Pushing a String Up a Hill

Saturday, 5 January 2013

So I just wanted to discuss something that I’ve been thinking about for a while. And that is the topic of cell phones. I think they are simultaneously the worst and the best things ever invented. It’s the world at your fingertips, but then the world expects you to always be there.

My sister and I were discussing today a piece mentions how introverts (us) don’t really like phones. But here there are cultural things to deal with as well as personal issues.

Like here—and in a lot of African places—I’ve found that the majority people don’t really understand the concept of “vibrate.” Even one of our trainers mentioned this when we were at Parakou. There were two days of just Americans, then our homologues arrived. So our trainer said, “For the past two days, I have not heard one cell phone ring. Let’s keep it that way. Turn your phones to silent.”

In an American setting, it’s wholly improper for a phone to ring in a business setting, although many individuals are wont to text message under the table. But here, phones will ring, and people will answer them in front of everybody. It kind of goes like this:

“So today we’re discussing a breakthrough technology that will change the lives of everyone in this room…”

*ring**ring* “Hello!? Yes, I’m in Cotonou. I’m in the middle of a meeting. How are you? How is your family? How is your mom, your dad, your siblings, your wife, your children? Oh, yes I’m good. Our mouths laugh well here (literal translation of something I heard). What? Oh, she said not to forget to bring some bread back from the south? Ok, yeah no problem. See you soon.”

(I know this is a generational thing too. At parent’s welcome sessions at my colleges, my mom complained that phones were ringing ALL AROUND, but this never happened in the student sessions. The older African teachers I have in the States are far, far worse offenders than African students.)

There are a few tangible reasons for this. Firstly, “voicemail” doesn’t exist here, so you can’t just briefly describe what you want, and the person can get back to you with info. People may be illiterate, therefore they can’t text. If they do text they are—I KID YOU NOT—worse spellers/abbreviators than American teenagers. Also, the calls only charge for the person making the call, not receiving, so that person doesn’t want to have to call back and waste their own credit.

So all in all, it’s considered really, really rude to not answer your phone immediately. People get really upset. When I finally do return the call, they say answer the phone with, “I called and called and called…” to which I want to reply, “shh, you’re saving money this way!” Or one work-partner asked if I was mad at him. I wanted to respond, “No, you just ramble on about the unimportant, which is hard enough to follow in English, in person, let alone in French and over a phone. I was in a taxi the first time you called, and I hate speaking in front of everyone so they can all hear. I was on my way to hang out with Americans and really didn’t want to be bothered with things back in Kérou. The second time you called, I was in the middle of a PC session, and still later didn’t feel like dealing. BESIDES, what could you do? I’ll be back in a week, and we’ll just figure out stuff from there.” But instead, I just constantly find myself explaining, that it’s just not an American thing to always, always answer the phone, so be patient. BESIDES, I add (for the people in Kérou), YOU JUST GOT ELECTRICITY 5 YEARS AGO. Which means (most people) didn’t have cell phones before that. So remember that time, where you had to wait until you saw someone, or you had to walk all the way to their house. (Cause it’s not like house phones existed). Stuff like that? You really need to chill out.

But if I’m completely honest with myself and everyone else, it’s not just a cultural thing. It’s me too. Even in the States, I leave my phone around my house, and don’t see someone is calling me. There are times where I do see that someone is calling me—even my best friend—and I don’t answer. I’m just not in the mood. I’m in the middle of something. I don’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment, or I’m involved in an activity with someone else. I really, really like the point that this woman makes about introverts, though:

Sign you may be an Introvert:

You haven’t answered a ringing telephone in years:

I rarely answer my telephone, often forget to check voicemail, and can take a shockingly long time to return phone calls.

So sue me.

The telephone is intrusive, especially for introverts, whose brains don’t switch gears all that quickly. When we’re deep in thought, a ringing telephone is like a shrieking alarm clock in the morning.

And we often give bad phone—awkward, with pauses. We struggle without visual cues, and our tendency to ponder before we talk doesn’t play well on the telephone. Being stuck on a too-long call makes me want to chew off my own leg to escape.

Sometimes, if I’m feeling devil-may-care, I’ll pick up calls from far-flung friends who want to catch-up, But I more often let them go to voicemail and then make a date (via email) for us to talk. My friends understand.

Dislike of the phone is often presented as a moral failing. But honestly, it’s not the people on the phone we dislike, it’s the instrument of delivery.

So yeah. Seriously, though, people here need to stop complaining so much about me not answering phones. I’ll get back to you. Eventually. Chill out. Even in the States, anyone who knows me knows I just don’t pick up the phone right away. If you can’t deal, sorry, that’s just who I am. Also, remember it’s not that long ago where all people had were house phones? And you had to call, and if they weren’t actually at home then you left a voicemail and waited for them to get back to you? Yeah, those were the days…

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

Today I made some more improvements to my house. I finally bought my double mattress. Then I moved my single mattress out to my main room, where I will use it as a couch-thing. I also bought some foam pillows, then had covers made for them, so they can be cushions for this couch-thing. Ironically, I just asked the lady that I bought the foam pads from where I could get the cushions made, and then she took me to the shop of one of the members of “Ben Club”. So we chatted for a while, and I knew he wouldn’t rip me off, plus he did a pretty good job. Actually, his work seems to be upholstering. While I was there, I saw someone in his shop actually stretching leather over the seat of a moto to make it look new (although the headlight was still all smashed on this particular moto). It was really cool to watch, though, I’d never actually seen this done up-close, or really even thought about.

