Adventures in Milk; Also Known As: Epic Failures in Culinary Pursuits

Mid-September through Mid-October

So I recall posting a while ago that I was absolutely delighted to find out that making my own cheese was actually quite simple. I love cheese. If I could eat one food for the rest of my (most likely very short, due to subsequent high cholesterol) life, it would be cheese. I just love, love, love it.

On one of my jaunts across the internet, I discovered that by simply adding vinegar to milk, one can make cheese. Basically vinegar—or even an acid like lime juice—separates the curds and whey (Hey! I know what curds and whey are now! Little Miss Muffet makes so much more sense!)  I haven’t really tried it over the past year, because my fridge had been terribly unreliable. Once I tried it with powdered milk. And it tasted like powdered milk. Ugh. And I don’t even buy the good kind. Plus, there was one time that I did buy real milk, and all that happened, was that it was really expensive, and gave me terrible intestinal problems.

Now, there are a lot of Peul (also called Fulbe, Pulaar, and Fulani) in Northern Benin. In fact they are spread out through a lot of West Africa; there are even Peul in Senegal (my host brother, Aziz, is Peul). They are so far spread out, because their traditional occupation has been—and still is—herding cattle. This means, of course that they must be migratory. So anyway, there are a lot of Peul villages around Kérou, and every day, women walk into town to sell the milk. It’s weird for me, because they sell “today’s milk” and “yesterday’s milk”. The milk from the previous few days, looks nice and curdled, but people just add it to their porridge-looking meal, and eat it right up. So I guess it’s safe? Safe-ish? When I bought the “today’s milk” originally, a long time ago, it was a non-market day, and I bought it at this area kind of close to my house. It cost me 60 cents for a half-liter (just over 2 cups), which Pierre said was really expensive. And I was disappointed, because that meant it was almost as expensive as boxed milk (pretty much like the gallon jugs we buy in the states, except this milk doesn’t have to be refrigerated until the box is opened). But at $1.50/liter (that’s $5.68/gallon), I decided it’s way out of my Peace Corps budget, for a regular basis.

So fast forward to a few weeks ago, when I finally went to the actual 4-day market. There is always a group of Fulani women selling the milk, and a girl there helped me explain what I wanted (the Fulani, living in their even more remote villages, speak even less French than the Bariba). I got my half-liter filled up for 40 cents, and that was overflowing! I was so excited. I hurried home and boiled the milk, then added the vinegar, and VOILA! Cheese! Not the creamy, American or Velveeta or Brie, but apparently like Indian Paneer cheese or “Queso Fresco”. However, I wasn’t entirely satisfied, because I kind of had this idea that the vinegar gave it this off-taste, although it’s entirely possible that I was imagining that. Furthermore, I had read in Mark Bittman’s “How to Cook Everything” (and no, that title is not an exaggeration. It’s an incredible book) that cheese would be best made with buttermilk.

So now I have a quest to find out how to get buttermilk. Jumping to my handy-dandy new smartphone, I find out that a good buttermilk substitution was milk and vinegar. WAY AHEAD OF YOU, but thanks. So fail.

But THEN, I stumbled across a website explaining how to make butter at home. BUTTER. And—here’s the best part—when you make butter, what it leaves behind is buttermilk. How perfect is that, RIGHT!?

Then I start thinking about how when I was young, my school would take us to Rose Hill Manor, a historical plantation in Frederick. They’d show us around, going, back in these times, people had to pop popcorn with fire… “What, how do you pop popcorn without a microwave?” I thought at the time. Now if I want popcorn, it’s over my gas stove. Then they’d show us sugar cubes, saying that back in the day, people had their sugar imported from Europe in cube form (yep, that’s what I get here in Benin! Sugar cubes by the box). Another thing was a big container where people would let the milk sit, and let all the cream rise to the top. Then they would skim the cream off, and throw everything else out, because apparently skim milk is infested with demons, or bad luck, or something. Then they would make butter with their fancy churn, and so on.

