tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147877471215787222024-03-14T02:46:55.843-05:00David + Benin = ?What will happen when a young man from new york finds himself in a faraway land? Follow the story of this musician-turned-english teacher as he stumbles through adventures and misadventures in the country of Benin as a Peace Corps Volunteer. The views presented within represent nothing but his own thoughts and experiences, and they certainly don't represent the Peace Corps at large...Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-7760676584864088532009-06-01T09:00:00.005-05:002009-06-01T09:27:03.767-05:00Close of Service.................Open of Vice, SirI have been a terrible blogger, although one who writes too little is probably better than one who bombards you incessantly with insignificant details about his/her insignificant life.<br /><br /><br />If I haven't written in about five months, I guess I could say that I follow my muse, and she has been leading me to do other things beside sit in front of the computer and try to be deep or witty.<br /><br /><br /><br />I have been keeping busy with school and music, my family's visit, and miscellany. Last week there was a fundraiser for small Peace Corps projects, and someone asked my help to find a salsa group. Since there really isn't one, and we couldn't have afforded it anyway, I answered "no problem". I invited a few cotonou musicians, rehearsed twice, and we played a set of jazz, and a set of jazz tunes played in a salsa style. It felt good to be on the bandstand playing jazz more or less on my terms.<br /><br /><br /><br />Well folks, my time in Benin is almost up and I'm fixin to go to Belgium for a few months. I'm gonna play some shows with a Beninese group that does traditional rhythms and singing with bass, drums, perc, keyboard, 2 trumpets and (as of quite recently,) sax. They have one <a href="http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=18776585">video</a> and an album which hasn't been released yet, we're looking for the right people to help put it out. One day I'd like to play stateside with this group. <a href="http://myspace.com/jomionetlesuklos">You can check out some tunes on myspace </a><br /><br />I'm looking forward to the luxury of playing my saxophone everyday and working a lot with the musicians. Actually, that has been one of the hardest things for me about being a volunteer-- not having enough time to play music. (Although I would say that about nearly any job)<br />I leave in three weeks and I should be back in Benin in September. Then I'll probably spend a few months wherever I have the most interesting possibilities for playing and studying (benin, mali or burkina faso, most likely)Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-40409266730988989512009-05-07T18:59:00.013-05:002009-06-01T09:13:11.472-05:00My friend's kids<p>I have a friend who is working with an orphanage here in Benin. He manages the gardening and agricultural projects which aim to feed the 35 kids while teaching them how to effectively grow food (they also study carpentry, weaving, animal husbandry, theater, and other stuff, in addition to having regular classes). Many of the kids have been "trafficked", into a kind of modern indentured servitude, and this center represents a hope for starting a new life. </p><p>One of the main goals of the program is to reintegrate the children into society. They need $9,000 US to build a community Food Processing Center in which the children of CEFODEC will be trained and which will become a way to generate further income for the home.<br /></p><p>If you are interested in making a donation, large or small, it would be appreciated.</p><br /><div><a href="https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-172">CLICK HERE TO DONATE</a> on the Peace Corps website</div><div> </div><div>Thanks. I know money is tight, but this will be a dollar well-spent. (As opposed to a lot of other ones if you ask me, which you didn't).</div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-57154769587960139742009-01-02T05:13:00.013-05:002009-01-02T12:50:39.543-05:00Griots and Idiophones. Calabashes of Chapalo. BFForever.<span style="font-size:130%;">If one more dude yells "my friend" at me, I'm gonna befriend his head with a balafon mallet. Sure, the people here in Burkina Faso are friendly, but the tourist-predators have been getting under my skin. That said, it's been a delightful two weeks here, and a welcome change of scenery. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Starting with the most obvious-it's frikkin dry here. That makes some things easy and others hard. Peeing, for example is a cinch--you can pee anywhere, since the pee evaporates before it hits the ground. Drinking, on the other hand, is tricky, since you must actually drink as you are filling your cup. Otherwise the water disappears before you can get it to your face.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I was just enjoying a breakfast of curried homefries, a fried egg, and fresh bread with REAL butter, loving the cool (dry) breeze on my friend's balcony, when I saw a Ouagadougan garbage truck and smiled that smile which illuminates the inside of my face at least once or twice a day. It's the <em>"this is Africa"</em> smile. While the street below flowed with bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, and small cars carrying well-dressed or raggedy city-dwellers, a donkey trudged along with a large scrappy metal box in tow, in front of which sat two old women wrapped in colorful, if faded, dresses and headwrappings. Ougadougou. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">There are gardens here. They are spacious outdoor restaurants, full of green, tables scattered here and there, under trees and beside hedges, with a stage where a variety of groups play <em>every single day</em>. Coming from Benin, a land surprisingly starved of live music, I must say that it's an awesome luxury to saunter down any old night and catch some locally-flavored balafon and ngoni (kora-like traditional 10-string harp made from a large gourd and a big stick), or lilting, shimmering, guitar-based Tuareg desert grooves, or more pan-African orchestras playing classic Congolese dance hits. I have only tasted a smattering of groups, but if not mind-blowing, at least they are always different, and usually interesting.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I heard (and played) some interesting music in Bobo-Dioulasso, land of the Bobo and Dioula-speakers. The second-largest city in Burkina, five hours from Ouaga, quickly gives away the smallness of Burkina-it's quite unintimidating. Walking from the bus station to the hotel I had chosen in my handy travel guide, I passed a store-front with a number of young men lounging on benches in the shade. One hustled across the street to introduce himself and offer me musical lessons. We made plans to jam the following morning. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The next day, after a bawdy musical romp at the shop, we piled a bunch of sound gear into and onto their van, crawled in ourselves, and went to play a baptism celebration. We rolled up to a wide, dusty, dirt street, where men and boys were scattered about in groups in the shade of a few large trees. A stereo blared American R&B, while children ran around in circles. Men sat around small tables roughly according to age, drinking small glasses of tea, smoking cigarettes and throwing cards with bravado. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Our rag-tag group in flip-flops set up under a large portable awning in the middle of the street. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Before playing, we were brought an enormous bowl of riz gras with a pitiful dallop of sauce on top and a few small pieces of goat. After washing our hands, we huddled around the rice and dug in. It wat HOT, yikes. I'm used to eating hot pate with my hand-I usually just spread the pate out a bit and let it cool, but this quantity of piping hot rice could have kept a small house warm through a winter's night if there were such a thing here. I suffered through some small but tasty handfuls, and ended up waiting till the others finished so I could spread my rice out and let it cool before squeezing it into sticky balls to pop in my mouth. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Like a train starting slow and gradually gaining speed, we joined one by one the groove started by the guitarist, who, although young, was the de-facto musical leader. There were bass, guitar, piano, drums, a bass drum, a djembe, and they had hired two female griots to sing. We played a couple intrumental songs to warm things up, and the men slowly disappeared: <em>this party was for the ladies</em>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Slowly filing out from the courtyard of a house in the middle of the block, first came the young ladies. Freshly coifed, wearing colorful embroidered dresses of fine fabric, they emerged with a slow smiling dance, like a giant psychedelic centipede. Head finally met tail, and the dance continued in a circle until the ladies took their seats around a large clearing of dirt and waited for the matrons. If the young ladies were nicely put together, their mothers were decked out and imposing with their beautiful get-ups. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">During this time, the griots began to work their charms, and it was soon clear they were the act and we were just backing them up. A simple song would last twenty minutes while the griots sang about the family, the attendees, and who knows what else in powerful, dizzying flourishes. The guitarist and I would take turns trying to peak our little heads out into the cracks to add a well-timed flourish of our own before falling in line behind the singer and playing some repetitive groovy line. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">One by one, women would approach the griots or the mother of the baptised, seated in the center of the circle, to offer a gift of money. Every so often, the griots would pass back a bill or two which someone would stuff in the guitar case.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">It was a long afternoon, and though tired, we weren't finished for the day. We headed straight to a city-owned theater and set up the sound gear for a soiree of peul music where some of the members of the group would play a short set of traditional balafon music with percussion and dancing. The Peuls, also known as Fulani, are traditionally nomadic cattle herders, a people who are widely dispersed across West Africa and although accepted and appreciated for the meat, milk and cheese, they are seen as outsiders, even in places where they make up the majority. They typically spurn the education put in place by colonialists, prefering their quite profitable traditional practice of cattle-raising.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Anyhow, what I like about the Peul is their style. Men are apt to wear foot-length robes and cool shoes and maybe wrap their heads. The women, though, stand out from a mile away. To get fancy, they wear sparkly shawls and the girls do up their hair somethin else. Apart from an unusual style of braiding, they tie in colorful beads and silver coins. On a normal day, the Peul women are colorful and intriguing, but for a fete, they are a sight to behold. I was too shy to go around taking pictures of everybody so I'm afraid you'll just have to use your imagination or check google images for 'Peul'.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So my friends played, pleasing the crowd with their wild, colorful costumes, acrobatics and theatrics, and intense drumming and balafon beating.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Balafon this, balafon that, what in tarnation is a balafon, you ask? A balafon is a mallet-struck idiophone, a more ear-pleasing precursor to the xylophone, with a gourd attached below each wooden key. The gourds have small holes cut in them, which are covered by a thin membrane that creates a beautiful and characteristic buzz. They are pentatonic, with five notes per octave covering four octaves to give ................(who here is a math whiz?)...........that's right, twenty notes!</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">It is the most characteristic instrument of Burkinabe traditional music, and Bobo is Balafon Central. In Bobo is a neighborhood especially known for traditional Balafon music, and would you be surprised to learn that I made a beeline for it at the first opportunity? Well, I did. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Upon setting foot in this famed neighborhood, my ears perked up to the blood-quickening call of a djembe. I followed my ears, and before arriving at the source I was stopped by a couple of men who asked what I was looking for. Explaining that I was a wandering musician in search of the famed music of their quartier, they told me that they, too, were musicians, and offered to give me a little tour. We had a few minutes only, for this was a late-afternoon scouting mission, but in thirty minutes we passed through a number of cabarets and met a bunch of people.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Cabarets are the social hubs of Bolomakote, courtyards where Chapalo is brewed and served. Talk about homey atmosphere, the courtyard is nestled in the middle of a large family household. Ground sorghum grains are mixed with water, boiled, and left to ferment for a few days in large oil-drums. The resulting home brew is sold by the liter and served at room temperature (aka 80-90 degrees) in calabash bowls to clients who sit around the courtyard in pockets of shade on long benches. It's truly a family affair from the production to the consumption. Old ladies and young sit around drinking. Men, of course, are there in droves. Children help to prepare and serve it, while others play. One of my new friends gave a healthy slug to a child who couldn't have been older than four. Ah, L'Afrique, who am I to judge? Our children are drunk on video games and stoned on television. At least these kids are running around, getting dirty, and learning quickly about what they will soon face as adults.