My front room with: my second hammock placement, mat, fan, chair, my bed/sofa
my house is coming along!

 The most interesting part of my day, though, was that I cut Maria’s hair. Having no training in hair-cutting ever, but oh well. I actually have been cutting my own bangs for the last three years, plus a few months ago I gave myself a trim, since my split ends were getting out of control.

The hardest part was that she actually wanted to go back to having bangs. These are the part of the hair that have to look the best; they frame the face of a person, and they are something that person has to look at every time they look in the mirror. So really it was a joint effort of Maria and I, until we got the bangs to at least acceptable. Then the hair part was easy, just a straight cut a little above the ends.

As many events in my life, this process had an enraptured audience of many Beninese children. They were just staring at her, and after the first snip, there was a collective gasp. Then I told Maria that she should start making sounds, like it was hurting her, which she promptly did. Then all the kids got really, really worried and ran up really close, staring at her hair. Maria and I were just laughing.

One weird part though was that one girl actually picked up a long clump of Maria’s hair, and was just holding it. “Haha, she wants to make a weave with it!” joked Maria. Then later, when the children left, we realized that that particular clump of hair was actually missing. Then we started joking about how the girl had actually taken it to use in some crazy voodoo ritual. As luck would have it, we met up with Thomas later, who informed us that tomorrow is actually (no lie) a national holiday in Benin for voodoo. I just laughed a lot at the coincidence, and Maria told me that I was a jerk. Touché.

Friday, 18 January 2013

So. To my utter dismay I have now returned to Cotonou. I really tried to resist it for a while…which probably led to slightly unhealthy decisions, but whatever. I’m here now. I was never in serious danger. (So please stop worrying family). But the short story is that I got a spider bite (despite sleeping under a mosquito net every night) and it got infected (despite me putting generous amounts of antibiotic ointment on it and bandaids, etc.) So in conclusion, this country really is out to get me. Or something. Idk. Or the universe really, really wanted me to be able to watch THE HOBBIT, and thanks to Cotonou’s fast internet, I finally have. So the silver lining…

Anyway, I’d prefer to talk about other things. Maria didn’t get voodoo-ed, you will all be happy to know. And at least this time, I had a few days to prepare for my departure. I kept thinking, okay, if this doesn’t get better by this day, I will definitely call the doctor. So I kept telling the different people I was working with that I might be leaving, so they need to get their act together and help me accomplish some things before I am sucked into the black hole that is the Cotonou Medical Unit.

Sometimes I feel like my work here is like pushing a string up a hill. I remember before I had someone complain to me that their work felt like that, and my response was, “Well then just grab that string and pull it up that dang hill!!!”

Here, though, we’re not supposed to drag people where we want them. We are here to be facilitators. One of the best quotes from a development book was that we are not here to to BE heroes, but to MAKE heroes. I have to remind myself of this every day. I don’t want to force people to do things. Especially because I will leave in 2 years, so anything they didn’t want to do in the first place will just peter out. But furthermore, I haven’t lived here all my life, so I don’t necessarily know what is best for this community. I just need to help people achieve what their community needs.

But in practice I’ve been failing at this. It’s hard to sit back and wait for things to happen. Especially because no one seems to be able to take initiative. For example, I think I mentioned ages ago that all of my artisans kept requesting a place for them to meet, other than this silly, uncomfortable geezeebo where their current meetings take place. So I had a though, “Oh, they could just meet at the ‘Maison des Jeunes’ and problem solved.” So I asked the mayor, who okayed it, for a slight fee for electricity. Then each artisan group literally applauded me and told me they were super happy that I’d done this for them.

So all that was left was just a meeting of the heads of each artisan group to figure out how to pay for things. Then a meeting with the guy who has the key to the Maison des Jeunes. Easy-peasy, right?

Almost two months later, and nothing. Finally I bring it up at another meeting, and people are like, “Well, but all our meetings are during the day, so why do we have to pay for electricity???”

Okay. FAIR POINT. I totally agree the amount was too high, I even mentioned this when first presenting the idea, but then everyone was totally in love with it regardless of the high price. SO WHY DID NO ONE MENTION TO ME THEIR MISGIVINGS? So I mention that we can talk to the mayor about a lower, fairer rate. Plus they shouldn’t think just about the electricity, but the money goes to the guy’s salary that opens the Maisons des Jeunes, plus general upkeep. When I mention this, everyone was like, “OOOOOOOhhhhhh…I never though of it like that before…”

So finally I drag one artisan (Edouard, the solder, who is awesome and has helped me so much) to the Key-guy’s place. He says he’s totally been waiting for the artisans to come buy and would just love so much to open it for them, obviously. He just needs a list of the artisan meeting-schedule. Oh, and obviously he loves me. Which he tells me in English. Sigh.

