ease, which is actually multi-faceted, difficult to pin-point, and involves basically a slow settling in on all fronts.

I have met some nice people—Yves runs a buvette (bar) on the main road adjacent to his shop where he can sometimes be found welding bicycle frames, car axles, or basically anything made of metal. He has grilled me on the logistics of arriving in America where he is determined to one day live for at least a few years. He constantly offers me free beers and soda which is all the more welcome in contrast to the near constant demands of children for “cadeau” (gift). He often watches DVD’s of action movies on a small t.v., making his establishment a popular hangout, even if few people can actually afford to casually buy a cold drink. More than once it has provided the perfect temporary shelter during the short but intense rains which have been falling almost every afternoon.
It seems most people here can smell the rain coming. You always see women hustling to remove clothes from the line, children running in their khaki uniforms trying to make it home before the sky erupts. Even if you are not gifted with an acute sense of smell, you’d have to be pretty blind not to notice the huge menacing dark grey clouds or the distant flashes of lightning.
I am almost constantly in awe of the skies here, especially in the late afternoon and early evening. Majestic pillowy clouds tower, slowly churning. Silvery blades slice the yellow backdrop of an evening sky. Standing by the village football field explaining for the six hundredth time who I am and what I am doing here, I was put in a state of reverence when I noticed a distant slice of rainbow sharing the sky with periodic bolts of lightning. The Beninese laugh when I remark about the sky. I suppose I might chuckle too if in New York they went on about how tall the buildings are, or how many taxis there are. They think it’s hilarious that in New York, you see only a small part of the sky at a time, and rarely the horizon.

Have I mentioned the lizards? They are the squirrels of Benin. Everywhere. When I open the back door of my house, where I have a few walled passages which will hopefully be cemented and given a roof to become a kitchen, a family of lizards scurry away over the cinderblock wall. They are curiously fond of push-ups—they will scurry a bit, stop and do a few, scurry a bit more, do a few more… I have stopped seeing them, the way I had stopped noticing pigeons in New York by the age of seven or eight.
I wonder if the people here will stop noticing me, as I have stopped noticing the lizards. I admit that at times the attention is flattering, but it can be tiresome just to go out in public. Monsieur! Bon soir!...Yovo, Yovo, bon soiiir! Ca va bien? Merci!...A blo kpede a? Fite a hwe? Yovo, A na yi axime? Women ask where I am off to. Children race along following me like the pied piper, even if my flute is at home. My white skin alone calls them loud enough. Sometimes if I stop to saluer somebody, a brave child’s small hand will caress my arm just to see if it feels as weird as it looks.
This morning I took out my saxophone for a while. Then I did some yoga. When I feel a bit adrift, I must remember to keep a hold of those things which have been solid ground for me in the past. In my adult life, I feel that my spirit has been yearning for new experience, adventure, and change. It is interesting for me to now see more clearly that I also yearn to feel rooted, stable, and connected to my past.
It’s about midday, and I have yet to leave the house. I’m gonna get on my bike, cruise down to the market, and get some beans and rice, and a slice of fried cheese if I’m lucky enough to find it. Till next time, enjoy your furniture. It’s nice.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

I do just enough work to keep from feeling that I’m on a luxurious tropical vacation. Okay, that’s stretching it, but as I lie here on my bed, stomach bloated with fresh Papaya, enjoying the breeze of an industrial-strength fan, I can’t help but feel a bit spoilt. Siesta, or “repos” as we call it in francophone West Africa, is a great idea. The three-hour lunch break with built-in nap-time. I have afternoon classes only once per week, but I have been finding ways to keep myself busy after nap-time.
Mondays, there is a group which meets every week to play drums, sing, and dance. About six men sit at one end of a cramped courtyard, beating drums. One beats a cadence on a cowbell, and another plays cross-rhythms with a shaker. About thirty women, with at least a dozen small children and infants, sit on benches clapping, singing, and taking turns dancing two by two. They will approach the drummers, slowly shuffling feet and thrusting torso. As they get closer, the music intensifies to match their mounting enthusiasm. Arriving by the drums, they turn to slowly dance their way back to their seats.
Some shake it even with a small baby tied onto their back. Some whip out a breast to offer to a crying baby in their lap. Dancing, drumming, or just sitting there (me), everybody is sweating even though a tarp offers shelter from the intense sun. In between songs, heated debates mount in Fon, which, according to a few whispered summaries, relate to the group’s purchasing fabric which everyone will use to make matching outfits so they can play at political functions for money.
Two older women seem to be directing the proceedings. They point with sticks at whom they want to dance next. I have been let off the hook so far after some adamant refusals, but I wonder how long my luck will last. It’s one thing to dance while everybody else is too. But to get up and offer my feeble yovo imitation of their powerful movements in front of everybody, as if on stage, is a bit too much even for me, enthusiastic dancer that I am. I hope to start playing a drum next week, and that will provide an excuse to keep my ass in a chair, where it belongs (for the moment, of course).