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I made a date and came back a couple days later to play with my new friend Si ("see") and his brother Adama. In a small mud room, we drank chapalo at nine in the morning, ate tasty morsels of lamb with chili powder and started to play-they, two balafons, and me, my saxophone. They played in a different style from my other friends in centre-ville, but much was the same. Everything was in a rythmic cycle of three, or four, and the harmony is quite simple to hear, as five notes don't yeild too many harmonic possibilities. I would try to catch bits of the melodies they sang, or a part of the accompaniment part. Straining to imagine another possible accompaniment, I would try variations until something locked in and worked. As their parts kept shifting, so did I have to continually adjust to maintain a balanced whole.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Soloing was fun, although playing pentatonic music is a challenge to do more with less. Using five notes, plus a few more for color, means you have to seek other sorts of variation, mostly rhythmic. There were a few moments of intensity which make me consider the possibility of coming back for a time to work with these musicians.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Tomorrow at five am (haha, yeah right, we'll see about that) I will take a little 17-seat mini-bus back to Benin, back to the muggy heat of the coast, back to the 'yovo, yovo, bon soir'-ing of the more brazen Beninese children, back to 250 final exams which must be graded, back to my house, by now scattered with mouse droppings and likely claimed by the spiders, back to "what did you bring me from Burkina?" from everybody and their mother. Back to the real world. </span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-31882654052561891612008-12-12T05:44:00.009-05:002008-12-12T11:26:58.093-05:00Images--ooo la la...<div><div><div><br /><div><div><div><br /> </div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ_Zo3TIVI/AAAAAAAAAKY/ILRr5l0SAAA/s1600-h/DSC02076.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278921791674458450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ_Zo3TIVI/AAAAAAAAAKY/ILRr5l0SAAA/s400/DSC02076.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">Greetings...I'm but a humble grasshopper, but I'll be your guide for this brief visual tour of Master David's life here in Benin. </span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I've been living in his backyard spying on him for some time, and although you should never trust a man with red eyes, (or an insect, I suppose,) I tell you, I've got the inside scoop...<br /></span></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKBVm_pUtI/AAAAAAAAAKg/n4j_SWQsnrg/s1600-h/Chickenshit+day+with+Parfait+036.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278923921476375250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKBVm_pUtI/AAAAAAAAAKg/n4j_SWQsnrg/s400/Chickenshit+day+with+Parfait+036.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I gather he lives a rags to riches to rags to riches lifestyle, pulling water from a well and eating gelatinous corn with his hand during the week...................... </span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ_FBGG3wI/AAAAAAAAAKI/glghYcZ4Dpw/s1600-h/102.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278921437401767682" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ_FBGG3wI/AAAAAAAAAKI/glghYcZ4Dpw/s400/102.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> ..........................and luxuriating in an ex-pat lap of luxury on weekends.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ-phXU88I/AAAAAAAAAKA/0lnCS_L6cdw/s1600-h/DSC02586.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278920965027591106" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ-phXU88I/AAAAAAAAAKA/0lnCS_L6cdw/s400/DSC02586.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />I heard tell he had the great luck to be invited up north to a village near the togolese border for what he later described as "an unforgettable cultural experience--whose intensity nearly made me pee my pants."<br /><br />Apparently young males engage in a yearly rite of passage in which they flog one another with whips of leather or, more traditionally, vines from the bush. "Fete de chicote", or "whipping fete" is a perennial favorite of volunteers who perhaps find in its raw intensity something quintessentially "African". There is hooting, hollering, drum-beating and chouk(millet beer) -drinking all night to give the young men sufficient courage. One who shows pain or fear on the field of "battle" will bring shame to himself, his family, and his neighborhood.<br /></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ-pXhtsyI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/hrtbtieGSjE/s1600-h/DSC02481.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278920962386801442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ-pXhtsyI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/hrtbtieGSjE/s400/DSC02481.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> Older men who have finished with the ritual help to "officiate" the exchanges of blows which usually are delivered in groups of three for each young man. Others dress in miniskirts, bras, tight, short shorts and other feminine attire to encourage the manliness of their younger brothers. This was one of David's favorite aspests of the event, fraternity expressed in drag.</span></div><br /><br /><div><br /> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">There are three years of whippers. First-years wear a band around the shin. Second years sport one on the bicep, while third years have the honor of coiffing themselves with a pair of horns.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">With whistles, elaborate costumes headdresses, and terrifying grimaces and theatrics, the young warriors do their best to intimidate one another, and the result is quite stimulating for the spectators.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKOSMNo_II/AAAAAAAAALQ/IkIl-_8T_Is/s1600-h/DSC02486resize.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278938156398869634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKOSMNo_II/AAAAAAAAALQ/IkIl-_8T_Is/s400/DSC02486resize.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKOSKIVbNI/AAAAAAAAALI/h87a8NkX9Yw/s1600-h/DSC02484resize.JPG"><span style="font-size:100%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278938155839745234" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKOSKIVbNI/AAAAAAAAALI/h87a8NkX9Yw/s400/DSC02484resize.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKORlD92NI/AAAAAAAAALA/CO9uXh-BRKk/s1600-h/DSC02470resize.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278938145889310930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKORlD92NI/AAAAAAAAALA/CO9uXh-BRKk/s400/DSC02470resize.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKI58Jc0zI/AAAAAAAAAKw/FDEou2ZZ5CM/s1600-h/DSC02558.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278932242211328818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKI58Jc0zI/AAAAAAAAAKw/FDEou2ZZ5CM/s400/DSC02558.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><br /><br /></div></div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">This one speaks for itself...<br /></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">These are ogun, spirits of the Fon Vodoun tradiotion, gathered for the opening of a newly-renovated palace in my friends village. Closely "guarded" by men with sticks, they chase the spectators around or demand a gift of a few coins. Being a Yovo and sticking out like a sore thumb, I was of course hit up for some loose change. This is all accompanied by intense drumming and singing of course...</span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKI562y2yI/AAAAAAAAAKo/BJ7nqq0K8go/s1600-h/DSC02266.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278932241864645410" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKI562y2yI/AAAAAAAAAKo/BJ7nqq0K8go/s400/DSC02266.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ-pF7EOwI/AAAAAAAAAJw/-v-XuVOBRi0/s1600-h/DSC02304.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278920957661297410" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJ-pF7EOwI/AAAAAAAAAJw/-v-XuVOBRi0/s400/DSC02304.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br />After the Ogun left, the couple hundred spectators were squeezed into to palace courtyard to listen to Alekpehanhou, the king of Zenli music, and maybe the most celebrated Beninese traditional musician. The dancing was great, as was the drumming and singing, although I think at least half of his appeal was lost on us Yovos. He improvised words for about two hours, weaving narratives with praise, allegory with humor, and captivating everybody. There was about thirty minutes of going around singing about the crowd, praising them and putting them on the spot for a contribution, not unlike what goes on in union square if you gather around the breakdancers.<br /></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I rehearse regularly with these guys. Sometimes we practice on the beach, too.</span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJBQznpxZI/AAAAAAAAAJA/Dky9OiY81WQ/s1600-h/033.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278853470221878674" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJBQznpxZI/AAAAAAAAAJA/Dky9OiY81WQ/s400/033.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJBRPwwJII/AAAAAAAAAJI/-PIK8-7K3fc/s1600-h/060.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278853477776237698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJBRPwwJII/AAAAAAAAAJI/-PIK8-7K3fc/s400/060.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJDdWi61nI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/4cutkkolhIs/s1600-h/127.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278855884778952306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUJDdWi61nI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/4cutkkolhIs/s400/127.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Last weekend I celebrated my birthday in style on the beach with a few friends. The boy cut us up some fresh coconuts. Afterwards I played next door in a beachfront "bar" with a group of a dozen or so percussionists and a few dancers. It was kind of pan-African, not exclusively Beninese, and they were pretty intense.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKORnotZSI/AAAAAAAAAK4/KZz5eclF2fw/s1600-h/DSC01181resize.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278938146580292898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SUKORnotZSI/AAAAAAAAAK4/KZz5eclF2fw/s400/DSC01181resize.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Just some super-cute neighborhood girls...</span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-67052269262971515582008-10-02T09:39:00.004-05:002008-10-03T07:09:32.216-05:00Photographs Aplenty (including partial nudity)<strong>The</strong> <strong>Canopy walk at Kakum in Ghana... the only animal I saw was a stinkin butterfly. But the view over the forest was spectacular, and the guide told us a bunch of cool uses of all the different kinds of trees, like which ones elephants use to scratch their backs (I think it's the ebony tree with its rough thorny bark), and which roots to cut to magically kill your enemies</strong><strong>... </strong><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOThRVAizZI/AAAAAAAAAIA/xok6v2opxWs/s1600-h/P1040983.jpg"><strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252570753234292114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOThRVAizZI/AAAAAAAAAIA/xok6v2opxWs/s400/P1040983.jpg" border="0" /></strong></a><strong> My jewfro was making the most of the the salty air. This is next to the Cape Coast Castle, a slave export center almost as beautiful physically as it is sickening ethically.<br /></strong><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOThRZnba1I/AAAAAAAAAII/f-I8kdfGdsM/s1600-h/P1040887.jpg"><strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252570754471127890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOThRZnba1I/AAAAAAAAAII/f-I8kdfGdsM/s400/P1040887.jpg" border="0" /></strong></a><strong> Fourth of July welcoming posse awaiting the new trainees at the airport. We had a few drinks on the ambassador and provided a raucus reception for the travel-dazed newbies....and yes, I <em>am</em> wearing floral-embroidered pink linen--you got a problem with that?<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOThRgR9-eI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/3DeD42DGK6o/s1600-h/DSCN2582.jpg"><strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252570756260166114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOThRgR9-eI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/3DeD42DGK6o/s400/DSCN2582.jpg" border="0" /></strong></a><strong>This is an open-air buvette called Bon Pasteur, amusingly named after the church next door. They blast popular Ivoirian music and the DJ chatters incessantly about the clientelle, singing and carrying on. Once he saluted me as I arrived, saying Blache Niege est arrive...(Snow White is here). It was only the next day that I realized what he had called me...These kids did some insane acrobatics, and something tells me they figured their moves out on their own, no clown schools here...The blond head is attached to the rest of my friend Aaron, who often accompanies me in some of my more interesting adventures. </strong><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOThRj4SnmI/AAAAAAAAAIY/efH5D0C69MA/s1600-h/DSC02212.jpg"><strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252570757226208866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOThRj4SnmI/AAAAAAAAAIY/efH5D0C69MA/s400/DSC02212.jpg" border="0" /></strong></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><div><strong>This one speaks for itself...Their are so many beautiful people here-little people and big people alike...