Then I hound the artisans until they finally call a meeting with the presidents of every club (there’s about 8). Only two show up, plus the president of the collective of artisans. I ask why no one else is there, and they say, “Oh, they think the amount is too high, so they’re not coming.” I want to yell, “WELL THAT’S THE WHOLE F-ING REASON WE’RE HAVING THIS MEETING, TO DISCUSS WHERE TO GO FROM HERE!!!!” But instead, I just discuss with the three whole people there the steps we can take. Suddenly they say, “Yeah, we should totally go to the mayor’s house right now and discuss a lower fee!” Which we do, since the mayor’s office is conveniently located right across the street. So the artisans and the mayor discuss in Bariba what to do. Which I kind of follow, thanks to interspersed French words.

I think it was really good that I forced to the artisans to go, rather than going myself to discuss the fee. Because now they feel like they know more about the process, they were involved, and hopefully will finally get things rolling with this.

I say hopefully, because right after this meeting I hopped on a zemi to Natitangou to start my trip to medical treatment.

Well, I say right after. That’s not entirely true. In truth, there was a whole debacle leading to me actually finding a taxi.

So for starters, obviously motos are kind of scary for me, considering my last long-distance experience. Luckily, however, Maria found a Zem driver who is really safe and who often takes her to Nati. Who is also in love with her…but that’s a whole other story. So anyway, I call him, and ask him to pick me up at the center of town 11AM Sunday.

“Who is this?” he asks.

“This is Shannon, a friend of Maria!” I reply

“MIRIAM!!!!!!!” he says.

“Yes, a FRIEND of Maria.”

So at around 10:30, I call him, saying I have finished early, and please come pick me up. I wait and wait…

While I am waiting, Maria texts me, complaining about her neighbors that don’t giver her any privacy. They constantly just knock on her door to say hi, even at ridiculous hours of the morning. She sometimes feels like she has no peace. She has tried to institute a policy that if her windows are closed, they are not to knock, but to no avail. Now on this Sunday, her day of relaxing, there is someone pounding at her door. I encourage her not to answer it, because people need to understand that they can’t just bother her all the time.

Meanwhile I’m still waiting for my zemi driver. I have been harassed by a few others, to whom I explain I am already waiting for a driver. They tell me that this person hasn’t shown up yet, and I should just take them. One guy in particular is very pushy, and comes up to me multiple times. Another driver comes up to me later, and this same guy just zooms over like, “No, no, I talked to her first. If she’s taking any of us, its ME!” I tell him that even if I were to take another driver, it certainly wouldn’t be him, because he’s annoying. I think he was kind of angry at that, but oh well.

I call Maria’s zem driver again, he says that he is at my house—which I can’t figure out, because he’s never been there, but I just say, “No, no I’m in the center of town, right by the traffic circle!” Then the line goes dead, and nothing. Finally after over an hour and a half, I decide, “screw it, I really need to get to Nati, I’ll just have to take another Zem.” So I walk up to a friendly-looking driver, who agrees to take me. So we start off, and he has another zem driver follow us. He goes to Maria’s house, and says to me, “Do you know Maria? She needs to go to Nati today too!” and is about to send the other zem to collect her.

Suddenly it all clicks. The pounding at Maria’s door wasn’t her neighbors; it was the zem driver, thinking it was her calling him. He’d been looking for her, not realizing he was supposed to be looking for the OTHER white girl (he’d been sitting in the moto-taxi-area for some time before I asked him. By chance, I happened to choose him, of all the zem drivers in Kérou. Although it was tough explaining all this, because his French isn’t perfect. Luckily, however, one of Maria’s neighbors walked out, and I had her translate, that NO, it wasn’t Maria who called him this morning, but ME, Maria’s FRIEND. Her FRIEND. I swear, I had repeated that multiple times. So finally—I think—we worked all the confusion out. But hey, just another day of culture/language confusion.

Anyway, the long story short is that after waiting and waiting, I finally was on my way. I had a shorter (this driver knows a short-cut), more pleasant zem ride than the last…though not like that’s saying much. I never had to grab on to the back for fear of flying off, so it was awesome. I do have a bruise on my tailbone from bouncing around so much, but whatever. Then I spent 10 hours in a bus on Sunday, finally arrived in Cotonou, where the doctor first made me wash my feet (my feet are always dirty, living in village and walking in sandals through the sand), then poured hydrogen peroxide on my wound and scrubbed it out. Yes, it hurt a lot. And she’s been doing that every day (but with Betadine rather than Hydrogen Peroxide), so basically that’s just my punishment for being stubborn and staying away from the doctors for too long, I guess.

Well that’s all. Cotonou is the same. I love it, but I have no actual work to do here. Sigh.

So this little furball will be my cat when I get back to Kérou.
She's so adorable

Outside the Box and Other Challenges

So this goes back to an earlier post about the lack of water...
This used to be a creek. Where people did things like wash their motos. And poop.

Wednesday, 19 December 2012

The beauty of Peace Corps really is in the whole philosophy of “live as your neighbors live”. In reality, this is far from true; I am quite certain I make a lot more money than my neighbors. Nevertheless, my salary still brings me closer to living as the members of my community, and this brings a lot of learning opportunities.

