L'annee deux mille douze (was a doozy)

And for what I hope is your reading pleasure, I bring to you today a roundup of deux mille douze (2012), bullet-pointed out of sheer laziness.

• I applied to graduate school.  Allons-y toward the future.   The three schools should get back to me in early March.
• Thanks to my grad school applications, I devised a five-year plan.  It's the first time maybe ever that I actually have one and want to put it into action. 
• Accomplished: I weighed at least 500 children - both in town and in the surrounding villages, and have revitalized the growth monitoring system here in Kandi, which is to say, someone's finally doing it.  As a result, I overcame my fear of babies, finally (but I still don't want one).  I conquered the beast that is the local high school and started a weekly English club.  Shockingly, I really enjoy it.  I also organized and led a week-long girls' camp.
• Was challenged EVERY single day, mentally and physically.  I'm stronger but also more aware of my limits. 
• I became a radio star this year.  I realized the other day that the station donates what is the equivalent of $40 of radio time to me each week.  That's a pretty significant community contribution..  Although I have never received any feedback on my show, which covers health and American culture, I hope a few people learn something each week.
• FINALLY, I started dreaming in French.  I've hoped for this since my first French class in 1995.  Although I am by no means what I would consider fluent, I can hold my own in a conversation. I love the challenge.
• I read several great books, though definitely not as many as I should have; among them were Dr. Farmer's Haiti after the Earthquake (which made me want to travel there even more than before) and Paulo Coehlo's The Fifth Mountain, a novel much more spiritual than I'm used to, but then again, spiritual uplift is a good thing.
• Became (sort of) owner to a rambunctious puppy named Sasha, who along with me would like to wish you a Merry Christmas and a most lovely 2013!

On guilt (sigh)

On guilt

Apologies in advance if this doesn't read totally coherently.  We're going with a "stream of consciousness" theme on the blog today.  In general, I suppose I don't spend a lot of time feeling sorry for people in my community, or for that matter, for Benin as a country.  There's no value in that.  The majority of people I encounter have what they need to get by, and I think it's evident that most of the time (there are exceptions), I'm not living in a Save the Children commercial.  Granted, I think my perspective is a bit different based on my time in Niger; there are legitimately people starving in Niger.  Here, less so.  Or at least it's less evident   Kandi, for example, has the infrastructure to deal with malnourished children.  The resources are there, but organizing and strategizing for the optimal usage of said resources is the real issue.  The Peuhl, an ethnicity of semi-nomadic herders who absolutely fascinate me, bear the brunt of the malnourishment problem in this commune.  But why?  They have the cows who produce milk, milk that the Peuhl make into cheese.  They're not lacking in nutritional resources (and as a vegan - at least while in America - that's hard for me to say).  I think in the case of the Peuhl, it's not a lack of caring about their children, certainly, but rather a matter of knowledge.  And this, of course, is where volunteers like me come in.

Where I do not feel I fit into the picture is as a source of money.  Most of my fellow volunteers, and certainly the agency, feel the same way.  I dislike the "teach a man to fish...." analogy because it's so overused, but it's true.  We're here to help "Africa stand up," as our friends at Songhai like to say.   But standing up means taking responsibility for yourself.  My dad and I have debated whether or not it's a good thing that Peace Corps has such a long history in Niger and Benin (arriving in 1962 and 1968, respectively).  Is this breeding dependence?  Some would argue so.  On most days, I would, too.  Where things get messy is when a co-worker, someone you see and interact with daily, asks for help.  This is where I start to doubt myself.  He claims he hasn't been paid in sixteen months.  I didn't really understand his explanation as to why this was so, but I was almost immediately dismissive given that these requests inevitably arrive near holidays (first before Tabaski, and now, near New Years).  But what if his kids aren't eating?  Then again, why is he only asking me and not our other co-workers?  The Beninese have a collectivist society; if your family is struggling, you can depend on your extended family, and to some degree, your neighbors.   I don't know if this should include the "batoure" who clearly does have a lot of resources, even if I do my best to hide them.  Most volunteers I know have lent money people in their villages (neighbors and host families, for the most part).  I made a rule against this before moving to post and have only budged twice: once for my neighbor with a sick child (the equivalent of $2) and once so that the guy next door could get a  new carte d'identite (ID card); he promptly repaid it after I specified a deadline.  And so today I (nicely) refused my co-worker, citing my not being here to just dole out cash.   But I feel guilty about it, and I don't quite know why.  Part of me feels like I do at home: if I have the means, it's my moral obligation to share them.  But I also feel like I've already given up a lot just by being here.  How much is enough?  Argh.  I don't know.  I hate not knowing the answer.

The Polio Campaign

Today I earned every bit of the $6 Peace Corps pays me (after taxes, naturally) to be here.  Rotary International sponsors a door-to-door polio vaccination campaign trimesterly here in Benin.  For this December's iteration, I actually received some advance notice and thus was able to plan to participate.  I generally have nothing to do on Friday mornings, so I figured I  might as well check out a new neighborhood - in-depth! - here in Kandi.  Despite that I walk everywhere and go for runs in the mornings, there are still a few spots in this town that I haven't yet explored.  And, ever since working at my nightmare of a job that happened to be located at their world headquarters in Evanston, I've been curious about what exactly Rotary does.  Not that they ended up  having a whole lot to do with the actual vaccination part, but whatever.  They did do a good job of marketing it (including text messages from our cell phone carrier, MTN), so props to them for that.

According to the coordinating doctor, all volunteers (relais communautaires - or community health volunteers who are specially trained - and myself) were to be ready at the health center's gazebo at 5:30am.  Being Benin, we really got going around 7.  I was paired with two women I had never seen or worked with before, both of whom were too fond of gesturing to me rather than using words.  I should probably put in a disclaimer here that I hadn't eaten breakfast and was anticipating stopping for some fried dough or other such street food delicacy (ha ha, total oxymoron).  We all know how I get when I haven't eaten breakfast.  So when they meant door-to-door, they really mean door-to-door.  At each house/room, volunteers are required to ask to see any children under 5 and even if there aren't any, they must write (in chalk) a big zero and "3T," representing the third campaign of the year.  If you actually do vaccinate, you have to write on the door of the house (or the wall) what fraction of them you vaccinated.  Most were 1/1 or 2/2.  The chalking of the doors/walls seemed bizarre at first, but I guess it makes sense.  It reminded me of Hurricane Katrina.  Of course there is also the official "fiche de pointage"or the tally sheet, where the volunteer (me, in all vaccination cases - tallying is ALWAYS my job, but I'm good at it) mark the age of the kid and how many were in the household.  Luckily one of the volunteer women was from that neighborhood (Keferi), so she mostly knew which kid belonged to whom and who comprised each household.  When you have literal mazes of single room mudbrick homes, it can be a challenge to figure out who belongs to whom.

Luckily the polio vaccines are oral.  The vaccinator kept telling the kids to come get their "bonbon," and their little faces would light up only to be met by bitter disappointment moments later.  This is no bonbon in the traditional sense.  It's hard to explain to a kid that these two flavorless drops of drug might not taste like candy, but you'll thank us later when you're not dealing with paralysis.

And so we wandered around this little neighborhood for, wait for it....., SEVEN hours.  At six and half hours, I was like, "ladies, can we possibly take a five-minute break here?"  I'm pretty habituated to walking around in the sun (believe me!), but this was another thing entirely.  Mostly because, as I mentioned, I hadn't eaten breakfast (not that there were any viable options at 6am, being that the Dunkin' Donuts just went out of business) and we were inching dangerously close to the end of the food stand/shack lunch rush.  So we sat down for five minutes, and I returned a friend's call.  My two fellow volunteers stared at me intently while I spoke what they initially thought was Spanish.  They asked what other languages I speak, and I mentioned Hausa, to which one of them said, "well the sun is a lot more intense in Niger."  For once, I just kept my mouth shut., mostly out of fatigue.  Twenty minutes later we finished the last vaccine vial and headed back to the health center.  Selfishly, I decided not to go tomorrow, given that I have a 14 mile run to do on Sunday.  Not only do I think the other volunteers have this one covered, but I also just want to say "no" for once. Perhaps that's not a bad thing.

Do They Know it's Christmas?

Do they know it's Christmas?