</strong><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOTeWTncNJI/AAAAAAAAAHg/Z8Es4bU1beI/s1600-h/019.jpg"><strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252567540225029266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOTeWTncNJI/AAAAAAAAAHg/Z8Es4bU1beI/s400/019.jpg" border="0" /></strong></a><strong> My school--the kids turn the grass with hoes every wednesday afternoon. The big trees are Mango trees.<br /></strong><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOTeWQ3vTNI/AAAAAAAAAHo/wpNmjn-hASg/s1600-h/145.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252567539488083154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOTeWQ3vTNI/AAAAAAAAAHo/wpNmjn-hASg/s400/145.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong>The one paved road in my village which is actually kind of a highway that goes all the way north. The bush taxi loaded with an impressive cargo is par for the course. My friend likes to tell me I have turned a truckstop into a quaint village, his way of saying "your village kind of sucks but you're too dumb to notice." Well, I think my village is great, and if he has a problem with that, he can stay in his own little mud-road village...</strong><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOTeWYcZ-iI/AAAAAAAAAHw/9F9A3q_-z4c/s1600-h/162.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252567541520923170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOTeWYcZ-iI/AAAAAAAAAHw/9F9A3q_-z4c/s400/162.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong> It's lovely how the uniforms match the walls, isn't it?</strong><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOTeWmL5NeI/AAAAAAAAAH4/BichU9BvBFs/s1600-h/164.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252567545209763298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SOTeWmL5NeI/AAAAAAAAAH4/BichU9BvBFs/s400/164.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong> I promise even more pictures soon, maybe even video if the connection is fast enough...Oh, sorry, I lied about the nudity.</strong><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-87394679486841915712008-09-11T19:15:00.005-05:002008-10-02T09:38:31.243-05:00Life without music is like spaghetti without hot peppers<strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Tuesday, September 10, 2008</span> <br /></strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I feel the rentre breathing down my neck. It's an all-too-familiar melange of feelings, one which I have known and loved/hated since I was old enough to know better than to eat my own boogers. (Until I started attending school, my big brother Seth, an unabashed booger-eater, was my cheif role model and hence the arbiter of propriety--eek!)<br /> <br /> It will be good to see my students again, and to try to accomplish something, but it is something of a daily grind, and the year is soooooooooo loooooong. <br /><br /> There are some new ideas on the drawing board and they involve--huge shock!--music. I am going to try to scrounge up some money, possibly through a grant, to buy three or four trumpets, maybe a trombone or two, and start working during what is my arch-nemisis in the Beninese education system, the three hour lunch break.<br /><br /> Kids often walk 30 min or even an hour each way before and after school, and to do so again in the middle of the day is, to use my fathers phrase, sheer lunacy. Granted, it is not for no reason--the only food they will find is what is being prepared at the house at midday, and many have chores to do--but still...it is the hugest waste of time (itself a concept all but lost on Beninese). <br /><br /> It is because of the three hour lunch that students finish school at 5pm or even 7 or 8, leaving little time for extracurriculars or even homework. I hope to be able to put together a group of enthusiastic young musicians who will work a couple times a week, and to leave the trumpets at school where they can sign them out to practice during lunch on other days.<br /><br /> I recently worked a week training new volunteers in Port Novo, and made some connections which has opened other opportunity to teach music. A man across the street from our house happened to be the drummer in a group which performs every saturday and sunday at an outdoor bar. They play interminable songs--mostly salsa and African dance hits and classics--and they feature a revolving cast of drummers, singers, percussionists, keyboardists, bassists and guitarists. They were quite happy to let me join them and fish around for a line or two I too could repeat indefinitely, and to solo a few times on each tune. <br /><br /> One thing I really appreciate about the group is their practice of praise-singing, at least that's what I imagine was going on. The singer would start dropping names, and was clearly singing for the benefit of some newly-arrived couple, or a group of dapper men around a table teeming with beer bottles. (Cultural note: At a Beninese buvette, bottles are left on the table until payed for, and it is a status symbol to have a table strewn with bottles. As a result, a group will often buy more than one beer each, letting the second get warm as they drink the first. They will often choose small bottles, too, instead of the more cost-effective large beers which are double the volume, but not double the price, a fact appreciated by most volunteers). After a minute or two, one of them would come up on stage, or approach the singer who was roving around the crowd, and place some money in his hand or against his forhead, the traditional way of honoring a performer.<br /><br /> Although the musicians could keep the songs going for impressive amounts of time, and the singing and drumming were not bad, on the whole I wasn't too impressed, although I was grateful for the chance to play. One young drummer stood out, though, and I made plans to go to his group's rehearsal at the Christian Celeste Church (which astute and dedicated readers will recognize as the Church with whom I went on a pilgrimage to the sea last Christmas).<br /><br /> The jam was awesome, a long-awaited chance to really stretch out and blow with no audience to make me self-conscious. The bassist, guitarist and drummer are all young and recent jazz converts, and it reminded me a bit of playing at the New School with new students. Playing on that level in New York, or the states is one thing, but to figure out how to play jazz in Benin with no real jazz mentors or learning aids is quite impressive. They invited me to come play in Cotonou where they have two weekly jams with some Cotonou based musicians.<br /><br /> The result is that I have a standing rehearsal (of which I have so far played about four) in Cotonou on Thursdays. I bring recordings, sheet music, and patterns and excercises for them to practice, and we play. (It existed before I showed up, but I aim to take over and run the show, which everybody seems to be cool with, and happy about). It is refreshing to teach music on a more advanced level than my piano or theory lessons in the village. Who knows, it could be a good chance to have some positive impact here. <br /><br /> Aside from these musicians, I also met others in the past two weeks, especially the many and very talented brothers of my friend who is himself maybe the best Beninese pianist. They are the pinnacle of the Beninese music scene, and I sat in on a rehearsal that shows why--they rehearse three hours straight every weekday, as if it were a job, albeit a fun one. Inspired by their playing, I spent the next two days serenading the Peace Corps bureau and neighborhood from the rooftop for hours a day. Through one brother, I also found out about another standing gig every Friday and Saturday in a new, swanky little bar. I played one time and aim to be semi-regular there.<br /><br /> So now, after a year, I am suddenly making a bunch of jazz contacts and finding new chances to play and teach. (And I didn't even mention the Dutch smooth-jazz guitarist I recently met). The only thing missing is to meet some musician with his head in the clouds and his feet firmly on the ground who wants help creating a music school.<br /> </span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-1104376039439880262008-08-08T07:10:00.002-05:002008-08-08T09:09:41.247-05:00Yes, I love rice, wow!<span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Sunday, August 3, 2008</strong></span><br /><br /> Ghana is another world. A land of paved roads, billboards lit with bright lights, trimmed grass, totally foreign from Benin yet eerily familiar--Accra feels far more like a small American city than Cotonou 6 hours away. Most people dress in western clothes and many throw their trash in boxes or in the occasional <em>actual trash can(!?!?!?!)</em>. Reggae oozes out of small bars and passing vehicles. You can buy fried rice in a styrofoam box (cringe) with fried chicken and cole slaw (drool). Their are relatively few motorcycles, and vehicles tend to stay in their lanes and obey traffic laws (applause). <br /><br /> Unaware of the cheaper, easier, more comfortable metro bus, my road-dog and I took a trotro (ubiquitous minibus taxi) to a parking lot where we sat in another trotro in the rain for four hours waiting for our little van to fill for the trip to Cape Coast. Sounds boring, but I assure you, we had a plenty of entertainment in the form of ambulant vendors. A steady stream of people passed the open door and windows hawking the wares on their heads in style.<br /><br /> “Did she just say ‘Yes, I love rice, wow!’ ?“ “I think its Jolof rice”.."oh”…<br />“Yeeeeeees, biscuits”…”Yeeeeeees yogurt..yeeeeeeeees boiled eggs..perfume, wow..umbrella, umbrella, wow…yeeeees toffee... We ate a five course meal in that ill-fated trotro, and I cracked up at every less and less enthusiastic "wow" .<br /><br /> Cape Coast is the old capital of Ghana, the country formerly known as the Gold Coast. An impressive castle was built there around 500 years ago and the city gradually expanded around it. Originally built by the Swedes (if my memory doesn't fail me) as a secure trading post, it passed through a few countries' hands and soon became the seat of government and a dungeon where slaves were held to wait to be loaded onto boats.<br /><br /> The building and nearby coast are very beautiful (pics to follow…), even if heinous barbarism was practiced there for centuries. I’ll spare you the details--most of us already realize the human potential for cruelty and indifference to suffering, here institutionalized for profit. I learned that of around 60 million captured people, only 20 million made it to the auction block abroad, many dying during the long walk to the coast, many during a 3-9 month wait in the dungeon, and many more during the actual passage. A full 1/3 went to Brazil, 1/3 to the Caribbean islands, and 1/3 to the rest of the Americas. A few went to Europe I suppose, too. Not a pleasant thing to think about, but it's a story that needs to be told, and those who suffered deserve to be remembered.<br /><br /> At a touristy beachside backpacker haven we were lucky to catch a goofy three-man acrobatics show starring a young boy who was quite good at being flung, a contortionist tumbler, and a man who stood on a stool on another stool on 4 upright beer bottles on a table and spun a large bowl on his finger while I nervously cringed, grimaced and flinched .<br /><br /> The canopy walk in nearby Kakum National Park was beautiful even if a single butterfly was the only “animal” I saw (you have to go just after sunrise to be lucky enough to see a far-off monkey swinging from tree to tree.) The highlight at Kakum, though, was the “nature walk” , a 30-minute stroll during which our charming guide shared some of the secrets of the forest. <br /> <br /> He showed us a root which, if you cut it with a machete and utter the right words, blood flows out and you can kill a man by speaking his name. He warned us not to try it in the afternoon, though, because if your shadow falls on the root, you yourself will die. Placing a leaf of the same plant on the floor of someone’s room, if they step on it before they see it, you will know their secrets.<br /> <br /> He pointed out large ebony trees--which are great to scratch your back on, if you happen to be an elephant—trees which make great boats but crappy furniture, trees which make great furniture but crappy boats, trees with great, flat, upright roots like walls which people bang on to communicate over kilometers (<em>loud</em>, i tell you). Even today, he said, women get lost in the forest collecting snails, and they bang till someone comes to find them . One tree had been sliced with a knife and rubber blood was dripping from the wound (cool, a rubber tree). It was nice just to be in a jungly rainforest, at least closer to my initial expectation of the African bush.<br /><br /> Other highlights of the trip include termite mounds made of dirt towering at ten or twelve feet tall (unfortunately, seen only from the bus), a thorough disorienting venture into an air-conditioned, full of yovos, American-style sports bar for mediocre burritos and margaritas (hey, we'll take what we can get…) where we watched two pretty young ghanaian prostitutes start flirting with some older, fat American guys and go sit with them (what in the world do they have to talk about?), 48 hours of learning drumming, gyll (W. African xylophone), and dance, and making quick friends with the wonderful people at the Dagara Cultural Center outside of Accra (I’ll DEFINITELY be back…)<br /><br /> It was fun finding common points with food and language that after a year in Benin feel like our own. Much easier, though, was pointing out the differences, all too often marveling how Ghana is cleaner, safer, more orderly, more sane. That said, even if there are aspects of Ghana that are enviable from a Beninese perspective, the truth is that were Benin to develop in those ways, they would pay a certain cultural price as more global influence would inevitably eclipse and bury certain stuff that makes Benin "Benin". A ubiquitous trade-off that needs to be carefully negotiated. Good night, and good luck.Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-5742868421609675832008-07-20T14:00:00.002-05:002008-07-20T14:11:46.558-05:00~~~quick update~~~<span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Tuesday, July 15, 2008</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Porto-Novo is a trip, at least for us villageois who get excited to see a flush toilet. I like to call this training site "Porto-Novo 90210". While I am jealous to witness the luxurious accomodations (tiled houses, second floors, gardens with shrubs and guard dogs, large televisions, spacious living quarters, delicious food, large private bathrooms with showers and toilets and even, gasp, bedets !?! etc) of the stageaires, I definitely don't envy the difficult transition they will face as they go off to live in their muddy, dusty, hot, non-french-speaking, no-vegetable-having villages. I just hope it won't be too much of a shock to their system as they realize first hand what we volunteers have been trying to stress to them--this is not the real "Benin".</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Sunday, July 20, 2008</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Here we go! Tomorrow I leave Benin for the first time in a year...Interesting that today is our one year mark......I'm going with a friend to Ghana for ten days...WOO HOO... in which we plan to walk high up in the canopy somewhere, play drums for a few days at a music school in a village, and check out the Accra music scene, among other unplanned adventures. Expect a full debriefing in August. Mom and Dad, don't worry, I won't "do anything stupid". At least nothing stupider than anything I've done and lived through in Europe, Central America or Benin. Kisses to all.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-31370514622246205482008-07-01T06:45:00.002-05:002008-07-01T07:02:38.202-05:00Camp GLOW~~Dung Beetles~~Tall Tales of the Panther<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Saturday, June 28, 2008</strong><br /></span><strong><br />Camp GLOW</strong><br /> I spent the last week at a Peace Corps-run camp for girls called Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World). It was even more fun and rewarding than I had expected. More tiring, too. For five days I was "on" from 7 am till 10 pm, taking breaks while the girls were in sessions.<br /><br /> About 15 volunteers brought 12-17 yr-old girls from their schools or communities, about 50 in all. The girls were hand-picked, so most were smart, serious, and really nice. We stayed on a University campus in Porto-Novo which was probably the most manicured and stately place many of them had ever seen. One of my three girls had never been to Cotonou, the biggest city which is only 1 1/2 hours away, and none of them had been to PN, their country's capital.<br /><br /> There were many guest speakers and activity facilitators. The girls had 2 hr sessions on hygiene, nutrition, puberty & reproduction, financial planning, gender roles and professions, factors which keep girls from finishing school (specifically teachers who sleep with their students-more common than you might expect), children's rights, a panel with women professionals, the importance of education and study habits, a computer class, crocheting with plastic bags, necklace-making, a talent show, an american-style campfire (very bizarre) a dance party with a DJ, visits to the National Assembly (Beninese Legislature), a museum and the Centre Songhai, an impressive facility where people come for training in gardening, fish-raising, mushroom cultivation, composting and many related skills. Yes, in five days.<br /><br /> Of course, mixed in was free time for sports and games, origami, singing, and hanging out. <br /><br /> The first night, since none of them have watches, and they were so excited to be there, they were up at 3:30 am sweeping their rooms. A volunteer told them it wasn't time to get up yet, but an hour later, they were at it again with their brooms. <br /><br /> On a whim I taught them "Tomorrow" and "I'm Singin in the Rain" while killing time while waiting for a late speaker. They and a few other songs became the theme songs for the week, and a handy way to deal with dead air between other stuff. There are few things more endearing than 50 Beninese girls earnestly singing Broadway tunes.<br /><br /> It was so "Peace Corps" its not even funny, which, of course, is a good thing. I really think it was an unforgettable experience for most of the girls, and most of them came away with some concrete, useful knowledge that they hadn't had access to, as well as more confidence and ambition. <br /><br /> I was very impressed by the talent show skits. We asked them to deal with themes we had covered during the week. They wrote sketches about child trafficking and abuse, sexual abuse in school, villageois fathers who prefer that their kids work in the fields, and most of them acted with flair and spunk, improvising to great effect. A number of these girls had me guffawing at their goofy antics. It was very cool that they had a chance to just look squarely at some of the issues they deal with in a safe, supportive space. <br /><br /> Today on the way home I asked one of my girls what her favorite part was, expecting her to name an interesting session or trip. She told me the best thing was having no boys around for a while. And this is coming from one of the most out-spoken, confident, aggressive girls I know. I can only imagine that the more shy girls felt that even more strongly.<br /><br /> I really liked the girls and I miss them...I can't wait for next year!<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Sunday, June 29, 2008</span></strong><br /><br /> Today riding along the dirt road towards my house, I saw a beetle rolling a brown ball almost an inch in diameter. It was about eight times his size, and he changed direction alot as if the ball itself were deciding which way to roll. <br /> <br /> I was told years ago that the scarab beetle in Egypt would roll a ball of dung and lay its eggs in it. Hence "dung-beetle". Their was a faint fecal odor near this fellow, but I guess I didn't feel like getting off my bike to investigate further, i.e. stick my nose in it. <br /><br /> Any time I see something fascinating or amusing like that, there are inevitably people nearby who find my amusement or fascination in turn amusing. I suppose a white guy is more interesting than shit-rolling beetles, circus-like feats of human transport, young children doing big things, bleating goats which sound ridiculously child-like, and any number of odd things.<br /><br /> It has been a big blow to my ego to deal with heat rash (at least that's what I hope it is). For about a month I have had these red dots which recede but never completely go away on my chest, back and forearms. Sometimes they become more prominent and feel prickly, especially when it's hot, or if I'm flushed with emotions such as shame or nervousness, and I get nervous and tell myself I'll go see the doctor right away. Then they lay low for a while and I chill out. <br /><br /> Heat rash is for wimps. For people that get asthma and can't eat spicy food. For people that need air conditioning and two showers a day. For those who sunburn easily and wear a bicyle helmet when nobody tells them to. I thought I was more like Tarzan than Rick Moranis, but I guess I was wrong. I'm gonna see a doctor this week and hope it's not something creepier like a fungus or bed- bugs. But first we'll see if a day or two at the beach can take care of it- I can't help but have faith in seawater for all things skin-related.<br /><br /> Speaking of skin, did you white folks know that black skin is firmer and less stretchy than ours? When Beninese people started telling me that, I found it ridiculous until I pinched my arm-skin, and theirs. Big difference. Great, another emasculating discovery. <br /> <br /> The new-jacks arrive friday. Sixty clean, nervous, excited, idealistic, extremely American men and women who don't really have any idea what their life will be like a week from now are frantically shopping and reading books to prepare themselves. We volunteers are eagerly awaiting this transfusion of energy, personalities, and of course, date-able singles. <br /><br /> We will go to the airport and applaud their arrival--it's the most exciting moment of the year for our PC family. <br /><br /> I heard some interesting stuff about Kerekou, the ex-president of Benin, last night, hanging with my friend at a buvette. He said Kerekou never finished primary school. I should have asked if he became literate by some other means. Anyway, he came to power through a coup, and many insist that he got and kept power through gris-gris (a spell). He was always saying "the branch will never break in the hand of the Chameleon" and carried always a stick with a carved Chameleon.<br /><br /> My friend was there in Cotonou one day in 1989 when there was a mob in the streets waving machetes and calling for his head. (I think I was at a Bar-Mitzvah party at some Beach Club). His car stopped and he got out, holding his stick. The people ran away. He called them back and told his bodyguards not to shoot. He walked about 2 km, my friend tagging along, got back in his car, and that was that.<br /><br /> Then again, my friend, whose motives I strongly trust, also told me that the whisker of a Panther is deadly, and can even kill thousands of people. Dry it's harmless, but stick it in some water or any liquid and it creates a deadly poison. It's not gris-gris, but the natural property of the whisker. Of course, since Africans are forever seeking the downfall of those close-by, there are those who collect and sell the whiskers for use as a poison. <br /> <br /> Oh yeah, another Panther fact I never knew- apparently, they don't eat the flesh of their prey like lions do, they attack at the neck and suck the beast dry of its blood. Hmmm, that one is interesting but a bit hard to swallow. <br /><br /> My point is you gotta take everything with a grain of salt. <br />Now I'd better go to bed. G'Night...<br /> <br /></span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-52233976316942926622008-06-07T02:34:00.006-05:002008-06-07T03:05:35.115-05:00**List of Oddities**Mango Madness**<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Monday, May 19, 2008</strong></span><br /><br /> First off, I feel lucky to have a dedicated readership eagerly waiting on news of me and my experiences here in Benin. I have let you down and I hope you have not abandoned me as I may seem to have abandoned you.<br /> Second off, I want to send a shout-out to Rachel, a special girl who is celebrating 30 years today. <br /> Third off, is "second off" correct English?<br /><br /> It becomes harder to decide what to write about. As I mentioned last time, the novelty of this experience is quickly wearing off, and more and more it's just my life. Here's a list of unusual things I have seen:<br /><br />· A person riding on a motorcyle holding in one hand a chicken by its two wings.<br />· Five people riding a single motorcycle. (Granted, some were small people).<br />· Eight people in a five-seat car. (Yes, one was me).<br />· Four boys riding one beat-up bicycle. (At the same time). (No side-car)<br />· A twelve year old boy riding a motorcyle in the capital city.<br />· A man hauling a 400 pound tree trunk on (what else) a motorcyle, nonchalantly rolling up his pants to drive through a foot-deep muddy puddle.<br />· A pig riding in the trunk of a taxi.<br />· A man playing a drum on the back of- you guessed it- a motorcylcle<br />· More bare breasts than I could hope to count. Some belonging to my students. (Only slightly awkward). <br />· A monkey riding in the back of a pickup truck eating rice and beans.<br />· Piles of juicy mangos the size of small baby heads (8 for 50 cents).<br />· Nigerian travelling salesmen being welcomed into my class by a school administrator, hawking in broken french small bars of soap or printed educational pamphlets . And the kids buy the stuff, too.<br />· Baby chicks dyed punk-bright pink.<br />· I was served pate at a market "restaurant" by a naked boy of about three. (Granted, I specifically requested him as my server.)<br /><br /><br /> So I have been well, teaching classes, continuing with my music classes which move slowly, but are received enthusiastically by the small group of dedicated regulars.<br /><br /> The school year was prolonged on the spur of the moment by one month, on account of the strikes (which weren't followed at our school). It has forced me to reschedule a tentative trip to Ghana until later in the summer, and everyone is slightly annoyed, students and teachers alike. <br /><br /> I have been noticing improvement in my students but to be honest, an extra month of school will do them some good.<br /><br /> I look forward to having more time during the summer for music (local music, playing piano and composing, and of course playing the saxophone with whomever I can), and for capoeira. I want to teach some students the little that I know, bring this african dance/martial art back home to its roots.<br /><br /> I've been getting to know the club scene in Cotonou. I guess I'm not yet too old to dance until seven in the morning (and I hope I never will be). A typical friday night out in Cotonou involves salsa dancing (slowly but surely I'm getting some slick moves), an intermediate stop at an open-air buvette as we wait for the clubs to "chauffer" (heat up), and then much booty shakin once they do. (If you stay on the dance floor, they don't notice that you're not buying their over-priced drinks--unfortunately, PC doesn't provide a "nightlife allowance")<br /> <strong> <br /></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />Tuesday, May 27, 2008</span></strong><br /><br /> Did you know that there is no commonly used word for "please" in Fon? There may be some obscure phrase which means roughly please, but I have been here almost a year and I haven't learned it yet. People don't think twice about blasting a radio at all hours, and people you hardly know may beep your cell phone at 6:30 am expecting you to call them back on your dime. People call you "yovo" or "le blanc", and ask you incessently for small gifts, even if they are not particularly in need (they find it funny for some reason I haven't yet grasped). You might jump to conclusions and say perhaps they are inconsiderate and rude, but closer examination would quickly prove you wrong, or at least hopelessly confused.