Today, I spent a couple hours with my unofficial Fon teacher, Faustin. He’s a friendly old grandpa who would seem to prefer nothing to holding my hand as I take my first timid steps in his native tongue of Fon. What he lacks in pedagogical finesse, he more than makes up for in patience, a decent grasp of French, and grandfatherly good vibes.
One day, I was walking around the village trying to plot a mental map of the village and get to know some new nooks and crannies. Here and there people would saluer me in French or in Fon, stopping me to ask where I was going, where I was coming from, what I am doing here, and all the usual questions. A woman decided I should meet her father, and I obliged her, since I have greatly enjoyed meeting some other older gentlemen here in the village. She led me between some small houses into a sort of courtyard where her dad was reclining under a thatch-roofed peyote, the African pagoda. Actually, it’s basically just a thatched roof. Anyway, he started beaming at me, asked the usual questions, and then patiently proceeded to correct my broken Fon, enunciating clearly and giving me a chance to repeat. Everybody knows that some people are just natural teachers, and this guy is one of them, even if his concept of word-for-word translation is just now developing. I have returned now twice, and he swears to be there with me till the end helping me to learn the language. It’s an offer too good to refuse.
I aim to also find a native-Fon-speaking English teacher or French teacher who has the pedagogical perspective to give me the grammatical explanations I crave, but I don’t expect to leave those sessions feeling as warm and fuzzy.
Well it’s about time to start planning tomorrow’s lesson, or go to bed now so I can get up and do it while I’m waiting for the sun to rise. My father’s nine o’clock bedtime has been making more and more sense to me lately…

Thursday, October 25th, 2007

…But then again, go to sleep too “earl”y and you might miss something good. It is nearly midnight, and I have just come down from the rooftop terrace. The full moon tonight illuminates a thin, patterned layer of clouds. It bathes the trees beyond the walls of my enclosure in silvery light. Lest you get the impression that I am pampered with four-star accommodations, let me specify that the roof that is my terrace is a small, flat piece of concrete over my latrine. But a man’s home is his castle. They say that, don’t they?
It’s been a month that I’ve been in my home, a couple of weeks since I recognized the potential of my private perch, and I’ve only just made it a reality. I asked a neighbor friend to make me a ladder out of teak and he came today with his coupe-coupe (a.k.a. machete) and did just that. I cut him up some Papaya and invited him up to enjoy the newly accessible hangout. He had the vision to scrape up the black moss which has profited from the roof’s poor drainage with his coupe-coupe, and sweep up that and the dirt, dust and bits of plaster which were left from its recent construction. He even installed a couple of sticks upright in the corners when I explained that I would put up a mosquito net so I could sleep out there.
I consider Etienne to be a friend, even if his French is about as stellar as my Fon, and he is the illiterate African field-worker to my cosmopolitan city-slicker. Somehow, he always ends up laughing, and it never feels like it is at me, as I often feel when others laugh during exchanges in Fon. I wonder what kind of relationship we would have if we could exchange more than the usual plaisantries and rudimentary information.

Anyway, getting up there does me a world of good. It feels adventurous, and reminds me that even though I’m living in an African village, I must create my sense of adventure. It’s not hard even in an “exotic” place to fall into habitual patterns of thinking which render your life mundane. It also reminds me that if living an adventure is a mindset that must be cultivated even here, it must therefore be just as possible even where one is burdened with responsibilities and routine.
These are the kind of clichéd ideas which come to you alone on the roof of a full-mooned eve, bare torso caressed by a cool soothing breeze and the mingling “here-I-am”s of insects, birds, bats and who knows what else. In fact, after hearing frogs in a tree and looking up to discover that it was a number of large bats instead, I have lost my confidence in identifying animal sounds, at least here.
I don’t mind having clichéd ideas though, nor experiences. In the midst of some full-moon roof-top yoga, I decided that if I can live the clichéd hippie peace corps experience for the next two years, I’ll be on the right track.