There's something weird about eating watermelon and listening to Christmas music.  Those two things shouldn't really go together, which, incidentally, is also how I sometimes feel about my living in Benin.  In the Christmas spirit of the "Holiday Lite" aka 93.9 in Chicago, I began listening to said Christmas tunes somewhere around November 1st. I downloaded a whole collection from the workstation harddrive, and bam, instant Christmas cheer.  Surely you remember and can undoubtedly hum along with "Do They Know it's Christmas?" originally sung as some sort of aid thing in the 80s.  I don't know how the actual lyrics of the song escaped me for so long.  Have you ever listened to them closely?  Perhaps I'm super sensitive or have not yet conjured up enough holiday-induced compassion, but dang!  This may debunk "The Little Drummer Boy" as my least favorite holiday tune.  Let us deconstruct some of the phrases.

Though the songwriters claim to want to "throw our arms around the world," they seem to lack an understanding about the actual lives of the so-called "other ones."  Was the situation of most Africans that much more dire in the 80s? The "bitter sting of tears" seems a little dramatic.  I'm not seeing a whole lot of tears around here.  Even in Niger, where the food security situation was especially dire this year, no one's crying about it.  In fact, I don't think I've ever seen a Nigerien or Beninese cry about anything.  Africans (all 54 countries' worth) could teach Americans something about stoicism.

Possibly my least favorite line in this bush-taxi wreck of a song is "tonight thank God it's them instead of you." Isn't this slightly hypocritical after the wrapping-arms-around-the-world part?  I get the being grateful for what you have thing, but I'd be embarrassed to play this song for my English club.

And lastly, the namesake phrase, "do they know it's Christmastime at all?"  In fact, they do.  In Benin, somewhere around 50% of the population is Christian, mostly Catholic.  So yes, "they" do know.  Even in places like Niger, where nearly the entire citizenry is Muslim, there are still a lot of people listening to the BBC or Voice of America on the radio or watching France 24, where the holidays will undoubtedly be discussed.  We're not as cut off from each other as you might imagine.

So one of my Christmas wishes is that we retire this song for good.  The world needs more of this instead:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kYEK-pxs_A  Could anything be better than transforming Toto's "Africa" into part of a Christmas medley?  No, no there could not.

Happy Tofurkey Day from Benin

Here in Kandi, my fellow PCVs and I are preparing our Thanksgiving spread a day late.  I'm in a reflective mood, so here are some of the things for which I am especially grateful this year:
1. The baby goats roaming freely all over Kandi, and especially the ones that wander into my concession, making their ridiculous goat noises and bouncing all over the place.
2. That harmattan, with its cooler days and chilly nights, is right around the corner.  Finally, some good sleeping weather.
3. To have two work partners, Bio and Diallo, who care and are there for me.  Until recently, I doubted I'd ever feel like I had Beninese friends,  but upon returning from vacation, I realized how much I had missed them.
4. To have stayed free of illness during my service thus far.  It's a minor miracle.
5. For the first time, being proud to be an American, despite our country's varied faults.  And on that vein, that as a female, I was born in a country that values education and equality for women.
6. My parents, who call me faithfully each Saturday and who are ever supportive.
7. Feeling that I am exactly where I should be, doing exactly what I should be doing.
8. BBC's Pride and Prejudice and Modern Family, my most reliable pick-me-ups after a tough day.
9. November/December's watermelon season
10. The novels of Harlan Coben, my guilty pleasure reads.
11. My fellow Alibori volunteers, especially Nina.  We are out here beyond the middle of nowhere, and we know we can depend on each other.
12. To have daily access to the luxuries of electricity, the internet, and an oscillating fan.
13. My Niger-now-Benin stagemates Mary and Kimie.  I definitely could not do this without them.
14. That I can get freshly made tofu every day if I want it.
15. For the food stand lady by the post office, who has my plate ready by the time I am seated on the bench.
15. That I'm still here after sixteen months but also that I'm starting to make plans for life post-Peace Corps.

Oh, public school. You can be a cruel, cruel beast.

Very rarely I have a day which causes me to think, "if submitting my resignation to Peace Corps didn't involve a 10-hour bus ride to the capital, I would quit right now."   Today was, as one of the musical-loves-of-my-life James Taylor would say, "a day that you can't explain."  It started off well with a trip to the health center, where all the nurses and nurses' aides were gearing up to go out "en brousse" (to the bush) for the annual, nationwide meningitis vaccination campaign.  I decided to follow the team led by the new head nurse, Brice.  Our territory was EPP (Ecole Primaire Publique - Public Primary School) Gansosso, where all my neighbor kids go to school.  I have only ever spent time in high schools here, so seeing where the younger kids (supposedly) learn was a little shocking.  The class sizes of fifty students typically found at the high school level could be considered a luxury.  I spent about two and half hours in a classroom of five and six year olds and one teacher.  Guess how many of them there were - I dare you.  One hundred and three.  In one classroom. So that alone was discouraging, but then we started the vaccination paperwork (no parental consent involved, apparently).  Each child received a little yellow card filled out by both Brice and myself.  An alarming number of the children didn't know their last names or their ages.  It's funny the first time a kid of about six claims to be twenty, but after that you start to wonder how they're ever going to learn in this environment. If your child has a learning disability, you might as well just pull him out of school.
Now, there's many things I like about Benin, but sadly today involved two things I really cannot stand: corporal punishment and what often seems like a total lack of compassion.  You can imagine if there are 103 children in one room, someone's likely not behaving.  As such, the schoolmaster is constantly ready with a rubber whip in hand.  Or, as he did today, he might just tell a kid to beat the offender for him (a cop out if I ever saw one).  Witnessing the latter proved to be my breaking point.  Whether or not I should have done this, I don't know, but I told the teacher to come outside with me and explained that while I'm in the classroom, he's not going to hit the kids.  Either that, or he takes them outside because it's violence, and I don't want to see it.  I probably was really out of line, but I've tried for a year and a half to understand the concept behind teaching with intimidation, and just......no.  The teacher/headmaster guy wasn't super offended, I don't think, and was kind of like, "Whatever.  She's here for two hours.  I suppose we'll oblige her."  What I see as a lack of compassion came into play once the nurses began vaccinating.  Public service announcement to the team of nurses today: some kids are afraid of needles.  It's okay.  It doesn't mean they're weak and deserved to be ridiculed or, worse yet, slapped.  I don't even like most kids, but I also don't think they deserve public shaming for something they can't really control..  I've witnessed thousands of babies receive their shots here in Benin; I guarantee vaccinations are not given with the gentleness American parents would expect for their children.

Following all this was a trip to the high school to pick up some paperwork.  I try to avoid that area when school lets out because it's also next to two primary schools.  This translates to hundreds of kids spotting me and screaming, "batoure" (white person).  If you've read this blog, or I've talked to you at all about being here, you know how much I hate being called this.  I know it's not usually meant maliciously, but seriously kids.  If I tell you DAILY to call me "madam" instead of "batoure," you could maybe oblige me once in the twenty-seven months I'm here.  I'll say it again, I know it's not  meant meanly, but imagine if every single time you left your house, the neighborhood kids screamed "white person" at you.  It can be maddening.  I've tried every single approach that have worked for other volunteers, but I'm beginning to think that people just don't care enough to change.  Womp womp.

On the way home I spotted in bushes a dog sitting perfectly still with a frighteningly solid stare at something  in front of him and......what looked like slobber on his mouth.  I really, really hope we don't have a rabid dog in the neighborhood.   Maybe he was just pondering what to have for dinner.  But rest assured that in any case, I've received all the rabies pre-exposure vaccinations, GENTLY given by our Peace Corps Medical Officer.

Tomorrow's a new day, thank God.

Back at post!

Hello again! I'm back in Kandi after a little vacation to America - the land not of milk and honey, but in my case, tortilla chips and brownies. Before I get to today's topic, I'll sum up the return trip. In Paris, I had a ridiculously long layover of six hours, in which I would have liked to have slept (and even found a lounging chaise, if you will, on which to do so), but alas, could not fall asleep. I spent approximately $30 on a Coke Zero, a large Evian, and a (really) delicious airport pasta salad. Paris, even your airport alone tempted me to stay. Someday I will venture outside your doors and get to see the actual city. I don't know what it is about Air France, but it's just better. I felt right at home finding my seat on the Paris to Cotonou flight: some Beninese guy was sitting in my seat and I was like, um, excuse me sir, I have that seat. "No you don't," he said, "I specifically reserved this seat on the internet." "Okay, well you can see 18D is right here on my boarding pass, and I know it's slightly weird that it goes 18E and then 18D, but 18D is definitely the aisle." He huffed and puffed enough to make me calmly concede to sit in the middle, but then I pointed up to where the seats were clearly labeled, and said, "tu vois?" and the three men behind us started laughing enough to make him move. Were they laughing with me or at me? I will never know. And then like so often happens in (or on the way to) Benin, I felt like a jerk, even though I was right.