<br /> <br /> There are at least four ways of saying "thank you". What's more, there are many conventions which show respect and consideration for others which are absent in our culture-immediately offering water to a guest, shaking hands with two hands and bowing with a "grand" (older or respect-worthy) person, greeting every person in a group you encounter, always walking a guest to the gate or to the road to find them a taxi, automatically inviting anyone around to share your plate of food ("wa dunu" / "viens manger"), asking about the health of another's family on a daily basis, the list goes on and on.<br /><br /> I'm quite sure I regularly offend due to my ignorance of the ins and outs of Beninese propriety. On New Year's eve I was at a guy's house, a respected member of the community, and he was not paying me much attention--he was busy meticulously dividing the meat of a just-slaughtered goat in two for two of his five wives. As midnight approached I was becoming frustrated, wanting to be with somebody who I could share the excitement of the New Year with. I decided to run down the road and see Yves, one of my closest friends, at his buvette. <br /><br /> A few minutes before midnight, I told the children of this guy that I was going to leave. They told me I should ask their father's permission to go. I was taken aback-- "Am I a man?" I asked. "I don't need to ask anyone's permission to go anywhere!". Later, when I heard others asking permission to leave in various situations, I understood that this is just a convention. I realized how silly and misplaced my outburst had been.<br /><br /> The moral of the story isn't exactly a revelation--cultures are different, and one should be extra-careful before one judges another's actions as improper. But harder is realizing this in the heat of the moment and keeping a cool head when things rub you the wrong way. Then again, some people are just rude.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> ******************************************************************************<br /><br /> Mangoes. Did I mention the mangoes? Hefty, succulent, sexy.<br />It's ridiculous. First, they call to you from on high, immense droplets of heavenly bliss causing even the strongest tree's strongest branches to sag under their relentless pull towards you. Towards your mouth. Colors flowing from green through reds to oranges and yellows, the kiss of the sun falls on any mango lucky enough to be on the right side of the tree and leaves a visible trace, a glow in its cheek.<br /><br /> I leave the small mangoes in the schoolyard for the students. They are sweet, but small and too stringy, and the students rely on them to eat. Every time a mango drops and makes a thud on the ground outside the classroom, or bangs the corrugated tin roof, a few hands shoot up from students who ask to go "to the bathroom". But I have wised up, and now I say "no, you may not go out" even before they raise their hands.<br /><br /> I go straight for the premium product, the large mangos one finds at market, on plates or in basins atop the heads of women and girls, or lining the side of the road. I usually buy about eight at a time, a nickel apiece.<br /><br /> At home, I peel back strips of skin, exposing the glistening orange flesh. If I am inside, I hover over a plate, and nibble, trying not to make embarassing slurping noises that my neighbors would hear. Sometimes I take a mango out back, where we can go at it in a less inhibited fashion. Juice runs down my chin and my forearms, and I thank God for mangoes. Afterwards, I feel guilty, and a little empty.<br /><br /> No matter how much sweet juicy flesh a mango may have, how much life, I have come to learn that within is also the seed of death. Some mangoes, in their prime, give no sign of the death within until teeth hit the bony pit, scraping increasingly meager pleasure from the inevitable end. Others are more forthcoming--mingling with the blend of sour immaturity and sweet full-bodied readiness, one finds an earthiness that keeps one's feet on the ground. Sometimes, one also tastes the fermentation or simple rot of flesh that is already on its way back from whence it came.<br /><br /> Faced with such easy decadence, one might try to limit one's self, preserve a staid distance from a pleasure so tainted by death and guilt. Not me. Make hay while the sun shines, that's what I say. There will come a time when all that remains are the scattered bones, some very lucky ones sending shoots of life from within to find the welcoming embrace of rich soil, the gift of nourishment, and the powerful kiss of the sun. <br /><br /> Then, and only then, will I stop devouring mangoes. I suppose I will have to make do for the intervening months with pineapples.<br /><br />******************************************************************************<br /> </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> I found out today the final exams have been pushed back another three weeks to June 20--again at the last minute... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!<br />Everybody is pissed off. I hope they reschedule the PC-run girls camp which was scheduled for june 22-28th...I was gonna bring three of my students for a week of activities and the big city life of Porto-Novo.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Friday, May 30, 2008</span></strong><br /><br /> False Alarm!! Apparently, the Director of my school misinterpreted a message from DDEPS, the Board of Ed., and gave us all a good scare. There are two grade levels who will continue to work until the end of June, when they take will standardized exams to earn their diplomas (a la les francais, je suppose...). Luckily for the rest of us, final exams start June 9 which means I have another week of classes, a week of proctoring tests, a week to calculate and enter grades, and its off to Porto-Novo for the girls camp.<br /> </span><br /></span><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">*******from here on it gets boring, dont feel bad about ignoring the rest***********</p><br /> I found all this out yesterday when with 15 minutes warning I was forced to end a class a half hour early and come to a teacher's meeting from hell. Not atypical. <br /><br /> Twenty or so teachers sat in a semi-circle, facing the usual panel of Directeur--Censeur (Dean?)--Contable (Acct.)--Surveillant General (The Punisher). Monsieur Le Directeur started off in usual fashion, quietly listing the categories of topics to be discussed. (Important people don't seem to like wasting energy enunciating<br />or projecting).<br /><br /> The Censeur slowly read a memo from DDEPS and one from the office of the Minister of Education. If I hadn't been surrounded by a number of quiet, respectful teachers seriously taking it all in, I might have laughed out loud or been tempted to scream. The Censeur started something like this (en Francais of course):<br /><br />"From the desk of the blahblah blah of the blahblah at the ministry of Education and Training of the Youth, we have received this message:<br /><br />It is Message number 492 DPES//SSAP//1013927 (yes, he read every digit)<br /><br /> My dear Directeurs,<br /><br /> In light of the recent blah blah blah, taking into account blah blah blah and blah, it is my intention to blah blah. There are three directives which I send today in this message.<br />1. Blah blah blah, ...the standardized tests must take place no earlier then June 20, and finish no later than July 2, blah blah blah.<br /><br />2. In light of last year's poor test rusults, blah blah blah, it is encumbant upon each of us to do everything in our power to maintain the effective prescence in the classroom of all profeseurs and students until the afore-mentioned dates, blah blah blah.<br /><br />etc, etc, etc<br /><br /> Of course, the combination of my ignorance of the fancy educated French of Administrators, the mumbling tone of the Censeur, my distaste for beaurocracy in general, and the irrelevance of the message to my personal situation meant that the message pretty much went over my head. In fact, there was much more "blah-blah-ing" than I have noted here.<br /><br /> The meeting then followed typical protocol, which due to my lack of experience with work-related meetings, I can't judge as particularly typical of Benin, the French system, or of beaurocratic organizations in general. All I know is that I would have preferred a marathon of "Friends", and that's saying a lot.<br /><br /> Parties wishing to "intervene" raised their hands, and a list was made. Each speaker, mustering their loftiest language, laboriously made their points one by one, as the Censeur and Directeur seemed to take notes, but did not respond. After all had said their piece, the Directeur, heavy pauses smattering his speech, first re-iterated each point before responding at length. <br /><br /> If I were the Directeur, I would have boiled the whole two-hour affair down to this:<br /><br /> "The big-shots in Porto-Novo have given us the following dates for the exams...For those who teach grade levels who have the exams, the students are tired and they will start cutting class, so make sure you keep your classes interesting, and punish students who fail to show up. If you finish your curriculum, you should plan effective review sessions so that the students do well on the tests. For the rest of you, finals start a week from Monday. That's about it, have a nice day." I'm sooo American.<br /><br /><br /> </span><br /></span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-46909097969458458002008-05-30T10:27:00.010-05:002008-12-12T22:04:12.111-05:00Visual BlowoutYeah, I prepared a bunch of posts, and screwed up when I didn't put 'em on my usb key, so you'll have a whole lot to read in a week or two. In the meantime, these pictures should be worth at least a few thousand words...<br /><br />These are Racine and Deo Gratias, two children that I cannot pass without stopping and shooting the shit, pretty much every day. The whole family is nice, they are good friends. I would be in love with Deo Gratias if she were only about fifteen years older.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFqNwELoEI/AAAAAAAAAEs/Wj0mEFjMb0o/s1600-h/186.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206559428690288706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFqNwELoEI/AAAAAAAAAEs/Wj0mEFjMb0o/s400/186.jpg" border="0" /></a> Neighborhood girls, spontaneously falling into formation.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFqNwELoFI/AAAAAAAAAE0/gU_qsn0AiUs/s1600-h/DSC01190.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206559428690288722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFqNwELoFI/AAAAAAAAAE0/gU_qsn0AiUs/s400/DSC01190.jpg" border="0" /></a> Playing ajido, the national board game of benin, on my front stoop with Grace, my next door neighbor. My AP Calculus and University-level vectors and matrices class put me about on par with her aptitude for the game. We battle it out to the bitter end. DiDi looks on.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFqOAELoGI/AAAAAAAAAE8/j1c7-MV1LXM/s1600-h/DSC01930.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206559432985256034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFqOAELoGI/AAAAAAAAAE8/j1c7-MV1LXM/s400/DSC01930.jpg" border="0" /></a> Me and Clement, my homologue--an English teacher in the school, and my Fon tutor. Yeah, I know my bumba is fly...<br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFp4AELoBI/AAAAAAAAAEU/tk_N9DiuCIQ/s1600-h/126.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206559055028133906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFp4AELoBI/AAAAAAAAAEU/tk_N9DiuCIQ/s400/126.jpg" border="0" /></a> The road between my house and the paved main road becomes a lake everytime it rains. Hello, Malaria... Trying to figure out how to deal with this situation...<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFp4QELoCI/AAAAAAAAAEc/1a_1kX6R3-A/s1600-h/137.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206559059323101218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFp4QELoCI/AAAAAAAAAEc/1a_1kX6R3-A/s400/137.jpg" border="0" /></a> Issa, a neighbor and a zemidjan driver. This is the main road.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFp4QELoDI/AAAAAAAAAEk/2xutWZzaGE0/s1600-h/171.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206559059323101234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFp4QELoDI/AAAAAAAAAEk/2xutWZzaGE0/s400/171.jpg" border="0" /></a> Sunset, having just arrived at Grand Popo. Aaron and I walked down the beach to the Lion Bar, a Rasta-run hotel that plays reggae non-stop and has nice murals everywhere. Trying a bit too hard to be cool, but actually succeeding in being cool. It was Nonvitcha, the big fete for Grand Popo, held every year on Pentecost weekend. We didn't really do anything special, but spirits were high...Aaron is a friend of my feather, and you can belie' that we flock together. <br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFpfwELn_I/AAAAAAAAAEE/kx1oLFSr_AQ/s1600-h/047.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206558638416306162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEFpfwELn_I/AAAAAAAAAEE/kx1oLFSr_AQ/s400/047.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me and Betsy doin it up at All-Volunteer Conference GAD fundraiser at Hotel du Lac, a ritzy hotel in Cotonou. I laid down smooth African grooves for dinner, she and Sandy brought the rukus for some after-dinner dancing ...needless to say, my bumba was permeated with sweat by the end of the evening. Luckily there was a sweet pool nearby.