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.