Stepping off the plane onto the tarmac in Cotonou (which for some reason always feel more dignified than using a jetway, probably because I pretend I'm the President leaving Air Force One), I thought about a book I read before Peace Corps, the annoyingly named Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight. It's a memoir which, if I recall correctly, takes place in what is today's Zimbabwe. The author talks about returning home and how, even if she hadn't known where her plane had landed, she would be able to recognize Africa by smell alone. So I took a few sniffs to see if this were really the case, and no, it just smelled like an airport. Still, I decided, West Africa must have its own variety of smells that are slowly inching their way into my memory. And that turned out to be true, just not to be found in Cotonou. On the bus ride back to post, I knew we were close to Kandi when I started to smell whatever herb (perhaps mint or sage, although I once tasted it and couldn't tell) makes the whole town smell clean and crisp when the wind blows right. When it doesn't, it brings one of my least favorite smells ever: goat being cooked. (I wasn't too torn up about missing Tabaski this year). The mustard cakes that are added to sauce (mustard in the form of patties that look like cow poop, in other words) have a similar nauseating effect. Perfume selection in Benin, I would have to guess, is not terribly varied, so every time I smell my host mom Juditha's perfume, I assume she's right behind me. This happens at least twice a week. Also, I've never figured out if it's cologne or what, but there is a very particularly strong (cologne?) that our Peace Corps Niger assistant, Boubacar, used to wear that's both nostril curling and not entirely unpleasant. Whenever I catch a whiff of it (usually at the market), I always get to wondering if that's some sort of El-Hadji (a Muslim man who, like Boubacar, has been to Mecca) trademark.

I don't know who to ask, but it seems like it's going down as one of my Great Unanswered Questions, just like "who sells those gorgeous silver rings with the Arabic phrases? I want one!"

Because I'm pretty sold on the idea of aromatherapy (is anyone not?), I had brought five or six of my favorite Way Out Wax candles to Benin last summer. Best thing I packed, for sure. They certainly help make my concrete oven/prison cell of a house more like home. Perfume was this trip's most valuable player occupant of my suitcase. It will remind me of home and that before too long, the (relatively minor, comparatively speaking) hardships of sweat, constant grime, and feet that would make a pedicurist scream will be things I laugh about at dinner parties. So I'm going to try to continue to enjoy my time au Benin, but from now on, I'm going to smell better doing it.

Wake me up when September ends (thanks, Green Day)

Oh, September. You never were my favorite month. For the longest time it brought anxiety of a new school year, and for the past two, the adjustment to a new country and a new job. This year, September has been all about anticipation - mostly for my upcoming vacation to America, to the changing fall colors, to Starbucks iced coffee, and to, most importantly, seeing my family. Alas, from the beginning I knew this month would be tough and Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends" became my anthem. Indeed, alert me when it's October and time to get on the plane.


Out of what I believed was ethical responsibility, I decided to have our workstation dogs, Sasha and Malia (Did you not suspect that Peace Corps is full of Democrats?), taken to Cotonou to be spayed. They endured the long journey, accompanied by our local veterinarian (who also needed a break from Kandi, apparently), just fine and made it back home. After a week of recovery, Malia died today. She had torn her stitches out on two prior occasions, and this morning's was the last and ultimately fatal episode. The vet, with the help of our amazing workstation guard, Yarou, patched her up, but she had already lost a lot of blood. So while I'm already missing her - as is Sasha - Malia's untimely end made me realize a couple of things:

a) I still have a heart. My defense mechanisms are hard at work here, 24/7; it's just...necessary. I try to run and sweat out as much of the emotional stress as I can, but part of dealing with ill treatment of women, kids, animals, etc., involves steeling oneself. (And I feel obligated to say a hopeless Benin is not a picture I want to paint. There are a million things going right in this country, so please don't misunderstand me on that front. This could easily happen in America were I a social worker, for example.) Anyway, sometimes I feel jaded and unsympathetic. Seeing Malia today reminded me that's it's okay to cry for a friend, or even a stranger.

b) Our workstation guards are amazing. Yarou not only served as the vet's assistant twice, but he took time out of his Sunday (after working a 12-hour shift) to bury Malia for me. Victorin was kind about my openly crying. I really, really appreciated that.

So, yeah. Hopefully the next two weeks will go a little more smoothly and quickly. Inchallah.

Beach birthday

Ikpunando, everyone! How's it going at home? I'm writing this from a village about 5 miles north of Porto-Novo called Dangbo. I'm assisting again this week with the training of new health volunteeers. I gave a presentation this morning and will hang out with the "new kids" until Saturday. Other than PC not leaving me a water filter in my temporary home (what the hell, Peace Corps?), things are going fabulously. This trip down south may have been just what I needed.


I left Kandi last Wednesday for Cotonou and for the first time opted to not take the bus. My faith in the Indian-run bus line I normally take has tanked recently, so instead I called the 4am taxi man named Gouda - like the cheese - and arrived in Parakou by 7:15am. From there I scrambled into a rickety minivan where I was sandwiched between an obese maman and a semi-catatonic young man for the next nine hours. Despite a great fear of deep vein thrombosis and having to hold my helmet, backpack and purse in far too few square inches, I actually arrived in Cotonou before nightfall. That alone may have been worth all the hassle. My reasoning for an extended trip down south was two-fold: complete my mid-service medical exam and send Alex off to what he liked to refer to as "Murica." As I often like to remind people, I haven't required medical care since arriving in Benin, other than a brief looking over after my tussle with a motorcycle. My brown Peace Corps medical record, which looks extremely official in a military type of way, was much thinner than the other volunteers' that were sitting on our doctor's desk. Side note: our doctor do a passable job of respecting HIPAA laws, but at any moment I could have picked up someone else's file from the desk and flipped through it. Anyway, the exam itself was pretty pointless. Sadly the lab technician found some variety of intestinal parasite I've never heard of, but I'm pretty certain it's the same one I had last fall that happily promoted a little weight loss. The doctor said it would clear up on its own. And really, other than a "manque d'appetit," in the mornings, I don't feel any different. Other than that, I'm as healthy as a horse. An American horse, not the one in my neighborhood with pinkeye and a look of complete annoyance.

After the doctor dismissed me with a clean bill of health and enough anti-malaria meds to last me until next May (!), Nina and I took what was possibly the easiest and most relaxing taxi ride of our service to Grand Popo, a beach resort town about two hours west of Cotonou. Other than Parc Pendjari, Grand Popo's resorts are pretty much THE tourist attraction in Benin. For only the second time in my life - the other being last month - I showed up at a hotel without reservations. In fact, neither of us had done any research and let the taxi driver drop us off wherever he chose. Less than thirty seconds later, we were walking down a sandy, canopied path to a (classily) pirate-themed hotel, wondering how we managed to wake up from the taxi ride in what clearly must have been another country. A clean, American hotel-grade pool, a beach bar, a giant (life-sized?) chess set, and a tiled, pristine room awaited us. Oh, right, and so did the Atlantic Ocean. Birthday weekend perfection. Nina swam while I lounged in a pool chaise (they exist here!), my arm sore from repeated pinchings. Later we sat on the beach and watched the fisherman on the shoreline reel in their wooden boats using mile-long ropes. If it sounds like a lot of work, you'd be correct. It took a team of at least twenty men to pull in each boat, like playing tug-of-war with the ocean. Later we dined on pizza and fettucini and pinneapple and banana smoothies. When it came time to leave on Sunday, we put off flagging down a taxi on the roadside in order to stay for lunch. That's how good the food was, or at least how desperate I've gotten for something other than couscous and lentils that I don't have to cook.

But now it's back to reality. Five more weeks until a real vacation and break from l'afrique. Until then, I leave you with a pre-birthday picture of 3/4 of Team Niger - Mary, Kimie, and I - taken in Cotonou.