</div><div><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEAfoQELn6I/AAAAAAAAADc/KiO4-2R12UE/s1600-h/035.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206195945608028066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/SEAfoQELn6I/AAAAAAAAADc/KiO4-2R12UE/s400/035.jpg" border="0" /></a> Lots of words on their way.......much love to my people all over the world.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div> </div></div></div></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-45641189364119341452008-05-04T03:20:00.002-05:002008-05-04T05:29:18.455-05:00Long time no post<span style="font-size:130%;">No, I haven't been swallowed up by a pit of jungle quicksand (we don't really have "jungle" here in Benin-- the bush in my neck of the bush is mostly scrubby bushes, grasses and weedy thistle punctuated with the occasional towering tree.) (And even if we <em>had</em> jungle, would we have <em>quicksand?)</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">No, I didn't go out fishing with Albert again only to have our junker of an outboard motor crap out leaving us vulnerable to the Nigerian pirates and arms smugglers who patrol the coastal waters.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">No, I haven't misteriously withered after a vindictive villager, hidden away in his room, pronounced curse words calculating my demise. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The real reason I haven't been posting is far less interesting- my computer lost MS Word, so i have no word processing application to work with for the moment. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So life is life... (yeah, I'm a deep, insightful dude) and by that I mean that it doesn't feel much out of the ordinary for me to be here in Africa. The novelty has officially worn off. I have my routines, my coping mechanisms. There are people I won't pass without stopping and shooting the breeze. There are those whose phone calls I stubbornly refuse to answer because I know exactly how pointless the conversation will be. I think I'm a little less smiley than I was a few months ago, although I still stop and shake hands with small children on a daily basis. I've been going more frequently to the clubs in Cotonou-dance is my favorite therapy. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"> When I got here, I felt like life was the next two years. Now I find myself fretting over my post-Benin future, which is probably healthy for a dude pushing thirty with no clear career trajectory.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">In typical fashion, at the very last minute the school year was lengthened by three weeks because of the teacher strikes that have disrupted the year (my school didn't strike). So instead of final exams this week, I can look forward to the hit-or-miss, unpredictable battle of wills called "class".</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So I am anticipating a great summer with some travel (Ghana perhaps, northern Benin for sure), some peace corps activity (training the new-jacks for 3 weeks, and taking two girl students to a week-long camp for bad-ass girls), a whole lot of music-makin and booty shakin, and of course, the best--those unplanned adventures that come a knockin at your door every once in a while. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Once I get Word, I will unleash the stories like a flood, I promise. In the meantime, tell <em>me</em> of <em>your</em> adventures and earth-rattling epiphanies...</span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-85199587364636839802008-03-07T06:53:00.003-05:002008-03-07T06:59:31.262-05:00Bloodsuckers and the Music Club<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Friday, February 29, 2008</strong></span><br /> Happy leap year! Today is a day of recalibration… I just need to figure out if I’m running ahead or behind, fast or slow, hot or cold. In general I feel pretty good, but it’s always hard to diagnose yourself, like it’s hard to notice if you yourself have grown. <br /> One time, I gained 25 pounds without noticing. I was enjoying the pastries and bread of Europe a little too much, perhaps. Only when I got home and my friend Rachel laughed at my big belly did I realize what had happened. So when here, in the space of two weeks, two different village lady friends of mine complimented me on filling out nicely (gaining weight here is a sign of good health), I started to get paranoid. An evil friend of mine seized on my paranoia and surreptitiously laid a foot on the med center scale as I was trying to calm my fears, and she had me convinced I had repeated my impressive 25 pound feat. <br /> Luckily, her fits of hysterics eventually tipped me off and I am relieved to know that I am cruising at my arrival weight.<br />`````````````````````````````````````````````````````<br /> I’ve got other news, growing stale, but not too stale to nibble on if you hunger for freakish slightly gross things. About 6 weeks ago, I got my very first blood sucking parasite! And my second, too! It started with a small bump near my heel, which I thought was some kind of wart. I ignored it. Then I noticed the tip of my pink toe was quite swollen, and pretty sensitive. I was studying it the day after I found it, when my friend saw it, laughed and told me I had a gigan. Fearing some exotic foot worm, I asked him what it was. <br /> It turns out, there are these tiny, black, tick-like insects which mainly stick to pigs, but also enjoy human feet, especially soft baby and child feet. My friend was surprised at the size of my gigans because usually they itch like mad as they burrow under your skin and start to suck your blood. Any normal rational adult here quickly deals with it before it really gets in the door. Mine had been inside at least two weeks, feasting quite well. <br /> Stoically, I sat with my foot on the table of my friend’s buvette as a small grinning crowd gathered and Yves went to work with a sharpened stick and a razor blade. Okay, I am lying. I was gripping the table till my knuckles were white as I softly whimpered and pleaded for him to wait and do it tomorrow, promising I would come back. (Sound familiar, dad?)<br /> After fifteen minutes, Yves had harvested two impressive white pea-sized gigans, leaving blood-red holes in my feet. Many times in the next day or two, the image of peering into a hole in my toe and seeing a pearl imbedded there left me with a smile on my face.<br /> Okay, I’m weird.<br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br /> Okay, I know, you didn’t sign up to read about weight gain (imagined or real), and certainly not about creepy blood suckers (you get enough of that in the Wall Street Journal…badoum, chink!) so I’ll tell you about my music club at school…<br /> It’s in a formative stage, I’ve had 3 meetings with one group and 2 with another. We do solfege and theory and I’m teaching how to read and write music. <br /> I composed a little singing exercise with two part harmony and it opened my eyes-this will be very hard. I want to sing three part harmony but everybody’s intonation is very loose (ie terrible) and they don't know how to listen to their voice (or others' voices)when they sing, so it just doesn’t work—not yet…<br /> Traditional music here is basically percussion and unison voices, so they are not used to hearing much harmony. I don’t know if this contributes to the problem, or if any group of untrained, unexperienced singers is an intonational nightmare. Regardless, it will be an interesting challenge to mold them into a group.<br /> I just need to show them what in tune sounds like before I can expect it of them. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">At this point there are kids that can't replicate a pitch I sing. My work is cut out for me...</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>Petit a petit le oiseau fait son nit</em>…little by little the bird builds its nest…<br /> I am scared that when I come home, having become used to using certain French, or even Fon expressions to express certain thoughts, I will be frustrated by English’s lack of a good equivalent—<em>ca y est…petit a petit…bon travail…tu a fait un peut?<br /></em> Anyway, eventually, I will post some recordings if possible…<br />Till next time…</span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-7118915970713144262008-03-01T12:19:00.004-05:002008-12-12T22:04:12.671-05:00A Day at Sea<span style="font-size:130%;">This is the main road passing through my village. I promise many more and better photos soon. Maybe even videos!!! those bananas are delicious ...</span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R8mS1zfE_QI/AAAAAAAAADM/htJygm0A8k4/s1600-h/Chickenshit+day+with+Parfait+036.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172827100063005954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R8mS1zfE_QI/AAAAAAAAADM/htJygm0A8k4/s400/Chickenshit+day+with+Parfait+036.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> This guy was in my house, and he had a few words for me...</span><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R8mS2TfE_RI/AAAAAAAAADU/5Vdju-_-c8w/s1600-h/talking+spider.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172827108652940562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R8mS2TfE_RI/AAAAAAAAADU/5Vdju-_-c8w/s400/talking+spider.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Friday, February 15th</span></strong><br />--<em>Azan yi aton!<br />--Dokpo</em> <em>jeji!</em> Literally, “It’s been three days”…“And one more!” (This is the Fon equivalent of “long time no see.”) I first take this chance to thank my dad for buying me the shiny new computer happily humming on my lap as I decadently prop myself up in bed this early Friday morning, with no immediate plans to go anywhere (a luxury even more rare here than it would have been back there in my “real life”).<br />The thanks don’t stop there, as my brother did the grunt work of buying it and sending it to the friend of a friend who graciously dragged it from Colorado to the bustling road-side market of my village where I fought past the dozen women insistently thrusting bags of oranges, small bags of <em>bocou </em>(boiled corn mixed with boiled peanuts), bags of pur water (“madame, pya wata, pya wata!”) into the open windows of the taxi, or displaying platters of papayas, bananas, pineapples or a delicacy (heehee) called <em>agouti</em>, or “bush-rat” .<br />I call the market “road-side” because the English language hasn’t had much need for a word to describe a market which is actually in the road. For the length of my long village, taxis and trucks pull over along one side of the road where they need not even open a door to buy the fruit or agouti my village is famous (at least regionally) for. Despite the fact that they have widened the road to accommodate this commerce which is the life-blood of the village, often the stopped cars leave only one lane to be shared by the two directions of traffic. At least this bottleneck forces the cars to roll doucement (gently)…<br />It’s hard to know where to begin when you are trying to blog the story of your life, and it has been six weeks of new experiences, shifting perspectives, happy discoveries, small triumphs and disappointments since you last had the chance to write. I’ll leave for later the happy stories of my newly formed music club and my other evolving musical adventures, the decadence of swimming at the American Ambassador’s personal swimming pool, the intrigued horror of participating in a chicken sacrifice, and the sorrow of learning of the death of my friend’s teen-age brother. Instead, I’ll tell you about my housemates.<br />They are generally quiet, and luckily we keep opposite hours. I am generally up and about from 5 or 5:30 in the morning to about 9 or 10 at night, and usually they only get up after I’m sleeping, although we cross paths occasionally during the day. My biggest complaint is that they don’t have the decency to shit in the designated shitting area, they do their business wherever, even while eating (now that’s just wrong), and it doesn’t even cross their minds to clean it up.<br />Another thing that pisses me off is when they eat my food without asking. Basically, they will eat anything I leave out—bananas, pineapples, bread— they even have the nerve to start a second or even third banana before they finish the first—utterly wasteful and inconsiderate. They’re almost as bad as my recent roommate in Brooklyn who smoked pot every day, made a pathetic attempt to clean every few months or so, and regularly passed out fully clothed on his bare mattress with lights and radio on. (Did I mention it was a railroad apartment and I had to pass through his degenerate world just to go brush my teeth or fix myself a nice cup of herbal tea in the roach-infested kitchen?)<br />When I do happen to see these messy co-inhabitors, I always make sure to remind them that their days are numbered—a friend of a friend has a kitten that she fears will be eaten by her neighbors if she doesn’t find him a new home, so I will soon have his welcome company here with me. If the mice are smart, they’ll quit while they’re ahead and move on. If they sit too long at the table of bounty they will quickly see the tables turn and who was once eating will soon be eaten.<br />Well, I have spent about two hours delicately crafting these two pages without really saying much of interest at all. What self-indulgent rambling as usual, now followed by the usual self-effacing and slightly embarrassingly self-conscious criticism. Anyone who is unfortunate enough to have followed my blog regularly should have by now noticed this pattern and stopped reading long ago… If you are unlucky enough to have stumbled across this blog, let me be the first to warn you—you are likely to waste some perfectly good time and leave with a bad taste in your mouth. Till next time! <em>Edabo…</em><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Saturday, February 23, 2008</span></strong><br />The worst thing about a party is that it must end. This morning I woke up in Cotonou and did not want to go back to my village. I have spent the last week enjoying my freedom from the daily grind and spending time with friends.