So I’ve basically just accepted that I’m living in Colonial America. I’m pretty sure my Uncle Ken said that on one of my blog posts almost a year ago, but I was like, “Pffft, that’s ridiculous. People have cell phones here. Cell phones didn’t exist in Colonial America. Check. Mate.” So I think for the first time ever, I will admit to my uncle that he was maybe a little bit right. I am living in Colonial America. With a smartphone. :) I mean, it’s way, way more complicated than that, especially from a development standpoint. Because it’s not the Benin is UN-developed, it’s that it’s been systematically UNDER-developed to the benefit of Western nations. So when I say I live in Colonial America, I don’t want you to get the impression that given a few hundred years, Benin will begin to look like Modern America. Development isn’t linear, and Benin is stunted in its development because of its historical and current (economic) relationship to the rest of the world. I think that’s really, really important to remember. But I guess in terms of living conditions, there is a lot that is the same, such as lack of indoor plumbing, a large focus on agriculture, farm animals everywhere, dirt roads, food so much more dependent on seasons… OH, and I remember reading in Felicity’s (the American Girl Doll from Colonial Times) book about her playing this game with a wooden hoop, where basically, you use a stick to push and guide the hoop as it rolls and you run along beside. And guess what? So many kids here do that!!! (except with more modern bike tires or something) It’s so bizarre.

[On a somewhat related note, I wrote to my grandmother, GW, about my intentions to make butter, and she wrote back that she actually remembered her mom skimming the cream from milk—delivered by the milkman—and making butter. So I guess this means my grandmother actually lived in colonial America too. She’s definitely aged well, considering.

(Hmm…delivery. I should get some economic development going, and teach Peuls about the beauty of home delivery. Everyone could have fresh milk at their door every morning…)]

It is interesting, though, to think about the different foods that developed here versus Europe/America. I was talking with a German volunteer, and we discussed how the reality of having winter meant that we had to develop ways of storing food… from sausages to canning, drying, and excessive uses of salt etc. Whereas here, technically one can grow things all year-round…as long as you have some sort of water source. On the other hand, with all this heat, it’s much harder to preserve things. I remember also from the Rose Hill Manor that people—obviously, this is only people rich enough to have a “manor”—would build a huge cellar, and then in the winter, cut out chunks of ice as the lakes/etc froze over, and put the ice in the cellar, so it was like one huge fridge, that would at least last through most of the summer. Clearly, that’s not an option here. But there are some projects that are trying to encourage more preservation. One volunteer was working on mango-drying, which would preserve the mangos that are so plentiful during their season that many of them go bad before they can be eaten. There was also a project through the Beninese government that taught this woman in another village down south how to can tomatoes. Tomatoes are really ideal, because they are so acidic, you don’t need much fancy equipment to can them, just plenty of boiling water. Her main problem was, however, that when she made and canned tomato sauce, people didn’t buy it because it wasn’t the bright-barnhouse-red color that tomato sauce is when you buy it in the cans from China. So there’s that…

ANYWAY, so on to my actual attempts at butter. I went and bought 1.5 liters of milk—that’s a standard water-bottle here. It’s a little less than a half-gallon, and cost me $1. I brought it home and boiled it. (Apparently cows can have tons of bacteria in their milk, including stuff that can make you have diarrhea, to stuff that can kill you. So yeah, I’m gonna boil all that milk.) This goes along successfully, and then I let it sit and cool for a while, before putting the milk into glass jars I’d cleaned out. I let them sit out on my counter for a while. It’s weird, because I’ve always had this strict idea that milk can absolutely not sit out for a long time, but I don’t think that’s entirely accurate. In the same way that people here never, ever refrigerate eggs, and they’re fine. I think there’s something about milk being pasteurized that requires it to be refrigerated… I don’t exactly know. But people in Colonial Times (currently my official go-to indicator) obviously didn’t refrigerate milk, so I think this milk would be fine. But I eventually gave into my indoctrination of milk needing to be cold, and put it all in my fridge.