Of flora and fauna

One of the things I'm asked most by people aux Etats-Unis: is there wildlife around where you live?  Not exactly.  Kandi is a large town along one of the (five or so) major highways in Benin.  As much as I'd like to thing I'm roughing it out in the African bush, I'm not really in the bush at all.  (Although ask people in Cotonou - even Peace Corps staff - and yes, they'd say, you live in the bush.)   Even so, we have thousands and thousands of chickens, goats, and sheep that wander freely.  Clearly people are able to keep tabs on them, although I have no idea how.  Sometimes people tie scraps of fabric around goats' and sheeps' necks for identification because they really get around.  Across the highway, into the market, up on the porches of school buildings, on the steps of mosques, through the yard at the health center, everywhere. Kandi also, like most of Benin (and much more so than Niger, certainly), has its fair share of dogs, who are sometimes fed and sometimes most definitely not.  About seventy percent are candidates for another Human Society commercial featuring Sarah McLachlan's song "Angel" in the background.  You know, the one that would make Michael Vick cry?  Neutering does actually exist, if you were wondering, but no one does it, and sans anesthesia, it certainly is a huge risk for the dog.  We just adopted two puppies for our workstation, as my concession dog, Pipo, just had three.  Their names are Sasha and Malia, and they are the best-fed dogs in the Alibori, I'm pretty sure.

In terms of actual wildlife?  We have scores of bushrats (which people sometimes eat), regular rats, and snakes.  I've never actually seen one of these non-poisonous snakes, but sometimes the guards at the workstations get all excited because they got to hack one with their coup-coups.  They make a point of telling us every time; they're always super proud.   About forty kilometers to the north, there are elephants!  The town of Alfa-Koara is one of the entrances to Parc W, a game reserve.  Occasionally elephants will wander out and into surrounding villages.  There are even elephant-crossing signs on the highway.  Back in May or June, a young elephant wandered down to Kandi, or so I was told.  Unfortunately this is not something I saw myself, but I have it on good word from a co-worker.  Apparently a Fulani (semi-nomadic herder) saw it and tried to cut it with his coup-coup (sword).  The elephant was all, "hell-to-the-no, sir," and stomped on him.  Does it make me a terrible person if I kind of side with the elephant on that one?  You just don't mess with elephants.

When it rains, it pours

I'm off to Cotonou tomorrow for a 11-day soujourn in the south.  I have my mid-service medical exam, where I shall be tested for everything under the Sahelian sun, will say goodbye to my good friend and Alibori teammate, Alex, and will assist in training the new group of health volunteers.  I know that mentally, I really, really need to get out of Kandi.  While I'm super grateful that I live in a regional workstation town and can now bank here, it means I never really leave.  Still, going to the south has me riddled with anxiety.  Having to negotiate taxi prices (even when I really don't know what they should be), dealing with Cotonou traffic, and just the palpable difference in the pace of life have me worried.  Surely I can handle it for eleven days.  Surely.
This week, in anticipation for the trip, has been more stressful than most.  For whatever reason, I didn't go to the bank yesterday when I had time (aka laziness set in - it was awfully hot yesterday afternoon), so a line was added onto today's to-do list.  Here's the thing about living here: it seems almost inevitable that you become paranoid.  Case in point: this morning at circa 3:30, and I know because I was awake thinking about this trip, it started to rain.  Usually rainstorms here are downpours that are deafening on tin roofs like mine.  Oh no, I thought, there goes my morning run.  The problem was, it didn't stop.  At 8:45, I really started to panic.  Why didn't I go to the bank yesterday?  What if it doesn't stop raining, and I can't get there?  (Because of course when it rains, the world stops here, and that most certainly includes moto taxi drivers.)  Is the bank even open?  I paced; I fretted some more; I cleared cobwebs from the flourescent lights; I tried to work on sodoku puzzles that I still can't seem to master.  Finally, finally, at 10:45 the sky cleared up a bit, and I donned my rain jacket and set out.  Very quickly, I noticed the fields around my house (some of which are rice fields) were completely flooded.  All this gushing caramel-colored water had actually flooded the road, too.  Lovely.  I actually ended up just standing there, wondering how disgusting my feet would look after I waded through it, and if that would be acceptable in the relatively tiled and pristine Bank of Africa, Kandi branch.  How has this become my life?!?  Just then, a pickup truck of unknown origins, though somewhat official in appearance, pulled up to cross the river of liquidified goo, and you bet I flagged them down.  I hopped in the back and made the acquaintance of three cotton executives from Cotonou.  They drove me to the bank, where I thanked them profusely. Hitchhiking is not something I normally do, but desperate times. 
The rest of the afternoon has been relatively uneventful, save for my annoying trip back to the tailor.  I don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, but there is a fundamental misunderstanding among African tailors/coutouriers regarding the average Western woman's body type.  This time, this resulted in some extremely ill-fitting pants and a shirt, which although merely a copy of one I brought in for her, was much too small in the shoulders.  "Ah," she said, "you've gotten fat."  Thanks, madame, that's exactly what I needed.  And fyi, I weigh exactly the same as when I arrived in this country. Telling a woman she's fat or has gotten fatter, is actually a compliment here; I've tried to explain how it's quite an insult in America, but somehow it just didn't register.  Tomorrow, another day.  Dieu merci.

Assumption and Enriched Porridge

You know it's time for a vacation when you fall asleep by planning in detail the path your shopping cart will take when you go to Target again for the first time. As I write this, I'm listening to Justin Bieber. Times have gotten desperate, people. Today was the Feast of the Assumption, which I'm sure my more Catholic friends know about and could actually explain. I'm telling you, the Beninese who work for the government are so darn lucky. They have the day off for all Muslim, Christian, and voodoo holidays. I'm glad this "holiday" fell on a Wednesday, because Wednesday is the one weekday I don't have anything scheduled. I really dislike having to miss vaccinations and baby weighings. Wednesdays, though, in general, are not my friend. I don't like its lack of planned activities. Unstructured time and Africa do not mix well in my life. I'm relatively lucky, though. Remember in Niger how I would sit under a tree and greet people for three hours every morning? Thank goodness I'm not still doing that.


Today turned out to be relatively productive, though, partially due to my having made a to-do list last night in my planner. I woke up around 6:20 and plodded around my house for several minutes before deciding what to do next. I have this problem a lot here: either I'm getting older and more absent-minded, or I'm developing ADD. When it comes to household-y things, I'm constantly distracted. Anyway, because my hair was really grody, I heated up some water on the stove and washed it. It's so basic, but I'd only ever actually heated my bathwater up once or twice before. It seemed so, I don't know, unnecessary and diva-like. Even during harmattan, I'd just pretend like I was doing one of those polar plunge things in the dead of winter. But what a difference it makes. Hot water; what a concept, seriously. I then pulled about four pails' worth of water from the well to do laundry, an unbelievably boring task whose only redeeming quality is that it allows me to listen to music at the same time. Circa 9am, I decided to go for a run, which obviously rendered my prior hair-washing totally moot. Sigh.

In other news, I've attached a picture from our latest enriched porridge demonstration in Pede. The women really thought it was crazy that I suggested adding peanut butter and bananas to their regular porridge (which is essentially boiled flour and water). Two noteworthy things happened during this session: a twelve-year old (or at least pre-teen) girl brought a baby, and when I asked if it was hers, I was told it is her orphaned brother. Their mother died, so she is now in charge. Poor girl. This also means she cannot go to school . The health worker and I referred her and her charge to the social services center, where at least they can get some support in the form of bags of rice and corn. Hopefully this girl can go to school, but I'm not holding my breath. Then, a three year old who attended the cooking demonstration with her mom chose to pick up and infant and very precariously cart it around next to the fire where the porridge was cooking, and oh my God, I thought we were in for some third degree burns, but alas, everyone was safe. Still, kids are not taught to stay away from cooking fires here, and it freaks me out. I've seen several bad burns on adults and kids alike.

Meet my co-workers, or the cast of characters

I thought it might be fun to describe the cast of characters who make up the dramedy that is my life here. I've already told you all about my neighbors, and that was enjoyable reading, n'est-ce pas? Okay, allons-y!


Bio - (pronounced like Bee-yo): He is probably in his early 40s but has a very world weary visage and is thin as a rail. I'm not sure what his actual title is (something like a nurse's assistant), but he is the main vaccine guy at our health center. Day in and day out he uses a cooler as a chair and gives shots to hundreds of screaming newborns and their moms. He speaks every language in this area: French, Bariba, Dendi, Peuhl, and Mokole. Anytime any of us need a translator, we always ask, "Ou est Bio?" Given his vast knowledge of local language, I hired him as my Bariba tutor, and together we went to Parakou for a week-long Peace Corps training. Teaching turned out not to be Bio's strong point, and so I had the painful task of firing him. Telling him was heartbreaking, especially because I knew he was grateful for the extra income, which would have amounted to an extra 6,000 cfa (or about $12) a month.. Still, though, he never is without a smile for me! He's a gem and has my back. When we go out to the bush villages, he finds me a Bio-approved zem (motorcycle taxi) and negotiates the price for me. Super nice.