This weekend should be a doozie. Tomorrow, I’m goin shoppin in a big city—I have run out of money and I need to go to a bank. Saturday, it’s off to a funeral. These are some of the best parties around, with drumming and dancing, so I’m excited. My friend Parfait, one of my favorite people I have met, has invited me to go along with his wife, baby, and some extended family. Sunday, it’s a date with some local fishermen who have agreed to let me and Parfait tag along in their pirogues (canoes).
Parfait’s wife is the sister of my neighbor from Lokossa, the other town I spent two months in. My neighbor there, who also happened to be my tailor and the father of two of my favorite little girls in Benin, called Parfait and told him to “take care of me”. If by “take care of him” he meant “give him large quantities of fresh cabbage and carrots (otherwise impossible to find), tangelos and/or papaya every time you see him, introduce him to the host of the weekly Monday night drumming-dancing extravaganza, take him on a bike ride to a nearby village and hike down to the lake and find fishermen to give him a little dugout canoe tour, arrange to take him to a funeral and back to spend a few hours with the fishermen hauling in their nets full of fish, and just be a humble, happy, interesting person for him to talk to”, I’d say Parfait is doing a pretty good job of it so far. Sorry about the length of that sentence, but my mom once told me about a sentence in a book that went on for pages and pages, and if I’m not confusing it with another story, I believe to make things worse he was talking about his bowel movement of all things. An Irish gentleman, I believe she said, perhaps Joyce. Or was it Proust? Now if he could do it, you’ll indulge me a few longish sentences, won’t you? After all, it is my blog. And if you find that I’m rambling too much, I will also remind you, this is my blog and nobody is making you read the damn thing, (if anyone is actually reading the damn thing, that is.)
Well, I seem to be getting a bit defensive and self conscious, so I think I’ll leave it at that for now. My apologies for such a long delay in posting my adventures (luckily no real mis-adventures yet). Once again, I congratulate those readers who made it this far through my meandering narrative. You must really miss me, or be really bored. Perhaps this is the best way you have found to put off doing those other, important things that you are really supposed to be doing right now. G’night.

New Address!!

Hello. This is just a quick note, as there are about 55 other trainees trying to use the same three computers. Tomorrow, we will swear in here in Cotonou. Monday I will be going to my village, and I am very excited. My brand spankin new house awaits me, and school begins october 4. I will send updates as soon as I can...The main point of this post is for people who want to email me, I will now only be using my gmail account since yahoo is getting spammed to death and it is slower anyway...so please update your records...my email address is my first name (david) followed by my last name (ludman) with no spaces or dots or anything, at geemail dot com.
Don't send me useless crap, chain emails, political things, jokes, etc. Do send me news of yourselves (especially if I actual know you and hence may care).

With love from Lokossa

Thursday August 9, 2007

First, in case of confusion I want to explain the apparent disorder of the posts. Since the computers in the cyber-café are painfully slow, I write these posts at home on my laptop, and then post a bunch of them all at once when I can…so the most recent “posts” are always at top of the blog and go down in reverse-chronological order. The sub-posts within each post are dated by the day I write them and are in chronological order. I hope I have confused you even more now…
Well, today was the long-awaited post-assignment day. I now know the (village/town?) where I will spend the next two blissfully grueling (gruelingly blissful?) years. Due to security concerns, I’m not allowed to actually name the place on my blog, but suffice it to say its on the gudron (paved road) between Cotonou and Abomey. See the map in my links on the top right of this blog (It also begins with the same letter as my brother’s name and ends with the second letter of my brother’s name. I hear it has electricity, and its position on a main road an hour and a half from the biggest city in Benin means something, although I’m not quite sure what. I do hear that there will be an abundance of fruits and vegetables (compared with more remote villages in the dry north). I’m pretty sure it is mostly Fon people (who dominate Benin), and they will mostly practice vodun, although here in Lokossa there are a lot of Christians, so that wouldn’t surprise me there either.
Being in the south means that it will be less hot, and greener than the north. The people are said to be more fiery here, more intense. Sunday, the Director of the school where I will be teaching is coming here for a conference, and he will take me back to the post for a three-day visit. I will have some sense of my new home when I come back next Friday.