I pulled it out the next day, and skimmed off the cream. Which turned out to be a very disappointing amount of cream, for all the milk I got. I was assuming half-ish of milk/cream, but only got a few tablespoons worth of the cream. The method for making butter that I read about was to put it in a jar and shake that jar for a while. So I did. I shook, and I shook and I shook. I looked like one of those people on the “shakeweight” commercials. It was very hard on my muscles, so I couldn’t keep it up for long. But over the course of the day, I probably shook that jar for a good hour total. And it just wouldn’t do it. I had this stupid cream—I actually managed to make whipping cream—but I couldn’t get the butter to separate. I started throwing the jar back and forth between my hands like one might a baseball. “JUST TURN INTO BUTTER!“ I yelled at the cream, but to no avail. The moral of that story was that I never got butter, but all of the muscles in my arms, shoulders, and upper-back hurt for the next 3 days.

I looked on my smartphone, and found a bunch of answers—some contradictory to each other. But the basic recommendation was that I should use cream that has actually sat for a few days—not just one. And it should be at room temperature—just not too hot. It recommended that I store the milk in a “cool room” and I think I laughed at that one for a while. Every single room I have is hot. I don’t have a cellar, sorry. And, oh yeah, I live in Africa. In the Sahel, just south of this huge desert you might have heard of, THE SAHARA.

So I planned on getting more milk and trying again. Letting the cream rise for a longer period of time, etc. So I went to the market and got some more milk, and put it on my stove. Then, the milk curdled right in front of my eyes! “NOOOOOO!” I yelled at the milk, which of course didn’t stop it from curdling. It actually worked out alright, because I basically created my curds and whey, so I strained out the whey, and had my cheese all ready for me, without any other steps. But this kind of ruined my long-term plans. I looked on the internets to figure out what went wrong, but basically every website said, “You’re dumb, you can’t curdle milk just by boiling it.” Umm, I’m sorry, but it just happened. I witnessed it. Wait! OMG I’ve broken the laws of milk-physics! I did finally find one site, though, that said one can curdle milk by boiling it too “vigorously”, whatever that means. But maybe they are just crazy, along with me. Plus, other sites informed me that whey can actually produce cream as well, which you can make into whey butter—different from the normal “sweet butter”.

This just makes me feel like milk is one of those dolls that never end, but just gets smaller and smaller. Like you start off with milk. Then you siphon off the cream. From that you make sweet-butter—and buttermilk (or just whipping cream if your cream is stubborn). Then you can take the skimmed milk, add the buttermilk, and voila! Cheese! But wait, there’s still whey left over. If any cream is still around from the whey, then you can make whey-butter. And from the whey, you can also make ricotta cheese! (Ricotta, apparently means something like “twice-baked”) But then there’s still whey left from that… can I make ricotta-ricotta?

It makes me wonder why humans are naturally programmed to be lactose-intolerant after infancy. Technically, only societies that developed strong herding industries—such as in Europe and West Africa—developed lactose-tolerance for the duration of their lives. But then I realize that the things milk makes—butter, cheese—are actually kind of bad for you. As in clog-up-your-arteries-and-kill-you bad for you. WHY IS LIFE SO CRUEL??? Haha. I wonder, though, if maybe making things myself makes it healthier. Butter, I think it doesn’t matter. It’s cream that’s been shaken around. (Although apparently whey-butter has a lot of protein in it.) But if I skim off the cream, and use THAT to make my cheese… No, it’s not the melty-gooey kind of cheese. But that’s probably the point. I do kind of like the whole idea of not having so many processed items in my cheeses food as well. I’m not sure how that will work out back in the States, though. It’s not like I can find straight-from-the-cow milk for $2/gallon. Also, pretty sure “raw milk” is illegal in many states. Not that I’m objecting, because it’s not like I would particularly enjoy getting sick from milk. Although if I don’t get sick from my boiled raw-West-African-milk, then I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine. Whatever.

So after these attempts, I had to make trips to Natitangou, then Cotonou (for a little medical checkup. The doctors say I’m doing fine, considering). When I get back, I decide to start this whole thing up again. This time I bought the 3 liters of milk again—about $2. I come home, heat it up on the lowest heat possible. Then I put it in this large metal bowl and let it sit out covered overnight until it comes back to room temperature (and, not this does not comply with Pasturization standards, sorry I can’t make and ICE BATH to cool down the milk in Africa.) After that I put it in the fridge for two days.