For example, my clay stove/grill that I was so excited about actually got a little crack in the bottom part. It’s still totally useable, but it lasting less than a month is far less than the years and years that were promised to me. I also noticed that the bottom got wet—even though I had been trying to avoid that, because I was told that wasn’t good for it—and so the clay became all clayey again, and some of it just came off. It was through this that I realized that quite obviously these clay stoves are not put into any sort of kiln, because, duh, there are no kilns in Kérou.

I just so happened to be invited to a formation Tuesday where a woman was showing some others how to make the stoves. It was really great to see the whole process in action. Of course, it’s basically just pottery, without the spinning wheel. The woman kind of has this table that spins (by hand), but it was very unstable and so ended up working on the ground most of the time, and walking around the stove.

Going to this also gave me a good chance to talk to my new homologue. I asked her about the problem of stoves quickly cracking, etc. I had already discussed it some with Hubert, Pierre, and Anna, but of course none of them are experts. Salimatou said that the real problem was finding good-quality clay. There is some in a village called Kongorou, and another in Fétékou, which are both 10km away (in different directions). This doesn’t seem like so far, until you realize that the project doesn’t have any mode of transport for the clay. So 10km becomes quite the journey. Thus, sometimes the stoves are made of lesser-quality clay, and apparently it’s hard to tell whether the clay is good or not until you actually start making it into the clay. (OH, also, to make the clay, you have to pound it in containers which usually make the “yam pilé” I’ve talked about. It’s kind of like the containers you might see at replicas of old Native American villages, where women pounded corn into powder).

Furthermore, there are not big ovens in Kérou. In fact the closest oven for these stoves is in Djougou, about 4-5 hours away. Not even Natitangou has one. Apparently there is a group of people that make clay cooking-pots in Kongourou, but they bake these by essentially putting them in a pile, and make a huge fire around them. Salimatou says that the problem with that is, that if there is even a little bit of wind, something could fall, break a stove or stoves, and then the clay and hard work is lost.

So in conclusion to this story, it’s amazing how beneficial living really in, IN the community is. Sure, it sucks to have to carry water to my house. But on the other hand, you will notice in my last post I said that I kind of thought this project with the stoves had everything under control, and I wasn’t exactly sure if I could even help. But now, because I am using this stove, I got to see the pitfalls, and look into where I might be able to help them improve this project. It’s pretty cool.

Another thing that is interesting is the various perceptions that people have of time/work. For example, everyone in the U.S. knows that “Time is money”. (Another volunteer had a Beninese person respond to that line with, “NO! Time is LIFE!” Deep.) So here, time is is not really seen in monetary value. If you recall, the taxi driver that sat at the bus station for hours waiting for my burn-cream only asked for the amount he would have charged, if he would have driven me there and back. The time sitting around was nothing for him. Whenever I have work done my carpenters, masons, electricians, and so on, their cost is always, “well the material cost XX, and we’ll tack on another 500 francs (one dollar) or so for our work.”

So when it comes to these stoves, I thought they were absurdly cheap, and must be subsidized. But, no. The clay, for example, just comes from women who happen to have dug it out of the earth. They didn’t actually pay for it. So this HUGE pile costs only $14. Then if you want someone to pound/mix it for you, that’s a whole other $1 for work that takes over an hour. This all makes a lot of stoves—probably way more than 20—which are then sold for $2 each. My new homologue made the comment that, “Women in village (“en village” means basically the really small, small barely-towns, and “en ville” is literally, “in the city,” which can even mean Kérou) have it so lucky, because they can just dig all of the clay themselves, pound it all themselves, construct it all themselves, and then everything is pure profit.

No one sits down and calculates, “well, if the women took the time that they were digging and pounding, and dedicated that only to making the stoves, would they be making more or less money in total, if they had to pay for the materials but made more stoves?” (Also, no one asks if the women would be a little happier if they happened to make a little less money, but got maybe a few extra minutes in the day to relax…) It’s also hard, because the measurements aren’t exact, because I was trying to ask, “How much was the clay?”

The response: “$14 for the pile.”

“Okay, so how many stoves can you make with that clay?”

“Well in a basin (those big silver—or in this case blue—bowls) you can get 3-4 stoves, depending on the size.”

“Okay, so how many basins are in the pile?”

(*weird look*) “I don’t know; we just bought a pile of clay. That’s all”

So it’s always just a guess.

This is a bunch of the supplies used for making the stoves.
There is the pile of clay (already having used a lot), the boards to sit the stoves on while making them, the wodden barrels in which the clay is pounded by hand to make it workable, and so on.

The beginnings of a stove

A stove further along; also after the lady had abandoned the wobbly turn-table, so she just walked around in a circle

Also, today Yves, my “Program Manager” from Peace Corps came and visited my house. I had only just gotten my screen windows and doors installed, plus my clothes rack (FINALLY! The beginnings of furniture!) Luckily I had some chairs that Landry and his friend had brought for me when I originally arrived and didn’t have money. So Yves could sit there. But when he asked why I didn’t have much furniture, I could respond, “Oh, you know, being stuck in Cotonou…” I wonder how much longer I can use that excuse for not completing work. Not for very long, I’m guessing. But while I can, I fully plan on milking it for all it’s worth. Plus, honestly, I did order furniture soon after I got back from Cotonou, but it takes time to build. And some of the paperwork we had to complete about our community; I really didn’t have time to ask about everything because I wasn’t here. So it’s a real reason, but sometimes I still feel like a slacker.