I have been getting up at 6am to go running every morning. Its fun to explore different directions and get out of the city and have a taste of the rural outskirts. People seem a bit surprised to see a Yovo (white guy) running alone in the middle of nowhere, and they are quite friendly. Women and kids often carry baskets of stuff or bundles of sticks on their heads, and some of the men have machetes. The other day I passed a tree that had thousands of roosting bats hanging in clumps from the branches, making a racket.
Saturday, a few of my friends and I went to Bar Dancing Vince to see a live group play. They never showed up, but there was a DJ instead. I brought along my 9 year-old brother and 14 year-old sister. My brother was the first brave guy to jump on the stage and start the dancing. I followed, and soon we had a small but enthusiastic crew of PCT’s and local kids dancing around the stage. I have learned a few local moves, mostly from kids, and they love it when I bust them out.
Tonight I’m supposed to go meet the trumpet player from Papa’s group. There’s also another guy who plays Bob Marley tunes on guitar in the buvettes (bars) who I have talked to. He told me he also plays some kind of traditional drums which are (unless I completely misunderstood) tubs or basins upside-down on water (tam-tams aquatique or something like that…) So I’m happy to have made a few musical contacts…
Other than that, life goes on—I’m getting used to peeing in a hole in the cement shower, sometimes missing the hole and splashing my legs (one unlucky friend has no hole in the shower). I’m becoming a regular sight outside of my host-mama’s photo shop where I sit each night after dinner talking to my sister and photo-shop apprentice/house-help. I’m almost comfortable enough to tell my mama straight-up what foods I do and don’t like. I helped wash dishes and I aim to help with that, and even cook once in a while…
It ain’t half-bad…

Friday, August 24, 2007

It’s been a while—a busy couple of weeks—since my last post…

The village visit was good, although for three days the only time I had to myself was when I bathed or slept. My worries about the village being too “modernized”, cosmopolitan or otherwise tainted due to being on the “highway” have been put firmly to rest. True, a more remote village farther from the big cities of Benin would be a different experience, but I am happy from my first acquaintance with my new home.
The “highway” is a two-lane, well-paved country road. Between villages, as well as in the villages, rickety bikes and motos cling to the side, as do walking people, while rickety taxis and trucks speed past each other. All along the paved road there are tables with bottles of yellowish liquid--small bottles, gin bottles, huge round bottles. I was surprised to find out that these are gas stations.
The most common form of long-distance transport is taxi. Just when you think they are full, they will stop to pick up a few more passengers, squeezing three or sometimes four people in the front, and maybe five in the back of a regular size car.
Entering my village, the cars pull over to stop in front of the market positioned just beside the road. Marche Mamas and girls with trays of bananas, tomatos, bread, peanuts and other snacks swarm the cars, competing for the passengers’ attention.
The houses are cement or terre-rouge, a reddish mud. Roofs are corrugated metal, or at times thatch for smaller huts. It turns out there are a lot of Christians in the area, but many still participate in more traditional African ceremonies. Walking by the Catholic church, I saw a band inside for the Mass of the Assumption or whatever it is. There was a tenor saxophonist! I didn’t hear him, but it might be interesting to talk to him sometime.
I stayed with a man who has somewhere between three and five wives, depending on who you ask. On two consecutive mornings, I introduced myself to two baby goats who had been born overnight. I ate pate (mushy cornmeal porridge cooked until it is almost firm) with green leaf sauce and fish with my hand. It was the best I’ve had yet here.
They watched a ton of music videos, but the good new is that most of them are of traditional music, just drums and cowbells and voices, and they are great.
My house is brand new, made of cement, with a large living room, two bedrooms, an outside cooking area, “shower” (a cement space with a hole in the floor) and a latrine ( a cement toilet seat over a hole in the ground). I had a covered cement space in front of my door to sit and receive visitors. My house is in a concession—it is built within a wall and I share a yard with four small connected “apartments” and another house. I have a well just outside my front door, so I suppose no one should worry that I am not getting exercise (water is heavy!!the well is deeeeep!!).
I only got a small taste of my post, but it seems great, and I am excited to be going there in about three weeks. I must admit I am a bit jealous of some of my friends who will be in more remote and exotic villages, but I would find somebody to be jealous of no matter where I was posted, so I don’t dwell on that.
We are a week and a half into model school, I have been teaching real classes of up to 75 students, but I will write about that later. Suffice it to say it has been challenging and exciting. E yi hwedevonu! (until next time!)

Where to begin?