Jonas - Somewhat short in stature though not in character, Jonas is the head nurse/"majeur" at the health center. Given that our health center has been without a doctor since my arrival in Kandi, he does most of the non-ob/gyn consultations. His usual uniform is a t-shirt and dress pants. I saw him wear tissue for the first time only last week. He has a very distinctive grin-and-raised-eyebrow expression whenever he sees me, which resembles both the Cheshire Cat and the Grinch. Jonas both giggles a lot and values what I'm trying to do at the health center, which makes him one of my favorite people in Kandi. Yay for Jonas!

Souley (Soolay) - I help Souley on Tuesdays and Fridays with vaccination paperwork in one of the old hospital buildings. Souley is a big old guy who sort of waddles around in his flipflops and is generally amiable but sometimes has some strong words for the apprentice nurses' aides. When he gets disgusted he is fond of asking, "Vraiment?", which is uttered in the tone of "are you serious?" And side note: "are you serious?" doesn't translate very well here. I say it all the time, but it's totally ineffective. Anyway, Souley knows me as 'Helene,' not Erin, but I just go with it. He sometimes sports one of those Old Navy t-shirts with the American flag that they make each year for the 4th of July. Somehow a truckload of the 2001 version ended up in Kandi along, apparently, with the Chicago Blackhawks jersey I saw in the market the other day. And a t-shirt advertising a plumbing company in Palatine, which I would have stolen off the man's back had he not been on a moto.

Diallo - Diallo is an administrator at the zone sanitaire, which is across from the hospital and is the equivalent of the county health department. They keep epidemiological statistics and do public health outreach, etc., and also collaborate with UNICEF and other NGOs. I don't really understand what Diallo does there, but he's friends with my Peace Corps supervisor, which I think partially explains why he takes an interest in my work. I alternately love and hate Diallo, depending on if he shows up to our meetings and how aggressively he hits on me. When we do have meetings, he always helps me out; if he doesn't know the answer to a question, he knows the person who does, so I'm very grateful to have him in my corner. Despite he protests of my fake husband and my own multiple refusals, Diallo likes to ask me to go out dancing with him at the Maison Blanche, our town's one and only nightclub. Like Jonas, he is a fan of the dress pants and t-shirt look. My favorite is the Greek Life 1992 shirt from an undetermined US college; he looks much sharper when he sports a boomba. Everyone around town knows his lime green blob of a sports car and its Togolese license plates, which seem vaguely shady.

Eric - Eric is my newest acquaintance, which is really, really funny because he's the guy at the health center responsible for following the cases of malnourished kids. Why did I only meet Eric last month? That's an excellent question! Eric is from the South; Cotonou, I believe. He sports a gold and silver necklace that reads, "love." This makes me vaguely suspicious. In going with the theme of no one other than Diallo actually getting my name right, he calls me "Lockey." He seems incredibly knowledgeable with regards to his work, so here's hoping our collaboration goes smoothly.

Everyone else is pretty much a tertiary character, which includes my colleagues at the social services center, my host organization. For the first six months in Kandi, I spent every afternoon there, but I never actually did anything. It was a lot of...sitting. Happily, I've branched out and have been able to better address the nutritional/health/whatever needs of the community via other groups. I do like them all, though, so I'll give them a quick shout-out: Bonjour Innocent, Salima, Djima, Cecile, et Immaculee! Okay, I'll sign off now. I have a radio show to write!

Almost a year

Presently the rain has stranded me in my house, but not before a forty-minute walk home in moderate drizzle. Luckily I had the foresight to both close my kitchen window (so as to avoid a repeat flood) and to bring my rain jacket. It began to rain when I was at hospital vaccinations cringing at the most ear-piercing  of infant screams. During a brief period of reprieve, I ran over to the CEG/high school to ask if my campers had turned in their permission slips. Friday is the last day of school, and I really need to meet with them at least once before then. Somehow I am down to the absolute wire on this and at the point of near panic. So I really hope it stops raining so the girls will come back to school this afternoon. Deep breaths! I also have a village-wide baby weighing tomorrow in Pede, a little town about 5k north of Kandi and need to color in about sixty growth charts.. But because I also need to work on Peace Corps' Goal 3, I'd rather be writing.

So despite my crazy schedule of late, I've been counting down the days until July 2nd, which marks one year in Benin. In some ways it feels like I just arrived with a group of fifty-plus trainees, all anticipating becoming strangers (or yovos or batoures or anasaras!) in a strange land. And other times it seems I've been here my entire adult life. Perhaps I've lost perspective, but I do believe it to be a huge accomplishment and have decided to celebrate by a) baking brownies and b) buying myself some new clothes online to bring back when I go home on vacation.

Just as I had lately pondered how much my life has changed in the last year, I noticed Paul Farmer had been chosen by Foreign Policy magazine as one of the 100 Most Influential Global Leaders of 2011. Dr. Farmer is a medical anthropologist at Harvard and co-founder of Partners in Health, an absolutely fantastic organization (and my dream employer) whose focus is improving healthcare to the poor of Haiti, but also in a few other mostly forgotten locales like Peru, Russia, and Rwanda. Check them out at http://www.pih.org/.  He believes (as you would think most people would, but apparently not) that the poor deserve preferential treatment in healthcare. He believes, too, that medical and social issues are intertwined. You can't solve one without addressing the other. I first read about Dr. Farmer's work in 2009 in Tracy Kidder's Mountains Beyond Mountains, and I can say without hesitation that it set me on a new course. This book, combined with cubicle-induced wanderlust, led me to Peace Corps Niger as a community development volunteer, then by the grace of God/Allah (though I didn't know it at the time), to Peace Corps Benin as a rural health volunteer. One trip to the library changed my life; my librarian friends would be proud! My close friends will also recall that I, by some strange and most excellent twist of fate, met Dr. Farmer (who sported a giraffe tie) on the way to Benin. On the escalator at the Brussels airport, in fact. He was surprised to be recognized and he thanked me and my fellow volunteer John for serving. One of the happiest moments of my life and feeling totally validated: check and check.

Actually, now that I think about it, that was the second strange and most excellent twist of fate of this journey: the first was passing the New York Times building on our way to JFK and eventually to Africa. NYT columnist Nick Kristof has taught me more about social issues (particularly involving women and children) through his column and the book he wrote with his wife, Sheryl WuDunn, Half the Sky, than any other public figure I can think of. His column (and frankly all of the New York Times) is on my top five things I miss from America . (It is accessible online, of course, but I feel like magic is slightly lost.) Anyway, thanks to Dr. Farmer, Nick Kristof, and eighteen months and counting in Africa, I'm a different person, and hopefully mostly for the better. Even through all the moments I miss my family to the point of near tears, the mosquito bites, the bouts of foodborne illness, and any given taxi ride, I know I made the right decision to come.

On clothing

Oh, Saturdays. My day to get up at the first cock-a-doodle-do and run around like a crazy person in the morning so that I can recline on my little wicker couch all afternoon watching Arrested Development and enjoying the luxury of a carbonated beverage. After a peaceful run around the market and down the main drag, I took on the task of laundry, especially important given that I'm traveling tomorrow. In the grand tradition of 'I should know this by now,' I left my clothes out on the line (though, granted, still under the eaves of my porch) and went to run some errands that included tracking down the guy who sells bus tickets for two different transport companies. (He was setting up for a concert at the "nightclub," La Maison Blanche. What a little entrepreneur!) The second it started clouding over, I knew I should just turn around and go home. Long story short, I have now put my fan to use as my dryer. We'll see just how long it takes. My neighbors, who I alternately love and hate depending on their noise level, had gathered up all my clothes and put them inside their house. Cloud and silver lining.

Laundry day chez moi!