My room with my new clothes rack

Hangers I made from plain wire

Also, I think I need to always remember to be less easily frustrated here. With Peace Corps, and with my community counterparts (*cough* Hubert *cough*). For example, I could complain your ear off about training, and my frustrations with admin in general…but then Yves comes and we have one-on-one interactions, and I much more inclined to appreciate him. He made some comments about training showing that he was observant and in-tune with us. Many volunteers say that Peace Corps is not a place where you get much—or any—direction ever, and honestly, the training is quite mundane, and I wish it could be so much better. But I need to remember that my program coordinators and other admins are great resources, and in fact, if I ask them specifically for information or ideas, they are ready to help.

Also, Hubert is at time frustrating, but also has helped me a lot. For example, I should be far, far more grateful for the electricity thing. It is actually quite incredible that I got such a rapid response and got my electricity restored. Even though the way I was informed that I had to pay for it was shitty, I still don’t mind paying. I shouldn’t be complaining at all, really.

Plus some days Hubert is just in a different mood, and seems ready to work with me, to accomplish great things, and so on. I’m just never sure if he will follow up the next day. And that’s the frustrating part. I leave feeling so inspired, then nothing happens.

Oh, also, I told Yves about how Hubert is having me work at Sahel. And Yves is really shocked, and just starts repeating, “Oh, that does not work. That does NOT work. That doesn’t work. Oh, Hubert! He has these ideas!” And he agreed with me that, absolutely, I did not leave the US and come all this way to Africa to be a sales clerk. So he told Hubert that it was actually forbidden by Peace Corps for volunteers to handle money in such a setting. (Volunteers handle money that comes for their grants, but those are often from USAID, and through Peace Corps, so they have to show how everything is spent, and are held accountable by their own country). In this situation, what happens if some money goes missing? The Peace Corps obviously doesn’t want it’s volunteers to be accused of being thieves and its reputation smeared (especially since it’s unlikely the volunteer would steal the whole $20 they might be dealing with), and furthermore, the host organization would have no real action to take if they truly believed the volunteer was stealing (it’s not like they can “fire” the person…) So it’s just bad news bears all around. And while I think this is a valid point, obviously Yves just knows that my job is not to sit and sell seeds all day. But the money thing is a more tangible reason.

Hubert, however, seems to trust Peace Corps volunteers more than Beninese people, and launched into a story about how people from the mayor’s office sent people to give or collect money from illiterates, and in the process these illiterate people were screwed over because they were given or received money, then the person wrote down a different amount on the receipt, and pocketed the difference. Then, later there were tons of problems. Okay, I get that it’s a problem, but that still doesn’t make it my job to sit in an office and sell seeds. But Hubert—after all this—still asked me if today was my day to come and work at Sahel. So I don’t think he got it. But from now on, I’m just not going to come in, and if he questions, my response will be, “But Yves said it was forbidden!”

Thursday, 20 December 2012

So today’s mystery is this: Am I this stupid, or is this country out to get me?

Electronics are always a toss-up in this place. Constant outages, crummy powercords, crummy products and very old, second-hand products all come together to make life here challenging.

So lately, I’ve had two problems, both kitchen-related. One was my fridge, which as you may recall, I had a problem with it working right when I returned from my time in Cotonou. For the past three weeks, however, it’s been working flawlessly.

Then there is my blender. I bought this one from the Natitangou Peace Corps workstation, because they had an extra blender and were selling this one for cheap. It’s been a beautiful thing, but on multiple occasions I have considered trying to return it. Firstly, it leaks, which is annoying. But more important, I have always had a problem with its strength. For example, I tried to make peanut butter, and it could barely grind the nuts past being quartered. When I make smoothies, especially when I put frozen bananas in there, it sounds like it’s dying. So power is just not its thing.

In response to this, I also bought a manual food-processor in Parakou. I thought it was a really, really cool idea. Plus I could use it if the power is out. And it will have as much power as I can give it, so I have more control. In the end, however, I spent over 30 minutes grinding grilled peanuts into not-quite-buttery-smooth-peanut-butter before I accepted that I will have to wait two years (or for care packages) before I have Skippy-level-smooth-peanut-butter. And I wondered if I really could continue this at all. I can’t take this much time out just to make some stupid condiment.

So this all comes together when yesterday I accidentally unplugged my fridge, which is plugged into this huge “regulator” (surge protector). There are two plugs, and the fridge is plugged into the bottom one. It’s plug is such, however, that instead of coming straight out from the plug it goes up, so every time I plug or unplug something from the other plug, the fridge cord might get moved, etc. So I think, “Oh I should just move the fridge cord to the top one, and solve this problem.” I do this, and the fridge immediately stops working. I even try to re-plug it into the bottom: nothing. So, with the patience I have graciously learned, I sigh, and think maybe it doesn’t like the movement or whatever, or being unplugged and repluged, so I’ll just let it sit around, plugged in, until it wants to work again. I come back a few hours later: nothing. So I unplug it, say that I’ll let it sit around for a while and see if that helps. Because the big-copper-cylinder-thing in the back is really, really hot, so I want this to cool down and the fridge to regulate the problems in its life. I also conclude that I must make a smoothie, to use up the fruit that might go bad if my fridge doesn’t start working again. Plus I just really wanted a smoothie.