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Where to begin? I have been in Benin just a week and a half, and already New York and everything I have known my whole life feel quite far away. I am settled in with a host family here in Lokossa, and I feel more comfortable every day.
Cotonou was interesting--a dirty, bustling little city full of colorful things. The streets are incredible. Although there are painted lanes, traffic flows like liquid, heedless of them. Vans, trucks and small cars travel on the left, while countless motos battle for position along the right. Families ride a single moped or small motorcycle—Papa driving, Mama behind with a baby strapped to her back with a colorful pagne or length of local fabric. A larger child may ride in the middle between Papa and Mama. Two men may share a moto, and I saw one balancing a full-sized mattress on his head, just cruising, all nonchalant.
Zemijdans (the Fon word for “get me there fast”) are everywhere, yellow-jerseyed drivers taking passengers anywhere from a few blocks to a few hours’ journey on a moto-taxi. A five minute ride may cost 50 cents or so. I expected our zemi training to be incredibly embarrassing—60 yovos (the Fon word for foreigner, or white guy) getting a special lesson in how to ride on the back of a moped—but it turned out to be really fun. We learned how to beckon the zemi (“KEKENO, WAAA”), how to negotiate the price, and how to safely ride and even ask the guy to slow down (“doucement”). “Doucement” means literally “sweetly”, and it is used for everything here.
After a few days of the necessary orientation-type activities in Cotonou (shots, health talks, intro to Benin, intro to TEFL, walking tour, medical interview, language evaluation, etc), the 20 TEFL (English teacher) trainees came by bus to Lokossa, while the other 39 trainees went to nearby large towns for our two months’ training.
Arriving just before the rain (a good omen that we have been lucky enough to enjoy almost every day J ), we sought out our host families outside the Marie, or City Hall. Mine had left my picture at home, and I had buried theirs in my luggage, but I picked them out easily enough—my host mom, 14 year-old sister, and 9 and 3 year-old brothers were all there to welcome me.
I there experienced my first official greeting ceremony, which I have since repeated, and I imagine I will repeat endless times in the next two years—Les “Grands”, or important people, give speeches whose content doesn’t so much matter. “Soyez les bienvenues…” “Be the welcome ones…”etc. The PC country director, the Mayor, the Gendarme Director, and the Police chief all took their turns mumbling. My little brother was running all over creating havoc. We happily sipped our fizzi pomplemousse sodas, and the rain beat down…

My Papa showed up on his motorcycle and then found a car to take my stuff home. I felt lucky to be able to make small talk in French, and I found my family very pleasant.
The house is quite large, with concrete floors and walls, a bit less decorated than I am used too—they have nice furniture but only a calendar hangs on the wall. I have a room with a large desk, a decent bed with a PC-issued mosquito net, and a stove for boiling my water. I have a large aluminum bucket for washing my clothes (more about that later), and a small broom made of some twigs for sweeping.
Only Papa sleeps in the house—one wife lives behind in another section of the building/coumpound with my brothers, and the other wife lives next door with my sister. (Figuring out all the relationships in French is an ongoing and difficult process…)
Generally I eat with my sister Michelle and the older boy Judo, and we follow a strict protocol—Mama leaves the food on the table in pots, with everything covered in small cloths or lacey coverings. I serve myself first, and then my brother and sister. She always clears after asking if I have finished.
The TV is relentless, and seems to be the major source of excitement for my brother and sister, who are on summer vacation. They religiously follow the two Mexican soap-operas which air three times a week here—“Crossed Destinies” and “Rubi”. I indulge too and tell myself that I just want to learn French…Every night after dinner we watch the death show, where pictures of recently deceased people fill the screen while an announcer tells about whomever has died.
Fate smiled down on me when I was placed (randomly) here in the home of a man who does the sound and sings for a local dance band. He also DJ’s parties, and I believe he is DJing the party Wednesday for Benin’s Independence Day. Twice a week his group will rehearse, and I am excited to check that out if I am not in class.
Right now, I am waiting for his motorcycle to roar up the driveway so we can walk to the local nightclub where he has promised to take me dancing. Tomorrow I have a free day (finally!) and I plan to go with some kids to play soccer at the sports field. Now I will have a breath of fresh air and we shall continue another night…