I would estimate that I wear something that looks vaguely Beninese/West African about half the time. This percentage increases as my American clothes are getting dingier and not really wearable. I'm sure I'm still sporting things that most people - including myself in my normal life - would have thrown out months ago. I have legitimate worries about what I'm going to wear on the plane in October when I go home on vacation. As of now I'm planning to have something VERY African made because otherwise I'm pretty sure I might be mistaken for a homeless person. and also because I no longer have any qualms about people staring at me. Looking sharp is important here. Wearing anything with holes or visible dirt is a no-no, as it's seen as a lack of respect. I'm sure I get a little more leeway, being a "batoure" and all. Anyway, here is a primer on Beninese fashion:

The majority of normal village people wear "tissue," which is (usually) very brightly colored, patterned fabric. In two-meter form, as they are sold, they are known as "pagnes." Every mother uses old pagnes to carry babies on their backs. (I will demonstrate with a sack of flour the next time I see you.) So for very budget-conscious women, this simple two meters of fabric turns becomes a wrap skirt. No tailor required. (Affixed as though you were wearing a bath towel.) This is most likely paired with some sort of tee-shirt. Some women will have a very simple hem put on the skirt and also add ties to make the wrapped nature of the skirt a little more secure. My host family in Porto-Novo had one made for me, and though some volunteers love them, I wore it all of twice because I lived in perpetual fear that it would fall open. And you have to walk like a geisha. With a nicer, tied skirt, women will wear a very simple shirt (3/4 length sleeves) made of the same fabric. They're usually very roomy and are tucked into the skirt. (So for someone who doesn't like tucking things in, this is obviously not a look I go for, although I was told I looked cute the one time I tried it.)

My fellow volunteers modeling Beninese styles

For women of greater means, fancier blouses and fitted, more tailored skirts are the norm. I see a lot of elastic, accordian (?) -like shirts here in Kandi. There are a lot of puffed sleeves (Anne Shirley would have been in heaven) and, it's pretty popular to have your shirt bejeweled. (Let's pretend that's an actual word.) There are a lot of stick-on rhinestones and stars and stuff on women's clothing. I find the extensive embroidery to be a much classier look.

Men in Kandi actually wear a lot more Western-type clothing than I would have expected, especially the young men. Maybe it's an influence from Nigeria, I'm not sure. The traditional man's outfit is called a boomba. Think of men's pajamas in crazy fabric prints. There's not a whole lot of variation with the boomba, but there are a lot of variations in fabric quality. So the wealthier men still have a way to stand out. I myself got a boomba made, and no one really thought it was weird. Very, very occasionally you'll see a woman wearing a boomba with pants.

I am lucky in that no one really makes comments on my choice of clothes. I can wear pants and jeans without worry, which is more than some female volunteers can say. Though most of my tissue outfits don't follow the exact Beninese style (at all), most people seem to be happy that I'm at least trying. In Kandi, I do have to be careful about showing my knees and shoulders. Some of my dresses are about mid-calf length and even then you'd be surprised at how many people stare at my calves. Maybe they're confounded (as I am) as to the contrast in skin tone compared to my arms and face. Shocking indeed! Until next time, bonne sante!

Yesterday marked the first time this rainy season that it rained in the daytime. Prior to this, skies would cloud over, unbeknownst to us down below, lightning would fire up, and the winds would start howling, making you wonder if you were magically transported back to Kansas in time for a spring tornado. I enjoy these nighttime deluges because they do not inconvenience me in the least, except when I realize I need to go to the bathroom. Normally these storms would wrap up nicely by 2 or 3 am, allowing at least a little bit of peaceful dormir-ing.


Now, though, the rains start on up whenever they feel like it, which poses a problem with regards to actually getting things done. As in, anything that requires leaving the house.

The concession after a rainfall.

I may have alluded to this earlier, but Kandi - my post of 20,000 people - has exactly two paved roads, one of which is the highway. So you may imagine what terre rouge (dirt roads) turns into after a heavy downpour. A giant, caramel-colored mess. Sometimes there's just no way to avoid the puddles; plodding right through them is the only option. But then there's the fear of contracting schistosomiasis from standing water. Gah! I'm learning which spots on the path to my health center and to the social services center gather the most water. I almost feel like I'm an urban planner doing research. Really, I just wish they'd pave the damn roads.

Which reminds me....things I can change vs. things I should just accept already. This week telling the difference has been a bit of a struggle. Here are some examples:

• Igor, the three year-old who lives in my concession, cannot be silenced. He will continue to scream and act like a needy brat no matter how often I swear at him under my breath (and out of earshot). Upside: he is not my child.
• The rains will continue making walking paths non-existent. Plus side: rain = crops = happy Beninese people.   Also, it is no longer 115 degrees. Dieu merci. Seriously.
• There are never not going to be 75+ women and screaming kids each day at vaccinations. There's no slow season for births in Benin, apparently. Plus side: filling out health cards and weighing all those kids is giving me public health experience - and most of the time, despite the stress of working with my nemesis nurse, it's fun.

Despite everything, though, I really am happy here. There are days, of course, like yesterday, when I decided being alone for the afternoon was the best option (before saying something I regretted); most of the time, though, it's good. I learn something new every day, and this is certainly the most mentally challenging experience of my life; there's not much more I could ask for from a job - save for maybe air conditioning.

A toute a l'heure!

Some things I've learned along the way

Amazingly, we're almost 11 months into our service (not counting the 6 months of practice I got in Niger).  I thought I'd share some lessons learned thus far. 

• Living without running water isn’t that much of an imposition.
• The limits of non-refrigeration. Reheating only goes so far.
• How to drink water or bisap out of a plastic bag with minimal spillage
• That only you can prevent diarrhea, which mostly means eating food only you have touched
• The meaning of the phrase “shit show,” as related to Peace Corps parties (or, let's be honest) anything organized by the staff
• How to put a Beninese man in his place and that responding to “Viens ici!” never ends well
• How to dodge motos at the marche
• How to ride a motorcycle (always with a helmet!), particularly over terre rouge (dirt roads)
• How to make a toddler cry just by being white; this happens more than you might think, my friends
• In theory, how to change a bike tire
• All about the music of Akon, unfortunately
• How pile 11 people plus a few babies into a Subaru-sized station wagon, or 20+ into a minivan
• That the roofs of those cars can hold a whole lot of stuff, like motorcycles and cows
• How to urinate on the side of the road
• How to dehydrate yourself to avoid going on the side of the road
• The crazier the print on the fabric, the better
• Pajamas can absolutely be worn as work attire
• Never travel in anything but pants
• Take the estimated travel time and double it; really, just plan to go a day early
• (Reminder): Having a bad day? Your life could a lot, lot worse
• Pretty much anything can be transported via motorcycle: a couch, a half-butchered steer, three or four car tires (worn by the driver), or up to five children
• Never, ever take diet soda for granted
• Do not believe the neighbor’s kids when they tell you a large flock of birds broke your porch light
• There is actually a season for chicken eggs, and for puppies.
• Mango tree blossoms smell a lot like lilacs
• The worst place for mosquito bites is the arch of the foot
• Holidays with friends can be just as good as with family
• Nigeria exports some pretty decent snack food
• Breathing camion/semi-truck exhaust makes you run a lot, lot slower.
• The world can be made good again after a good night’s sleep or a letter from home.
• There’s always time for an egg sandwich when waiting for a car to leave the taxi station.
• Always expect the unexpected. This is Africa. 
• When in doubt, take a deep breath. Soyez calme!
• If a boy comes by and offers to carry your 25-liter bidon of water, just forget your pride and let him.
• Why pay for Possotome (bottled water) when you can have water in a sachet for a fraction of the cost?
• Shea butter fixes everything
• "Every victory has the same value," a direct quote from our amazing training manager, Gisele.  Sometimes just leaving your house to buy tomato paste constitutes an accomplishment.
• The ethical and economic implications of foreign aid are much, much more complicated than I ever imagined.
• It's okay to read guilty-pleasure novels or only books with happy endings. Life is stressful enough.
• I am not very good at hand-washing my clothes.

 

mid-May musings

Hiya friends.

A request was made (ahem!) to update the blog more often. I always worry I'll repeat myself somewhere between the letters and the blog, but I promise to make more of an effort. Peace Corps counts blog entries as Goal 3 "work." Maybe here we can focus on Beninese culture or specific examples of the struggles of an American trying to make this home for a couple of years. Here we go/on y va. The biggest news in my life lately is that I made it through the hot season, and relatively unscathed, if I do say so. The massive sweating, the heat rash, the lack of sleep and subsequent grumpiness- they're done until October's mini-hot season rolls around. I actually patted myself on the back for making it through. I spent a LOT of money on cold bags of water, ice, and bissap (a hibiscus drink). Each afternoon I faced the following internal dilemma: should I take another bucket bath to cool off? If I do, that means going to the well to get more water and thus sweating even more. Changing clothes means doing more laundry and more water pulling. Is/was it worth it? No. A sweating machine, that's what I was. My co-workers at the CPS ever so helpfully enjoyed commenting on that. My sarcastic, "oh, really? I hadn't noticed," was totally lost on them. Sarcasm is not an effective means of communication here! (Incidentally, I promised a fellow PCV the other day to try to be more obvious in my use of sarcasm. Apparently I've improved my deadpan delivery to the point of confusion.) Because non-extreme weather just doesn't exist in any form in West Africa, now that it rains, it REALLY rains. The other night I put out a 20-liter plastic bucket to catch rainwater, and by the next morning it was more than halfway full. Other springtime changes: the ginormous frogs have made their triumphant and cacophonous return to Kandi. I find their fist-sized bodies mostly in the tragic form of roadkill (or motokill---ha ha ha). The mint bushes that are all over my neighborhood are quickly growing back (the brush had all been burned several weeks ago); I'm waiting for the mintiness to waft back through my windows. It's like a giant spray bottle of Febreze. And now because I'm too lazy to come up with clever and logical connections between each of the following "things you probably didn't know about Benin," I will present them to you via bullet points.