<br />The “party” vibe culminated last night at a brand new night club called Tantra where a number of us danced until the DJ went home at six a.m. He played an eclectic mix of American hip-hop, European club music, African dance music and Lebanese club music. The crowd was weller-to-do Beninese, Lebanese (there are a bunch who do business here), our modest American contingent and a few Frenchies. I had the pleasure of being fought over more than once by friendly (and strong!) Beninese girls who tried to snatch me away from each other on the dance floor.<br />The slightly pretentious scene at the club contrasted strongly with the place I had left the morning of the same day, a beach not far from Porto Novo. I have a friend in this small, beautiful ocean-side fishing village and I took the opportunity to spend a day and a night there.<br />The village is set just back from the beach itself, and is scattered with quite a lot of coconut palms, nicely spaced to create an airy tropical atmosphere. The homes are also nicely spaced, and each is surrounded by a thin wall of inter-woven palm leaves. The houses have walls of palm branches and roofs of—you guessed it—palm leaves. The result is quite beautiful, the unity among the homes and between the homes and the landscape.<br />Albert is in his late forties but seems younger. His lips are discolored in a splotchy pattern, a result, I would assume, of the boat fire which also badly burned his hand and left it scarred. Having spent years in Nigeria working on and eventually captaining a large fishing boat, his English is decent, about on par with his somewhat broken French. His native language is gungbe (pronounced goon-gbay), a sub-dialect of the fongbe language family. This is the language of the Oueme departement of South-east Benin (which includes the capital of Porto Novo).<br />I met Albert in December as I was walking along the beach with a few friends, enjoying the relative solitude of the place. We came across a group of twenty or so people heaving a canoe out of the water and up the beach. Always wanting a part in the action, I suggested that we help, and we nonchalantly lent our incredible strength to the task.<br />The people were pretty friendly, and Albert in particular talked to us for a few minutes. After we shot the shit for a while, he mentioned that next time we should come find him and he would cook us some fish. He thus planted a seed which I have patiently kept for three months until I found the conditions to let it flower this week.<br />Thursday, when I arrived, we went to a nearby buvette where he insisted on buying me three large beers. Then we walked a bit through the village, visiting a few friends. At one house, he grabbed a little fish, thin and about three inches long, off a fire where it was being smoked, and handed it to me. I carried this little fish for about thirty minutes without really considering what to do with it before he asked why I hadn’t eaten it. <em>Ah, now I understand…you just take a whole little animal and nibble it, of course!</em> I did my best to enjoy this gift. Probably they would just bite the whole damn thing and chew it, bones and all, I’m not sure.<br />Worn out from our grueling afternoon, we lay down on a straw mat that he had laid out in the shade of a –you guessed it—palm leaf roof. He called a young boy, and told him fetch us some coconuts. In other words, “go scale that 30 foot palm tree, risking life and limb”. The boy, with bare feet and hands, climbed in stages, resting every few feet. At the top, he hauled himself up onto the palm branches and with much effort, shoved a few green coconuts off with his foot. I don’t know whether he was fearing for his life, but I definitely was.<br />With his machete, Albert expertly chopped an opening in several of the coconuts and handed them to me. Green coconuts are quite juicy I learned, and the juice is mmmmm… sweet. The flesh is somewhat thin and very moist, tender and delicious. I had three or four.<br />For the evening’s entertainment, Albert took me with his twin sons of four years to his friend’s house, where a gas-powered generator ran a tv. Just what I was craving—some nice modern technology to relieve me of the oppressive boredom of a sky speckled with glittering stars, fringed by towering palm trees, swaying gently in the constant breeze to the relentless rhythm of waves beating the shore.<br />The feature was a rather low-budget affair, a series of vignettes taking place on the streets of nearby Porto Novo, in which a rambunctious midget wandered around getting into trouble and loud arguments (quite a common theme in Fon movies) with various people—a bread seller and a sugar-seller, among others. A mixture of boredom and distaste for unabashed midgexploitation drove me to retreat into my book, the sci-fi masterpiece Ender’s Game.<br />At my insistence on sleeping outside, Albert spread a large straw mat in his fenced-in front “yard” and I had restless sleep until he in turn insisted that we move inside onto the all-too-solid concrete floor to escape the feared early morning dew of the harmattan.<br />Having been told that we would not be fishing since recently the sea had not been giving many fish, I was pleasantly surprised the next morning when Albert told me that his friend was going out, and would be happy to have me tag along. Albert decided to come along, too, and his seniority put him at the helm.<br />The boats are made in Ghana, the bulk of the body carved from a single large tree. About 18 feet long, these canoes are quite stable and handsome, if somewhat sea-worn. A small triangle juts out to the side near the back, seating a large 25 horsepower outboard motor.<br />When I arrived at the boat, it was halfway down the beach, just close enough to the sea that the largest waves came up and licked its belly. Having stowed nets, a large container of drinking water (ratty old engines can fail, after all) and little else, we got ready for a day on the sea. I reluctantly entrusted my cell phone to Albert’s friend who was staying back, but only after checking and memorizing my pre-paid credit balance. (Recent events have given me trust issues-more later…)<br />About ten of us now took advantage of every large wave which washed up under the hulking boat to heave it a foot or two farther into the water. At a certain point, we seemed to wait for nothing at all in particular, until Albert gave a shout, we all pushed to boat to full buoyancy, and we leaped in. With the speed and precision of a well-practiced football team, one guy lowered the motor into the water, pull-started it, and gunned it. Albert stood on the rear bench and grabbed a ten-foot oar-shaped rudder, directing us into the on-coming waves.<br />He had timed the launch well, and the boat easily scaled and crested three or four waves before they became harmless swells. It was only after we passed out of that hairy situation that it occurred to me to ask if they often tip during the launch. He said it depends on the captain. The captain must study the sea, grok the waves which come in sets, and carefully time the launch so that it takes place between the sets of larger waves. Call me reckless, but my captain’s age and demeanor had given me full confidence in him.<br /><em>I’d like to interrupt this narrative for a moment to say that just because you, the reader, are likely sitting in a nice chair in a climate-controlled home or office, enjoying a nice cup of fresh coffee and a blueberry scone, or an avocado roll with green tea, or a mozzarella and fresh basil sandwich on organic 16-grain bread, I’m not jealous, no! I’ve got a gigantic half-papaya in front of me, roughly the shape, if not the size, of the very boat on which our narrative takes place. Back to the story…</em><br />Call me short-sighted, but it wasn’t until we got out into the sea, with the coastal palm and pine trees slipping behind the morning fog that I thought to wonder how on earth we would navigate. How did they used to do it? Oh yeah, stars…well there aren’t too many of those during the day. Actually, there’s exactly one, and it’s called…………………………………………..that’s right—the sun.<br />Albert claims he uses his “experience” to know where he’s going. Okay, I can understand that waves generally head towards the land. I can accept that the wind in turn heads away from land. But that doesn’t explain how he headed out for about 20 min, at an angle to the shore, and without much difficulty found the little flag and buoy that mark the nets that the crew had cast the previous day.<br />Before hauling in this catch, we cast another net, about 200 meters long. While one guy gently rowed us along and Albert kept our course true, the other two let out the net. About four feet wide, it was lined with floaties (mostly pieces of old flip-flops) along one side, and sinkies (small bits of metal) along the other. The floaties aren’t strong enough to overpower the sinkies and keep the net at the surface, they are intended to keep the net upright along the sea-bed.<br />Pulling in yesterday’s net, one guy kept laying these crabs, still stuck in the net, on the top edge of the side of the boat, an improvised anvil, and bashing them with a stick until glittering bits of crab shell and flesh rained down in the water, manna for some little guys, I’m sure. Turns out these crabs, which numbered at least one of every two animals caught, are inedible.<br />Among the edible catch were other crabs—these were removed from the net with a bit more delicate touch—a couple handsome well-red snappers about two feet long, some medium sized flat silvery-white fish, and a lot of what I think may be flounder. Flat, they fly through the water by creating wave motions which run along the side of their bodies. They have long rattails and their mouths are found on the lower surface of their flat bodies, well-positioned to scavenge the ocean floor, I imagine. Not too attractive if you ask me.<br />As they worked, the crew passed the hours joking and telling stories which were obviously unintelligible to me. I passed the hours alternately gazing at the horizon, similar in every direction, and watching the men work much as I studied construction workers as a young boy.<br />Eager to get to Cotonou to see which other volunteers were in town and cook up some week-end festivities, I decided not to wait long enough to eat the fish which we had earned (I did bail a little! ). Instead, My buddy quickly steamed about seven crabs, which we ate with gari and sauce. Gari is a rough flour made of manioc. It is often mixed with cooked beans and can be eaten dry as a snack, or countless other ways. Today it was mixed with water to create a slightly sticky, subtly bitter, kind of rough dough. Taking a bit between the fingers, you roll a ball, dip it in the sauce (tomatoes, hot pepper, crab fat, and water) and enjoy. Enjoy I did. Albert spoiled me by deftly cracking open the crabs and tossing chunks of white flesh onto the plate of sauce.<br />My sojourn at the beach had come to an end, and in fact 24 hours seemed like enough. Hanging out with Beninese, even quite nice and pleasant people, is different from hanging with other friends. We are truly from different worlds, and there is a divide there which has not shown signs of dissolving in my seven months here.<br />He welcomed me to bring a friend or two next time, and I will surely take him up on his offer. Maybe having a third wheel along will make a stay of two or three days more appealing</span>.</div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">More soon...lots of love...</span></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-20869808280705460712007-12-26T07:59:00.000-05:002008-12-12T22:04:14.835-05:00~~Disaster Strikes!!!~~Satan Claus~~Pilgrimage~~<div><div><div><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">December 26, 2007</span></strong><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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 :(</span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><div> </div><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;">**cultural note*</span></em><br /></div><br /><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;">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?")</span></em></div><div> </div><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;">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"</span></em></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>animateur</em> (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. </span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Anyway, the kids loved Satan--I mean Santa. (Check out the picture, it's not hard to confuse the two...)</span></div><div><br /> </div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149299546506126978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3X8p8eT5oI/AAAAAAAAABc/lmj5h4h61IU/s400/DSC00879.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">The</span> <span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149320136579344066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3YPYceT5sI/AAAAAAAAAB8/kI4NrV-v1aI/s400/DSC00950.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">By chance, amid the crowd of easily over ten thousand, we ran into my friend's friend from village, along with <em>his</em> 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 <em>fou</em> (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.</span></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149325836000945874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3YUkMeT5tI/AAAAAAAAACE/Q_dy9O48lcQ/s400/DSC00971.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Grands</em> and special invitees were allowed in. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Reverend Pasteur. </em>Sporting a regal purple robe with golden embroidery, nonchalant behind his large, tinted glasses, he was a man with presence. </span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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 "<em>Mi kudo hwe</em>!"