Monday, July 30, 2007
I have just eaten, and it is now “repos” or siesta time. It seems that most people here come home for lunch if possible and take a little time after eating to relax and digest. Not a half-bad idea if you ask me… Today I ate with my sister and two brothers as usual. We had Pate Noir—basically yams pounded and cooked until it becomes a gooey glutinous mass, served today with a gooey green snot-sauce made of cooked greens of some kind and I-don’t-want-to-know-what-else. Plus some nice chunks of fish . I was scared at first, after yesterday’s pate blanc. Yesterday’s pate (made of corn meal) was fine, but the sauce was dry cooked greens and little fishy fish, I did my best to choke down half a plate. Luckily Mama sensed my lack of enthusiasm and brought me some grilled corn-on-the-cob. Today was much better, and I had three helpings.
Yesterday I went in the morning to the terrain, a big soccer field with a large concrete structure of bleachers. We played a game of soccer, and I was made to feel big, goofy and inept by some 10 year-olds. After a mid-day repos, I brought my two brothers back to watch the match there. Admission, two small bags of peanuts and a bottle of home-brewed sweetened bissap iced tea (hibiscus) set me back 325 Francs or about 65 cents.
I couldn’t tell what kind of teams they are, perhaps “professional” or just good amateur teams. Everybody came out in their nice clothes made of good tissue (local word for fabric).
Speaking of which—the clothes are fan-freaking-tastic. Bright colors, different styles, almost all handmade. You buy tissue at the Tissue store or at the market which is held here every four days, and bring it to a couturier or tailor. There you can draw what you want, or show a picture, or have them copy some piece of clothing that you bring them. If you trust them, you can tell them just to make anything they want. I am taking my time before I start commissioning clothes, but I am very excited to pimp up my wardrobe.
Im getting used to stuff faster than I expected, like the two-inch roaches which take over my shower (which doubles as a urinal) every day at nightfall. (I quickly learned to take showers in the morning, not at night).
The nightclub Saturday was fun, and it gave me some perspective on this city. Kass Club animates only on Saturday nights, and has a disco ball and a DJ booth. I was a bit intimidated at first, but as the evening progressed, it become more and more clear that this is a small, out-of-the-way place. The mix of music was fun, but some of it was decidedly unsophisticated—club anthems mixing with 50 cent, Cuban Salsa, Beninese hits of the moment and some scrapings from the barrel of forgotten Eurotrash favorites.
Since homosexuality isn’t really acknowleged here, men dance with men freely and happily. One dapper young man took my hand during a Salsa tune, and we danced. I must admit, I was a bit surprised and uncomfortable, but I like the openness—men here often walk hand in hand, or absent-mindedly touch each other in a comfortable way.
Bon—il faut rentrer a l’ecole…It’s time to go back to class…

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Today is Benin’s Independence Day, one of the biggest fetes of the year. Here in Lokossa there was a parade, and a lot of small groups came to represent their villages from the region. They brought drums and after the parade they set up small circles of drummers with dancers. I danced once when I was dragged into the circle, but I’m shy to dance because only a few people dance at a time and everybody else watches them. When I learn some more of the local moves I will dance more…
One dancer had a fake penis strapped on which she would pull out from under her dress. Then in quite dramatic fashion she would mount a female friend and make incredible faces of ecstasy. I wish I had my camera!
Speaking of which, I didn’t want to bust it out right away, and I will be here two months, but I promise pictures will be coming!
I have been in good health, and have even started running or doing yoga most mornings. The two-inch cockroaches who share my urinal/shower bother me less each day. French classes are going well every day, and slowly I’m learning the Beninese accent and their words. My sister is my best teacher. We talk, and when she gets started, she will go on and onand on, and I just try to understand as much as possible, grunting every now and then.
Last night I arranged for three friends who are current volunteers to come have dinner at my house. My mama prepared fish in a tomato sauce and rice, and a very nice salad with lettuce, avocado, carrots, potatoes and tomatoes. I insisted that she sit and eat with us; it was our first time eating together, so I think we both enjoyed it.
Today we have the day off for the holiday, and I will meet some friends at the buvette for a beer. To anyone who has written me, sorry, but I have not yet been to a cyber café since I arrived in Lokossa. I will try to read and answer emails, but I hear the connections can be quite slow, and it will be difficult to read everything… I hope everyone is well and congratulations if you actually read this entire post. A tout a l’heure…

Feet on Soil

Thusday, July 19
I'm sitting in historic Philadelphia, having survived two days of icebreakers, vaccinations (neither of which were as bad as I feared) information sessions, and preliminary clique-ification. My group is 59 predictably nice, friendly and interesting people, mostly just out of college...a few exceptions, but I hesitate to talk about individuals since our blogs are linked up like a bunch of non-swimmers clinging together in the ocean...