--Every night on the state-run TV channel, they run the "necrologie," which is similar to the obituaries in our newspapers. The person's picture is accompanied by their name and age. What's remarkable about this is that it seems to completely captivate the Beninese. The world stops when the necrologie comes on.

--Traveling this great land is toujours at least mildly stressful. Lately I've been taking the bus to go to Parakou to bank, and certainly it is the only option worth even entertaining for longer trips south. I've never taken the Greyhound or whatever that super cheap one is that goes from Chicago to other destinations for like a $1, but I think now I'd consider it. If I can do it here, I certainly can manage roughing (significantly more comfortably, probably) in America. Let me tell you about bus protocols here in Benin: there's usually some form of entertainment, usually in the form of a Nigerian soap opera or movie. I saw one recently featuring a child actor who was GARY COLEMAN INCARNATE, except it was not Gary Coleman. He had the creepiest facial expressions I've ever seen on a child, and I just couldn't not watch it. It was amazingly captivating. Secondly, at the stops, the bus is swarmed with vendors selling everything from avocado sandwiches (delicious) to pineapples, phone credit, meat kabobs, drinks, and literally everything you might imagine wanting to indulge in on a bus ride. The thing is, if the vendors (mostly women, or "mamans") don't beat you to the bus, you will be mobbed trying to get off of it. I have literally shoved people out of the way. It's brutal, like Target on Black Friday. Then there's the anxiety of , oh God, where's the bathroom? Is there a bathroom, or are we, like, freestyling it? (99% of the time, it's the latter.) I experienced this in Niger a couple of times before I learned to never, ever drink anything the day of the bus ride. Go to the bathroom before you leave and do not expect to go again until you arrive at your destination 12 hours later. Then just drink five or six Nalgenes before you go to bed, and you're okay. Despite all of these things, bus travel is so infinitely better than traveling via a trusty and rusty Peugeot 505.

--Umbilical hernias. Is this something normal people (like people who are parents, I guess?) know about? If not, let me share with you something I see daily: babies and children with cones for belly buttons. This was not something that was ever addressed in our training, probably because it's not life-threatening, so I didn't really understand until one day Kimie and I had had enough of the wondering and consulted WebMD. Apparently the hernias are more common in certain ethnicities, like Africans. Often the hernias/cones just go away by themselves, but I definitely have seen ten or twelve-year olds who still sport them. The other day a mom at vaccinations was trying to push her baby's back in, and the baby would not have it. As medical things often are, it was both disgusting and fascinating.

--This is not really Benin or Africa-related at all, but you know who's awesome (previously unbeknownst to me)? Julia Child. I'm reading her "My Life in France" and am just enchanted with her story. She meets and marries the love of her life a bit later than most; she moves to and struggles for a while in a city that eventually becomes her true home; she finds her calling and runs with it; and she seems to do all of this with great humor and a true sense of self. With so much news on Facebook of my friends getting engaged, married, having their second or third kid, finding the house with the picket fence, etc., I really appreciated reading about someone who lived - and was immensely happy with - a slightly less conventional lifestyle.

--One thing I really admire about the Beninese is their commitment to reusing and recycling. Plastic bottles, tins cans, etc. are like GOLD. In most village markets, you can find at least one person selling old water bottles (especially the giant 1.5L ones), old motor oil containers, and giant bidons that once held vegetable oil. Sometimes you'll find something as simple as old tin cans for sale. Liquor bottles find new jobs as holders of sugared peanuts (which is nice because it requires some effort to get the peanuts out of the old whisky bottles which is like built-in portion control).

 That's all for now!

Drowning in sweat. No, really.

Greetings Earthlings! I just returned from a week of training down south in Porto Novo. The air conditioning, rain, and 80 degree temperatures spoiled me! My heat rash actually disappeared for the entire week - it was magical. Trying to adjust back to Alibori temperatures has been a little difficult the past few days. Yesterday it was 108 on the shaded porch. Gah! Besides never not dripping sweat, mostly this is just annoying because it makes sleeping really, really difficult. In theory, I guess I could sleep outside on my porch, but given that my neighbor sleeps about three feet away on the other side of a really short porch wall, I prefer to stay inside. Lately I fall asleep on my wicker couch thing and when it gets cool enough, circa 2am, I move to my actual bed. Or sometimes I just get up in the middle of the night and read or do some work. I can't wait for the rainy season in June! Before commencing with new cultural tidbits, answers to your questions from last time. Mom, you had asked about the market and how one goes about buying things. In Kandi, as in most larger towns, there is a permanent marche area. Vendors have their own little shacks or spots. In Kandi, the government constructed a beautiful, gated concrete structure with overhangs and latrines, which currently sits locked and completely unused. Matt and Alex's theory is that they're waiting for the presidential election next year to officially open it, that way Yayi Boni (current prez) can lay claim to "bringing" it to Kandi and thus be reelected. In smaller villages, markets are only on certain days, like every Sunday or every fourth day. Nearby villages coordinate their market days. Anyway, you can find pretty much anything in the marche: flip flops, rat poison, wall hangings, tissue (fabric) for outfits, a lot of recycled plastic containers, and, most importantly, both dry goods and produce, depending on the rather fickle availability. Of course, one usually must bargain. This can be a challenge for volunteers, seeing as we are always given the "yovo" (white person) price, which can be upwards of double or triple the actual price. You learn quickly. If you decide to pay with a bill rather than exact change, expect to wait for a petit (kid) to go find change for you. Sometimes this goes well, other times you're waiting for twenty minutes (no lie). A funny thing about West Africa: petite monnaie (small change) is a HUGE problem. No one wants to give it up, and usually the onus is on the buyer to have it. I've seen tanties (waitresses) at buvettes (bars/cafes) throw bills back at my friends on multiple occasions because they don't have change. On a related note, I found change in my bag the other day and was like, "oh, I don't remember keeping currency from Ecuador, but that's cool." Then I saw that it was a dime, and I felt like an idiot. Now for some additional cultural tidbits from this crazy place: A lot of people assume I'm French, until I open my mouth, and they realize an actual French person would be able to speak a heck of a lot better than I can. I understand why this is an assumption, though. A couple of times high school kids have also greeted me with 'buenos dias' and the like, which made me laugh out loud. Most volunteers, myself included, also get called 'chinois' (Chinese) a lot. For some reason, this bothers me a lot more than the others. Hey now, I want to say, my fellow countrymen are not the ones here doing shoddy construction jobs! On the same vein, it's always awkward to see other white people who are not Peace Corps volunteers or one of the other six non-Africans who live in this town. Kandi gets more than its fair share (aid workers, etc) of passers through, given its size and proximity to Parc Pendjari. I never know whether I should go, like, introduce myself, or just leave them alone. I usually let them make the first move. It seems somehow vaguely, I don't know, racist or something to talk to them just because they're white, even though I always REALLY want to know how the heck they ended up here. The other day I was walking to the hospital and these two older men and older woman were riding around on bikes, pedaling around like they were on Navy Pier, and I was frankly a little dumbfounded. Then a group of kids, as they are wont to do, start screaming "batoure! batoure! batoure!," and these three just start waving and smiling, clearly charmed. And that, I thought, is proof that you do not live this every day. I've maintained the vegetarian thing here in Benin quite well (and easily, if bone fragments in sauces can be overlooked), but I've strayed a bit with the veganism. (I do intend to resume upon my triumphant return - fear not, Dad!) A delicious plastic bag ice cream treat called FanMilk is partially to blame. I think this is a Ghanain product, but it's sold in little pushcarts, and the vendors are constantly honking bicycle horns. You can get one for 150cfa - or about 25 cents - and they taste exactly like soft-serve ice cream. I'm going to blame the heat on this rather short blog post. I'm kind of melting from having this laptop in my lap, so stay tuned for more tidbits at a later date.