So this time I plug my blender into the plug recently vacated by the fridge. And the blender is SO MUCH STRONGER. I unplug it and put it in the top plug, where it sounds like it’s dying. I wonder what the heck is going on, then I take the time to read the labels by these two plugs, and lo and behold, the top one reads, “Output AC110V” and the bottom one reads, “Output AC220V”.

(*facepalm*)

110V is what we use in the States; 220V is used pretty much everywhere else. Luckily, most modern laptops, etc, come with built-in convertors, and small things don’t need them, but for things like hairdryers and straighteners, I would have to bring a convertor with me (but obviously, I have no use for those here).

The point, is however, that I’ve possibly been slowly destroying my fridge when I try to plug it in to the 110V plug. AND, of course the blender works much, much better when plugged into the right current. I was able to get almost-creamy peanut butter in almost no time at all.

Which brings us back to the original question: Am I this stupid, or is this country out to get me?

Because thinking about it, WHY WHY WHY is there an appliance sold here which has an output of 110V? Sure this is great, because now I know I can plug my computer in without my plug/convertor quickly expiring (please last two years, please, please!). But WHO, in all of Kérou has something that needs 110V? And also, for all these people who obviously do not need AND CANNOT USE that plug, who is going to be aware of this? No one is taught that in this magical place called the US, we insist on doing things our own way, like refusing to use the metric system and insisting on 110V rather than 220V. WHY? I’m not sure that even God knows. So I’m sure there are plenty of people that are plugging in appliances to this stupid plug and having them not work well or at all. And they will never know why. So am I stupid for not considering that something I bought here would have a plug for appliances that are only used thousands of miles away? Just add that to my list of questions about life.

Successful Peanut Butter!

Okay, moving on. This morning I DIDN’T go to Sahel, which felt wonderful. Instead I went again to the ongoing stove-making-trainings that are happening. Salimatou and I discussed more some of the problems there. Mostly she pointed out that the organization which promotes these, kind of just sets things up, then leaves everyone to go forward, with out much support. Luckily, Kérou has a very motivated woman (her), but still there are problems, for example, of people who want to start with this project, finding the start-up costs to start making and selling these items. So there is something that’s very Business-oriented I could work on!

Afterwards I walked over to Edoward’s shop, then we went to see the director of one of the schools in the center of Kérou to see if we could use a classroom there for the literacy classes I am organizing. The good thing about this school is that there is electricity, but unfortunately only for one classroom. He did give us permission, and I will just have to see how this will work. But I am so very excited that this is moving forward! It really is a great feeling to have successes, no matter how small they are.

I also have found that I think walking around Kérou is much better than riding my bike. I get to take the time to see things I might have missed, to greet people—even if I don’t know them, and so on. Although it does lead to more awkward interactions. Such as I walked past the Imam and tried to greet him with “Salam wa Aleikom” which is an Arabic greeting, and he responded “Anna kpuna?” which threw me off, because that obviously is not the Arabic response, and I was so flustered that I just didn’t respond to his question, and awkwardly kept walking. Epic fail. And even though walking obviously takes longer, I also now have more time, because I’m not spending 20 hours a week sitting at a desk doing nothing.

I also went to Constant’s school briefly, where there is a project underway to make a school garden. The point is to encourage kids to eat healthier (or at all, some of these kids might be poor), what with all these vegetables they will be growing. Plus I think they will sell some for the money to pay the women who will come and prepare the vegetables for them. So it’s a good, sustainable thing, plus teaching a little bit of money management. Today they were just building the fence, but it was fun to come by and see the work. It was ironic, though, because some of the teachers were arguing over a topic I touched on in my last post. The (OBVIOUSLY) male teacher was saying that—clearly—boys just worked harder than girls. Because, you know, percentages don’t lie (I think he was referring to the percentages of boys vs. girls that pass, and so on). A female teacher was arguing with him, and pointed to a section of the fence that was constructed by girls. This section was completed way ahead of every other section, and very, very neatly done. So she asked him, what about that? Clearly in this case the girls were working harder than anyone else. The male teacher just replied, well, percentages don’t lie.

Sunday, 23 December 2012

“What’s that sound?” you wonder. It’s like…laughter. Loud, raucous, deep laughter. But where is it coming from? And why, why are people laughing like this?

Well I shall tell you. First, this particular laughter is coming both from beyond the grave and from a log cabin in Maryland. Specifically, from my parents, both brought to tears of hilarity. And why? Well, that is because I have almost literally become an accountant.

Most of you might know that I spent most of my childhood practically throwing a tantrum when my parents suggested that I take over their business later on in life. “I WILL NOT live in a small town,” I insisted. “I WILL NOT do accounting!”

And life responds: “Ha! Challenge accepted.”