Sat, July 21
I'm now at PC Head Quarters in Cotonou. Last night we arrived sweaty and exhausted at the airport, having endured a mile-long trail of sweat and tears at the Philly airport when we were left at the wrong terminal. Then came about 20 hours of travel with only movies-on-demand and some really delicious french meals (salade avec pates de saumon, du pain frais, du bon cafe, yaourt, toblerone etc) to comfort us from our fatigue, sadness (other's, not mine) and stench (mine).

Leaving the airport we were greeted like celebrities by about ten current volunteers (Seth, you would have loved this scene), only to be driven to our compound where a couple dozen more were waiting to cheer us. Apparently fresh meat is exciting to those who have been in-country for a year.

Some of the info sessions are excruciatingly slow, but as new york slowly loosens its grip on me, and if I am smart and drink a bit less coffee, I think I will quickly slow down to the Beninese pace of life (we will see...)

All the Beninese training staff seem extremely nice (huge smiles!) and I am very excited to get down to the nitty-gritty of learning french etc. We will continue to stay at our base in Cotonou which is a quiet, removed, lush oasis in this somewhat dirty, energetic city, for another 4 nights, before we split up into our respective sectors for 9 weeks' training. TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) will be in Lokossa, about 15-20 of us, many of whom have already become my prototypical "friends". It's pretty amazing how fast you can meet and get to know 58 other like-minded (relatively) people...

Oh, on the plane from Paris, I sat with a Beninese man from Lyon who is visiting his family in where?--LOKOSSA!--so I got his number and we may have a chance to go out. I have met other frisbee-heads and even a few fellow crocheteers, not to mention a few guitarists, a flautist and a mandolin player with whom to pass some free time...although we haven't had a free minute to jam yet...


I got fitted with a nice shiny Trek mtn bike and helmet replete with tools, lights, etc, and I think I will take the chance to explore a bit of my region, wherever I happen to go (I think I will try to be in the South so I can plug into the Cotonou music scene, but posted in a smaller village without electricity...we'll see what they can do for me).


I was quite emotional the last day in Philly and on the plane, I almost cried once during a short promotional video the PC uses--it just cut to the heart of my intentions and hopes for this experience--and then again on the plane during this sweet French film with G Depardieu about an Algerian boy who is adopted for a time by a French couple from a xenophobic community (called Michou D'Auber)


Well, I gotta go get some shots for Typhoid and Meningitis, the second round of about 10 between my arm and the nurses here... Hope all is well with all of you, thanks to everybody for sending me off in a bubble of love, I will update probably from Lokossa where there is a cyber-cafe...

Peace, David

Four days

but whos counting...

five days

but who's counting?

Summer in Brooklyn

I am developing the romantic eyes that immanent departure often gives... With less than three week's time before I leave NY for quite some time, i see everything through this lens--"this is new york, appreciate this or that thing, since although it seems very ordinary, soon you will look back with longing for this or that little thing".

As I sit here writing, there is the sound of gushing water on the street below--nearly every day somebody opens up the fire hydrant under my window and neighborhood kids and teens play happily in the street--providing free car washes for the neighborhood, carrying female victims into the intense spray, i even saw them trying to surf the street with a boogie board...

At first, a couple months ago, this bothered me, all the wasted water, and what if there's a fire? The first time I saw it, I even tried to report it, calling the local police station and firehouse, neither of which answered my calls... Walking around my Bushwick neighborhood, I quickly saw that every few blocks there was another open hydrant, this is just how things are in Brooklyn in the summer.

Ice cream trucks' tinny songs, endlessly repeating, become an unheard backdrop over which hot people live out their hot evenings. Sometimes one song will call from one direction, and another from a different direction, creating an unintended but well-appreciated avant-garde duet. An unrehearsed urban Charles Ives composition.

In this time of immanent departure, Basketball-Man, the Union Square superhero who created a short one-man street act out of goofy antics, impressive ball-handling skills, a silly costume, and witty improvised banter, is all the more charming--could anybody as entertaining be performing in the streets of Cotonou? Is there an audience ready to fill a basketball with bills to encourage that sort of thing? I hope so...

New York, I can't live with ya, can't live without ya... will I find another place which stimulates me and sets me at sets me at ease, all at once? Another place with enough diversity to make me feel among my own?

New Do

My roommate Risa recently gave me a brand new hair-do for my trip to Africa. I'm lucky to live with a girl who actually studied hair-dressing. So what if she only learned to style older ladies' hair...In my book, a nice hair-do is a nice hair-do, regardless of who is carrying the thing around.