Toodles, everyone.

Water, water, NOT everywhere

In the past year and a half, Africa has humbled me many times over. Sometimes it’s in a small way, like being gifted with a perfect sunset on my walk home or watching one of the handicapped clients at the social services expertly crank their wheelchair/cart contraptions through potholes, gravel, and sand. Sometimes Africa says to me, “Hey, you lucked out with this Peace Corps thing. Enjoy it while lasts, and keep your eyes open.” And sometimes Africa says to me, “Girl, reality check. You‘re getting too comfortable; allow me to throw you a curveball.”
That happened last week when the well in my yard finally dried out. We’re in the midst of dry season here in Kandi. It has precipitated exactly once since mid-October. Except for that one evening late last month, we’ve had nothing but blazingly blue, cloudless days. This has not done wonders for the easily accessible water supply, obviously. One of the husbands in my compound (there are three other families), mentioned to me that I should start using the pump “around the corner,” because the little water left in the well is pretty dirty (true statement). So last week after buying an old 25 liter plastic container (with its former cooking oil glory extremely hard to remove) I had my eleven year old “petite”/neighbor girl Sonia show me exactly where to find said pump/robinet. “Around the corner” really meant a tenth to a quarter of a mile from our compound. It’s really just a faucet at what appears to just be some enterprising soul‘s home; we waited patiently for the bidon to fill up. Then Sonia asks me to help her pick it up, at which point she gets all 25 liters on her head, and proceeds to carry it home for me. Now, this is a totally normal thing for African girls and women. Their necks become accustomed to heavy loads very early on. I’ve seen women carrying around towers of terra cotta pots four feet tall, piles of wood for cooking fires, and pots and pans full of hot food, often while carrying a baby on their backs or while on the back of a motorcycle. (The latter is an amazing site.)

Sonia and I trudged home with her cousin tagging along. In a trash heap, he found a doll missing her appendages and created an amusing dialogue. “Sonia, ou sont mes jambes? Ou sont mes bras? J‘ai faim.” (Sonia, where are my legs? Where are my arms? I’m hungry!) When we got back to the concession, I assured Sonia this was the one and only time she’d have to do this for me. Once Sonia left me with the bidon, I decided to try carrying it around my house. It’s virtually impossible to lift beyond the level of your knees. Even women here need another person to get whatever they’re carrying positioned on their heads. I propped the bidon halfway on a tabletop and attempted to crouch under it. Even then I knew I was toying with the impossible. Since I enjoy having an intact spinal cord, I decided I’d better try with a half-full bidon instead. I did manage to tote it around for a minute or so, although certainly not comfortably. Naturally I set out for the pump again later that afternoon.

The first thing the woman said when I returned was, “where’s the girl?” I replied that since I really want to learn to do this myself, I left her at home and that I’d eventually figure out how to carry the water on my head, “like an African woman!” “African women suffer,” she said. I decided perhaps I’d just try to carry it instead, as least to start. I also assumed that I could carry the bidon with one or both arms all the way back. I lugged the thing just beyond her yard and out of her sight. Then I dropped the thing and thought I actually might cry because, among other things, my dress was completely soaked through in sweat.

It didn’t take long for a few kids to start snickering, providing ample motivation to get moving. Approximately twenty steps later, I petered out again, and a random pre-teen boy started to take the bidon from me. I thanked him but told him to drop it. I wanted to learn how to do this myself. He was befuddled but eventually left me alone. This exact sequence of events occurred two more times before I made it home fifteen minutes later. I nearly started crying again thinking that I have at least three more months of this ahead of me. As I waited for my arm to regain feeling, I remembered an article in the Peace Corps magazine from a year or so ago. The author of the editorial argued that maybe it’s NOT the best use of a volunteer’s time to do their own laundry and to haul water. Perhaps, he said, that time is better spent on projects. Plus hiring people boosts the local economy, if only a little. I think now, I have to agree with that. But maybe it’s just laziness.

I recounted the story later that night via text message to my friend Nina. Knowing she hauls water from the neighborhood pump in her town, I asked her how she manages it (thinking, however arrogantly, that I’m certainly stronger than she is). “Um, I strap it to my bike?” Of course. Common sense beats brute (or not so brute, as it may be) strength any day.

The few things I miss

Alright, now that I’m back in the blogging game, y’all will have to let me know what kinds of topics you’d like me to cover. Sometimes I find it a little difficult to come up with subjects because for better or for worse, a lot that I would have found fascinating/alarming/quaint a year ago has become normal or even vaguely hackneyed. It’s a curious feeling to talk to my parents each week and sometimes feel I have nothing to really say. Just the same old, same old: waking up to an obnoxious rooster or the call to prayer, dodging motorcycles at the market, asking the same kid to call me “madam” instead of “batoure,” going on a usually fruitless search for care packages or letters at the post office, and kids waving to me when they should be focusing on other tasks (use your imagination). Despite some of these things forming my new normal, my amazing friend Kimie often poses the very valid question, “what are our lives here?” It’s hard to put succinctly, but I’ll try: frenzied, stressful, sweaty, beautiful.

In truth, 85% of the time, our lives are pretty darn good. Although Peace Corps supposedly pays us only enough to live at the same level as our work partners, most of us make more, and most of us have a surplus at the end of the month. We make somewhere around $8/day; our rent’s paid, and we have free healthcare. In reality, most of us can fund vacations (within West Africa at least) on our living allowance if we are conscientious savers. My biggest extravagances are canned diet soda, which runs about the equivalent of a dollar, and paying someone to do my laundry (about two dollars a week).

We’ve just hit the eight-months-in-country mark. (Seventeen and a half more to go!) I realized the other day when my friend Matt offered, as a thank you, to make me anything I wanted for dinner, that pretty much everything I miss from home is of the intangible variety. (I suppose I wouldn’t consider myself a foodie, so that helps. I can find all of my favorite foods here in Benin.) Anyway, Matt’s making waffles because it reminds me of Sunday mornings with my mom and dad, waiting for our truly ancient and potentially flammable waffle maker to serve us up some empty carbs. It’s not the waffles I miss, of course. So allow me to get this out of my system so I can move on.
Things I miss from amerique/la-bas:
1. Not having to worry about having enough small change. It can be incredibly hard to break bills here, even the one milles (the equivalent of $2). I have three vendors I visit almost daily: Baguette Guy, Rice and Beans Maman, and the Tofu Wives. They would rather let me pay “on credit” if I don’t have exact change. They know I’ll come back the next day and will pay then.
2. Silence. There’s just never not something noisy going on, screaming infants in particular.
3. Schedules, particularly with public transport. Imagine what would happen if the L didn’t leave until people were shoved into every square inch of each car. Ha ha ha. I’m pretty sure people would riot and Rahm Emmanuel would not get re-elected. Side note: yesterday in my taxi, four adults, including the driver, sat in the front row of a sedan the size of a Honda Civic. It’s normal.
4. Clean air. Burning tires has been a thing in my neighborhood lately.
5. Anonymity. I still kinda don’t feel bad for celebrities because they’re getting paid significantly better than I am, but I guess we both asked for this.

Okay, I feel better now. Funny random story: apparently one of the embassy employees had to leave the country quite suddenly (personal reasons?), so the contents of her pantry were divided among the four PC workstations. I walked into mine the other day to discover about twenty rolls of paper towels, Febreze, eight cans of canned chicken, a can of clams, beets, plastic cups from Costco, and, my favorite, a sack of flour from Target. Huh? Clearly one of the best benefits of working for the embassy is the free shipping of food/random supplies from America, but flour? Last time I checked, you can get kilos of it in the market. And yeah, it’s little bit of jealousy speaking, but why get paper towels when you surely had household help? The mind, it boggles.

Stay tuned, s‘il vous plait.

Hey there! Je suis encore ici!

Hey everybody (or all two of you who read this). I've thought about reviving the blog for some time, now that I'm well-established in Benin, and inchallah/God-willing, we will not be evacuated anytime soon!

To catch you up on the last fourteen months of my life:
1. Peace Corps Niger was suspended in January 2011, and I was reassigned to Benin, starting in July 2011. I have essentially started over, so instead of finishing July 2012, I will close my service in July 2013.
2. I had the great fortune of changing sectors: I'm now a rural community health volunteer; my primary assignment is with the Centre de Promotion Sociale (social services center) in Kandi, a large-ish town in northern Benin. I do lots of work with my neighborhood health center and with the regional hospital.

I'll keep you posted on projects and life au Benin. Hugs from Africa!
--Erin