</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Gendarmes</em>, and other Invitees of note. From there we watched as delegations from various countries danced up to the <em>Pasteur</em>, accompanied by the raucous brassband, and knelt down to share their gratitude and a few thoughts.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Afterwards, we were led into an inner sanctum with the <em>Grands Invitees</em></span> <span style="font-size:130%;">where we shared cold cans of soda in a somber silence. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Pierogue</em> (canoe) and lays nets to catch fish. This is not his house, but it looks quite similar.</span></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149336169692260130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3Yd9seT5yI/AAAAAAAAACs/_NV0pj828Ck/s400/DSC00968.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></p><span style="font-size:130%;">After</span> <span style="font-size:130%;">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... </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">So happy holidays, mi kudo hwe, and enjoy a few random pictures...</span></div><div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149337806074799922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3Yfc8eT5zI/AAAAAAAAAC0/zE5klDJsiWI/s400/DSC00729.JPG" border="0" /> <span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Not too hard to make friends with the kids that wander around their neighborhoods lookin for kicks.</span><br /><br /><p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3Yi4seT50I/AAAAAAAAAC8/Cdz4RUnEiyE/s1600-h/DSC00759.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149341581351053122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3Yi4seT50I/AAAAAAAAAC8/Cdz4RUnEiyE/s400/DSC00759.JPG" border="0" /></a> </p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Caught in the act--classic Beninese hand-holding.</span><br /></p><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3Yi5MeT51I/AAAAAAAAADE/v_PlqdiEZbM/s1600-h/DSC00792.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149341589940987730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R3Yi5MeT51I/AAAAAAAAADE/v_PlqdiEZbM/s400/DSC00792.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-87862635123258687422007-12-16T02:24:00.000-05:002007-12-29T01:57:26.561-05:00I am restored § School Life § Late night mischief § Sax and Gota<strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Saturday, November 17, 2007 - I am restored<br /></span></strong><br /><em><span style="font-size:130%;">*******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!!*******</span><br /><br /></em><span style="font-size:130%;">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…<br />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:<br />“Today is Christmas day. My gramma got me this diary.<br />I also got a fishtank. My family is in the process of moving.”<br />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!<br />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.<br />G’night and thanks for indulging…<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Thursday, December 6, 2007 — School Life<br /></strong><br />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…<br />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…)<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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!<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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).<br /><br />To everyone who secretly wished me a happy birthday yesterday, many thanks.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Thursday, December 13, 2007 - Late-night mischeif</strong><br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br /><strong>Sax and Gota</strong><br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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…<br />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 …<br /><br />many more pictures will be forthcoming!!!!!!</span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-76931040999069019652007-12-07T08:54:00.000-05:002008-12-12T22:04:16.249-05:00Wow, even more pictures! :)<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRexQjAOI/AAAAAAAAAA0/aD6b-t4a-s0/s1600-h/funeral+procession.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141230038680797410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRexQjAOI/AAAAAAAAAA0/aD6b-t4a-s0/s400/funeral+procession.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> 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.<br /></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRfBQjAPI/AAAAAAAAAA8/-rxIeQIFZR8/s1600-h/abomey+drummers.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141230042975764722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRfBQjAPI/AAAAAAAAAA8/-rxIeQIFZR8/s400/abomey+drummers.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> Professional drummers at another funeral in ABOMEY.<br /></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRfBQjAQI/AAAAAAAAABE/vpr-ZgUNTRA/s1600-h/me+and+claude.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141230042975764738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRfBQjAQI/AAAAAAAAABE/vpr-ZgUNTRA/s400/me+and+claude.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> Me looking fly in tissue with a friend at the Abomey funeral.<br /></span><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRfRQjARI/AAAAAAAAABM/4uNYZ86lIBQ/s1600-h/tree+sunset+kpome.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141230047270732050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRfRQjARI/AAAAAAAAABM/4uNYZ86lIBQ/s400/tree+sunset+kpome.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> 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" :)<br /></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRfhQjASI/AAAAAAAAABU/9OpQPB__IL8/s1600-h/jungle+bros.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141230051565699362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/R1lRfhQjASI/AAAAAAAAABU/9OpQPB__IL8/s400/jungle+bros.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> Just some guys in the bush-- you will recognize Parfait and the two fishermen...<br /></span><div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Tech issues mean I can only post pix today, more blogs on the way...</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">News-- avian bird flu in benin? hmmmmmmmmmm love to all. Till next time...</span></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-50204684104319004192007-11-16T06:44:00.002-05:002008-12-12T22:04:17.101-05:00Miss Benin Contest, and PHOTOS!!!!!!<span style="font-size:130%;">Here are some photos...(finally!)<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/Rz2DvOhbb3I/AAAAAAAAAAU/hlTPVM3wX9k/s1600-h/DSC00170.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133403997647630194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/Rz2DvOhbb3I/AAAAAAAAAAU/hlTPVM3wX9k/s400/DSC00170.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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 :)<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/Rz2Dv-hbb4I/AAAAAAAAAAc/ZUrKzcqLItQ/s1600-h/DSC00320.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133404010532532098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/Rz2Dv-hbb4I/AAAAAAAAAAc/ZUrKzcqLItQ/s400/DSC00320.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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 :)<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/Rz2DwOhbb5I/AAAAAAAAAAk/nvugatySMVI/s1600-h/DSC00339.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133404014827499410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/Rz2DwOhbb5I/AAAAAAAAAAk/nvugatySMVI/s400/DSC00339.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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...<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/Rz2Dwehbb6I/AAAAAAAAAAs/ArOUV8Lau-8/s1600-h/DSC00348.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133404019122466722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r6gGMiZKo_0/Rz2Dwehbb6I/AAAAAAAAAAs/ArOUV8Lau-8/s400/DSC00348.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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)<br /><br />more photos to come...<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Friday, November 9, 2007</strong></span><br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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…<br />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?)<br />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”.<br />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.)<br />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.<br /></span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-15623151682921227452007-10-26T09:59:00.000-05:002007-12-29T02:05:19.982-05:00Finally!<span style="font-size:130%;">at cybercafe now; found high speed internet, its awesome!<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Friday, October 12, 2007</span></strong><br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Tuesday, October 23, 2007</span></strong><br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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).<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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…<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Thursday, October 25th, 2007</span></strong><br /><br />…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?<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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).<br />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.)<br />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.</span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-20796501087270196182007-09-20T08:34:00.001-05:002010-01-18T16:52:06.089-05:00New Address!!<span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><strong>Don't</strong> send me useless crap, chain emails, political things, jokes, etc. <strong>Do</strong> send me news of yourselves (especially if I actual know you and hence may care).<br /></span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-65053322903770802752007-08-29T08:35:00.000-05:002007-12-29T02:07:08.411-05:00With love from Lokossa<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Thursday August 9, 2007</strong></span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />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…<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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…<br />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…<br />It ain’t half-bad…<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Friday, August 24, 2007</strong></span><br /><br />It’s been a while—a busy couple of weeks—since my last post…<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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!!).<br />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.<br />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!)</span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-16999441013219740382007-08-03T07:50:00.000-05:002007-12-29T02:08:32.071-05:00Where to begin?<span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Saturday, July 28, 2007</span></strong> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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…<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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…)<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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…<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Monday, July 30, 2007</strong><br /></span>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.<br />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.<br />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).<br />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.<br />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).<br />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.<br />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.<br />Bon—il faut rentrer a l’ecole…It’s time to go back to class…<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Wednesday, August 1, 2007</span></strong><br /><br />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…<br />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!<br />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!<br />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.<br />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.<br />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…</span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-67381257323596987802007-07-19T13:01:00.000-05:002007-12-29T02:09:08.283-05:00Feet on Soil<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" >Thusday, July 19</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />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...<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Sat, July 21<br /></span>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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...)<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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...<br /><br /><br />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).<br /><br /><br />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)<br /><br /><br />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...<br /><br />Peace, David<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"></span></span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-53785374618667254502007-07-13T10:16:00.000-05:002007-12-29T02:09:33.533-05:00Four days<span style="font-size:130%;">but whos counting...</span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114787747121578722.post-82983065929265166502007-07-12T16:37:00.000-05:002007-07-12T16:38:10.588-05:00five daysbut who's counting?Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04924332180895631353noreply@blogger.com