So I try to do the most un-small-town-thing and hippie-non-business-thing I can imagine, and that is joining the Peace Corps. And where am I sent? To a small town. (Although, honestly, I should have seen that coming…)

Then, I get here, and somehow end up surrounded by the haphazard books of record-keeping for the one Savings and Loans (artisan) Association that I am working with (aka Ben Club), and my task is to enter every number into my little handy-dandy computer, balance their accounts (or lack thereof), figure out how much people owe, how much profit has been made (from interest and fines), and what people would be paid out if they just split it all, or what the organization could do from here if they decided to keep going on with this money. It is essentially something my parents might do, going into a business that has been keeping abysmal records, and trying to get them up and running with a more organized accounting system. I mean, I want to get them to a point where they can record everything on paper. Even if I could get them a computer, it would just be so risky, what with computers expiring after a few years, then the fact that people who have never grown up with computers don’t understand the concept of virus, and safe computer use. Plus it’s not like there’s anyone in Kérou to repair things if the computer does go kaput. So to easily calculate the last few years, I’m using my computer (plus I’m not sure if I remember how to do math on paper, without Excel’s magical sums and calculations), but from there we will work on a better system. If they want to.

As of now, however, the records are everywhere, and sometimes nowhere. For example, each person has a personal book where weekly savings are recorded, plus loans they take out. Then one person has a notebook where he keeps attendance, and makes little “x”s when people pay the fine for being absent. Then when people arrive late, there is a jar where they have to put in a fine, but I’m not sure if they weekly amount is recorded. Then there is the book which shows the amounts deposited in the bank, but these are all very round numbers, and thus clearly not the full amount of money for the club. Additionally, the money is only deposited once a month, so it’s entirely possible that some money was saved, then borrowed without it ever hitting the bank account. So yeah, a lot of work there for me. I hope this is even possible to do.

In other news, I have almost completely worked out the literacy classes for the artisans. I was originally disappointed by the fact that there was only one classroom with electricity available to me at the center-school. Then Constant mentions that in the center-school-area, there are actually two directors, so I should go talk to the second one (heretofore, I was unaware that this position/person existed). So I did, and he is very eager to help, and immediately gives me permission to use his classroom with electricity. But the real question is: Why, when I mentioned to the first director that it would be great if we could have 4 classrooms with electricity, and he replies, oh, I only have one classroom that actually has electricity, does he not continue that sentence with, “but if you go to the director of the “B” school, right next door, you could ask him about using another classroom…” Come on, people. OUTSIDE THE BOX.

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

When will I ever learn? This country has—over and over and over again—tried to instill this attitude of “expect the worst”, but still I don’t listen. I always plan a little too optimistically. For example, today, I traveled to Natitangou, where I need to do some banking, plus pick up packages that have finally arrived from home. I look at the money that I’m packing, and I don’t really want to take it, because first of all, all that I have left are the precious 1,000-franc bills. (Finding change is always a challenge, so it becomes an obsession of hoarding every low-value bill and coin you come in contact with for as long as possible.) “Plus,” I think to myself, “I’ll just be able to go to the bank and get money out, easy-peasy!” The taxi even arrives at 3PM, giving me plenty of time to run all the errands I would love to run. I start with the bank. There is a long line, and I see another volunteer, who promptly explains to me that some-sort-of-connection-thingy is down, and actually she has been sitting there for 2 hours, waiting to get her money.

“Well…” I think. I have no intention of sitting in a bank. I want to go take a shower. I am covered in dust. I want to sit in a comfortable chair. And so on. But curiosity also gets the best of me, and I walk across the street (convenient!) to the Post Office, and ask for my packages. The post man brings out 4, and they are sitting there on the other side of the window. So…close…I…can…almost…touch…America… But wait, they cost over $2 each to pick up. I have only $2 in my wallet. So I lie to the postman, and tell him that I thought they were the small packages that you don’t have to pay for, sorry for making him work. Then I explain that the bank is freaking broken, and well, he can see in my wallet there is only one, sad, lonely 1,000-franc bill. I am defeated. So I go to the Peace Corps workstation, and eat the rice that is thankfully provided for us, because lord knows I can’t afford the food in this town. Except for the 500-franc pastry I will eat tomorrow morning before going to the-bank-that-better-freaking-be-working.