I finally pull it out, and there is this glorious hunk of cream floating on the top. I probably had between 1 ½ and 2 cups of cream!

So I pull out this hand-cranked food processor I bought ages ago. I mostly got it for the blades, with intentions to make peanut butter. It turned out, however, that it didn’t exactly have the strength to make nuts into butter. However, I have used it to make delicious tomato sauces, or even smoothies, when the current decides to go out, rendering my blender useless.

BUT, the most important part is that this food-processor also came with a device to beat eggs. At first I was like, “This is so stupid, just use a fork…” but after my butter-jar fiasco, I realized that I could actually use this as a churn!!!!

So, I pulled out the cream, and plopped it into my repurposed egg-beater. And I began to whisk around the beater. It was just whipped cream, then it started to get really hard to turn. “This is it!” I think to myself, recalling the various websites that said the whipped cream becomes really hard to shake/churn JUST BEFORE it turns into butter. Then I feel the beater become easier to move, and let it swirl around a few more times before I open the lid.

And lo and behold, I open the lid and see gobs of white things swimming in what looks like skim milk. However, I ask myself, “Is this really it?” WHY DOESN’T IT LOOK BRIGHT YELLOW, AND IN SQUARE FORM??? (Apparently, Jersey cows are more likely to produce yellow-looking butter than any other cows) Plus one place I read said the butter/buttermilk should be about 50/50, and this definitely had way more butter than buttermilk. And I was expecting the buttermilk to look more like whey. So I reason I’ll give the beater a few more rounds, just to have everything properly separate.

But, as the butter gods apparently hate me, what actually happened (according to the internet) was that I beat it so much the butter and buttermilk came back together, and (again, according to the internet), this is something that cannot be undone. So there might have been stamping of feet and gnashing of teeth, plus a few choice words screamed out at my place today.

So once again, I am left with whipping cream, and nothing scrumptious like strawberries to dip in it. Le sigh.

So that’s my milk-adventures up to now. Tomorrow is market day, and I shall be buying more milk and trying again. ONE DAY, this girl will have officially made her own butter. I mean, I guess I technically have already… but whatever.

All of this culinary makes me really, really wish that I had paid a little more attention to my dad cooking. I always had aspirations for him to show me things, and he always agreed. But I was always very lazy about it. I guess I assumed he could always show me later. Actually, right after my dad’s death, my grandmother—Nanny, his mom—came over to my house to show me the recipe for my favorite dish of hers when I was growing up (a pasta/Velveeta casserole). And she sent Velveeta cheese to me, all the way in Benin, and I made it. It was so good!

But I never asked my dad if he did things like make butter or cheese, or if he watched his mom do it. From what I’ve seen on the internets, home-cheese/butter making died off in the 50s or so, so he might have missed it. All I remember about my dad and milk, was that my mom, my sisters and I all drank skim, but I think he saw Skim milk as an affront to life or something. As in it was just water colored white, and if you’re gonna drink milk, damn it, you should drink whole milk.

But more than that, I wish I had paid more attention when he was showing me how to cut meat off a bone. I was always terrible at that. (BUT DAD, I can get boneless chicken in the supermarket, duh.) Maria and I had quite the time when we had—I think—Turkey meat, and attempted to skin it and then cut it off the bone. We both just kind of looked at the meat, our knives, started hacking, pulling, etc. Then after a bit we both look at each other and go, “yeah, neither of us knows what we’re doing, do we?” Then there’s the whole cow-meat issue. I have SOME knowledge from my year working at Outback Steakhouse. I kind of know what a sirloin, tenderloin, porterhouse and t-bone steaks are (approximately). But now Maria and I sometimes plan special meals that involve beef. And we have to figure out which parts to ask for, and how to ask for them in French. I think we spent an hour trying to figure out “tenderloin”. Turns out it’s called, “REAL filet”, vs. a shortloin—an Outback steakhouse’s “Victoria’s Filet” or a “filet mignon”—which is called a “False filet” in French. I think. I’m actually still confused by this. I’m sure my dad could have very easily explained anything dealing with cow-meat and steaks. Or fish. Of course I can only get whole fish here. So I successfully managed to scale it. But I didn’t realize how the scales would fly everywhere—I’m still finding scales around my house. Then I tried to gut it (that basically worked, but GROSS) and filet it. Fail, fail, fail, fail, fail. I gave up and just shredded the fish, and pulled out as many bones as possible. Luckily Maria—being from an island (Puerto Rico), and having once dated a fisherman—actually knows how to filet a fish, so I think she’s going to show me one day.