I mustn't get addicted to weekly wash-n-sets though, that could get pricey, even in Benin...

how to say "Benin"

Well, I'll be darned...I've been mispronouncing Benin from day one. It ain't buh-NEEN, it's buh-NIN! Here's the proof. (Yeah, I know I'm a nerd) I feel as if I've been lied to by every person who ever said Buh-NEEN to me. As if one moment the world was flat and everything was cool, and then all of the sudden, somebody tells me its an oblong sphere.

I Admit It...

I am one of these over-eager PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) who starts their blog a full two months before anything really interesting could possibly happen. I guess this section of my blog is more for people who know me, or for whatever weird reason are interested in what it's like to prepare to pull up stakes and head into the unknown. (Although all these damn blogs are already conspiring to remove at least some of the mystery of what I am about to face in Africa.) If you are put-off by overly personal blogs, and you're a reader who just wants to read my stories about Benin, I suggest that you check back in late July when I will have something to write about other than hopes, fears, speculation, conjecture and hear-say.

I suppose I should start off with some basic stuff, like what would make me excited to go live in a mud hut with no electricity or running water, in a village where it's likely that few people will speak French, let alone English. Um...I have no freaking idea...That's just how I am I guess. At the risk of sounding superficial, I have always been fascinated by the other, by the exotic. Plus, I am excited to single-handedly save the world. First I will save my village, then the good-will, good ideas, good vibes will quickly sweep through Africa and wash over all the other six continents until it's one love--one heart, baby, a gigantic love-puddle of a planet. Um, yeah.

Now for some cold hard facts...I will be leaving July 17 to meet up in Philly with a few dozen bright-eyed kids and assorted do-gooders. We will play some annoying ice-breakers at some hotel or convention center or something, get some shots, get giddy about the intense adventure that lies ahead, and form some tentative bonds so that we leave with some sense of collective endeavor. I'm convinced this is most importantly a chance to weed out the nut-cases who managed to come off as normal during their initial interview.

We will fly to Cotonou, Benin, and then travel to Lokossa, which wikipedia will tell you is a city of a bit under 50,000 for nine weeks of training. Each trainee will be placed with a family to facilitate language and cultural immersion. Days will be intensive language classes (French and perhaps a local language), cultural study etc. Nights will be getting to know other trainees, our host families, and la culture beninoise. I suppose I will also begin training to be an English teacher. This will be my primary job in Benin, although it is expected that I come up with secondary projects based on the needs of my community which may or may not relate to education. Only after this training period will they decide where exactly to send me.

Now, I would be lying if I said I knew anything about Benin. At the time when I received my PC invitation, the extent of my knowledge was that it was always referred to in the same breath as Togo, as in Togo-and-Benin, like Trinidad-and-Tobago. That tells you something right there. This place is pretty small. About 8 million, which if I'm not mistaken, is roughly the size of NYC. Since then I have learned a few meager pieces of info, some of which give pause.

Exhibit A: Benin is the birthplace of Vodun, which was exported with slaves to become voodoo in Haiti and other corners of the world. While that is a little freaky for those of us who don't have a clue as to what voodoo is all about, anyone who knows me could guess that I would be excited about the prospect of witnessing trance-induced spirit possession and the hypnotic music that usually accompanies that sort of thing. That said, I don't actually know if that is part of Vodun, but dagnabbit, I aim to find out. Stay tuned for the real deal on voodoo--it's more than dolls and pins...

Exhibit B: For a few hundred years, Benin was heavily involved in the slave trade. It's part of the Slave Coast, which includes Togo, Benin, and Nigeria. There's some dark shit for you...

On a brighter note, I have learned that the country is quite stable compared to many of the countries which surround it. The people tend to get along, the food is considered good, the weather isn't too extreme, and all in all, it seems like an awesome place to spend a couple years. I do not yet know much about the music, but I am sure there is enough happening music to keep me giddy for the duration of my stay. On this world-wide jazz club directory, there were three clubs in the capital of cotonou which claim to present jazz, so I am hopeful for the occasional jam session or performance opportunity. Plus two musicians who I admire very much come from Benin--the soulful world-pop sensation Angelique Kidjo and the jazz guitarist Lionel Loueke who has recently earned the love of much of the NYC underground scene. Neither one represents "musique Beninoise", but it gives me hope that I will have a chance to meet, hear, and collaborate with some incredible musicians.