Thursday, 27 December 2012

I went back to the bank today. When I arrived there was the usual line—and nothing seemed to be happening at the windows. But I heard a rumor that the “connection” had worked earlier in the day, and a few people had been able to withdraw money, but then the connection went back out. So I prepared myself to be in for the long haul. This happened again…connection in then out. The line moved a little bit. But the real problem is that people here will go out of line, so they can sit down, but as soon as the line starts moving again, they will run back up and butt in front to their—supposedly—original spot. I don’t mind letting people—especially mothers—get back in line in front of me. But one time it so happened that I was standing next to a person who was actually in front of me. Then a guy got in line and stood behind her. Then when she moved up to her rightful spot in front of me, he tried to inform me that he was in line behind her, so he should get in front of me as well. I told him in French absolutely not, then called him a bunch of names and talked badly about him in English to the other volunteer that was waiting with me. I love francophone countries. It’s such a stress-relief to be able to say bad things about people right to their face, but they have no idea what we’re saying. Actually, the other volunteer and I did a lot of this while waiting. We complained about how customer service doesn’t exist anywhere like the US. How people can be lazy and unable to think outside the box (although to be fair, this happens even in the US). I gave the example of how one night when I was working at Outback, our connection went down—actually nation-wide—but did we just refuse to serve people? OF COURSE NOT. We whipped out old-school paper credit-card-copy-receipt-thingys for people that wanted to pay with credit cards. We took the time to personally call and verify amounts on giftcards. We got on our knees and profusely thanked anyone who saw our hardship and whipped out some cash instead. At the end of the night, when the connection was back up, one of the visiting regional-managers-of-sorts had the arduous task of taking every paper credit card receipt and entering them into the computer so we could close all the accounts. It’s not that hard. I mean, why can’t this bank just let people who want money just write checks? Your name, your account number is all there. The bank has records somewhere of everyone’s ID number. It’s not like anyone would be able to rip off Ecobank in the long run. If they tried, they’d eventually be hit with a bunch of overdraft fees. Or if necessary, call a bank that does have a proper connection and have them verify amounts. Something. But god forbid should someone have to do something different than they’ve always done and/or do extra work. Like I said, I don’t think this is a problem that would only happen in Benin. But it’s just frustrating.

Anyway, after a few hours (YES I SAID HOURS), we finally made it up to the front of the line. I managed to get my money and even demanded small bills and coins. I got all of that. The second volunteer gives her check, and the guy starts processing it. Then halfway into the process, he just stops, and instead starts doing paperwork. He says absolutely nothing to the other volunteer. After about a minute, she is like, “Umm…so what’s going on, where’s my money?” He responds, “Oh, the connection went out again.” We’re both sitting there like, “Well, then WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY THAT???” She just asks him for her cash, but he says it’s absolutely impossible. Then this volunteer just explains that she actually waited for FIVE hours yesterday, and please, please would he just give her the money! So suddenly he just whips out the cash—which he could do, having already begun the process of processing her check—hands it over, and would presumably finish the process when the connection came back.

Triumphantly, we left the bank and headed to the Post Office. Which was closed for its lunch break. I just can’t win, can I?

So I did some grocery shopping, and headed back to the workstation, did some things there, then went back. After this ridiculously long, handwritten FOR EVERY PACKAGE process (because of course scanners and barcodes don’t exist here) I finally, finally got my Christmas packages. I rushed home and opened them all, so excited just to get a taste of home—literally and figuratively. There was only one casualty, and that was where a rat or mice of sorts had chewed through the box, through a Christmas stocking, through a plastic bag, and chewed into the packets of Kraft mac-n-cheese powder I had begged for. Then of course, he didn’t eat it, because no one should actually like cheese-powder. So I looked at the box, where everything was basically covered in orange dust. I spent a really, really long time contemplating if it would be safe to just sweep everything up and still use it. I mean, it’s not like the rat touched everything—and I have to cook the cheese anyway, right? And I eat things here that have been laid out in the sun and are occasionally nibbled on by goats, and so on… Besides, we have decent medical care, and OH MY GOSH I JUST WANT MACARONI AND CHEESE. But then, luckily, I kept going through my items and my mom had actually sent more cheese packets in another package, so I was saved from having to make a potentially health-hazardous decision.

So Merry Christmas to me, even though it was a little trying. Thank you to my Mom and Grandmothers for sending their love (and presents). Also thank you to Aunt Regena, Uncle Richard and Aunt Pat, and Mrs. Burris for their heart-felt Christmas cards! Plus Mrs. Shanahan and Pastor & Mrs. Turley for their cards from earlier (I thought I had mentioned them already, but searching my blog I can’t find it).

Saturday, 5 January 2013

Happy New Year to everyone. Sorry I haven’t written in a while. I can’t even say that I’ve really been busy. I was in Nati for a while, then came back to Kérou. Did a lot of new-year-partying, which means a lot of eating and drinking. It was fun.

I also made Mac ‘n’ Cheese, plus chili, and calzones, so I almost felt like I was back in America. Except that I had to cook my calzone in a dutch-oven. The only bad part about cooking for myself, though, is the ridiculous amount of time I have to spend cleaning dishes. I also brought all my clothes to Nati to wash them, so I could actually have running water, instead of worrying about how much water this would mean I had to carry from the pump. Then I asked a lady that comes and cleans the sheets/towels for volunteers at the workstation, about dirt that was just refusing to come out on one of my dresses. All she did was lecture me about how Americans don’t wash clothes well, we just swish them around (I mean that’s kind of what our laundry machines do), whereas Beninese really scrub every inch of fabric. I swear, when I get back to the States, I will refuse to live in any apartment that doesn’t have a dishwasher and a washer/dryer in it, I DON’T CARE HOW LONG THIS MEANS I MUST LIVE IN MY MOM’S BASEMENT BEFORE I CAN AFFORD IT (sorry Mom)

And I shall leave you with this: A picture of a really awesome cloud formation that I dubbed "King Triton," as just outside this frame, it actually looked like he was carrying that pitchfork-thing that King did in The Little Mermaid.