I did have one major culinary success, however. Maria was actually lucky enough to be at the workstation when one volunteer who was COS-ing (stands for Close of Service, basically, they were leaving), and this volunteer left a hand-cranked meat grinder! We can have ground meat! Amazing! I don’t even generally eat meat anymore, but I still love me a good occasional hamburger, etc. Anyway, we decided we were done trying to figure out what the heck to call the pieces we needed (apparently, certain cuts like the brisket and chuck make better ground beef), and just go for whatever. Which was lucky, since when I arrived, all they had left were the hips, or whatever your would actually call that in proper cow-terms (Round?). So we got that, and made chili with a side of mac n cheese, and it was delicious! I think next we’re going to make beef tacos, so I’m super pumped about that.

Actual Work

So I really do things besides just cooking. Although most of my work can be summed up in: “Le sigh”.

I turned in my grant for the irrigation system. However, with all the delays, there was not enough time to review it before September 25, which is the cut-off date, so Peace Corps can process things for the fiscal year. September 26 I learned this, and subsequently learned that actually Peace Corps is upgrading to a whole new system for submitting grants, which requires all the work to be done online, making the spreadsheet I turned in useless. Oh, and the government shutdown means that I have to wait even longer for this submission form to be ready. So le sigh.

I did, however, get the chance to stop in Parakou on my way to my mid-service medical exam. And I searched around until I was brought to a vetrinarian, who can order baby chicks for me, vaccines, and all the stuff for making feed we would need for healthy chickens. This is super-exciting. I’m basically ready to turn in this grant now. Except I have to wait for the first irrigation grant to be submitted, approved, and all finished (they are both Food Security grants, and thus I can’t have both of them going at the same time). So le sigh.

However, I do have one grant-funded project going! It was actually a program a former volunteer (Thomas) had done with one of the teachers (Constant). It’s a handball tournament. They did one last year, and now we’re doing a new one. Basically, we have a tournament between the four main schools in Kérou. There is both a girls and boys tournament. The teams play back to back, so the opposite gender is there to root on their classmates. Between each match, there is a little time where we discuss issues, this time mostly related to gender and gender relations. For example, the first theme is “Girls in Sports”, where we talk about why it’s important for girls to play sports as well as boys, and what BOTH sexes benefit from the inclusion of girls. We will also talk about sexual relations (if it’s a good idea to start them when still in school), STIs and AIDS, sexual harassment in schools (a huge issue here; teachers sometimes coerce their female students into sleeping with them, and while illegal, this isn’t strictly enforced), and various issues that block the success of girls in school and in work, etc. It’s really fun, actually. I get to watch high-school games. It’s a reminder of how people of every culture can be the same underneath. The girls roll and tie their shorts and tops to make them tighter and more stylish, just like all the girls on my sports team did. They cheer on the boys with various chants. The boys seem too cool to lead girly chants, even though their teachers keep telling them to support their classmates. Both sexes stand on the sidelines during the games, discussing with each other and watching. They clap and jeer and yell “oh!” The teachers/coaches yell advice, which the players promptly disregard, (“Slow the game down! SLOW IT DOWN! Slow—oh come on!”).

Except for the first week, I have chosen a different team to lead the in-between-game discussion, so it’s not just me preaching to them. I went to one school this week, so they could prepare a poster and some ideas. I am excited to see how this works out this Saturday!

My Savings and Loans group is coming along. I printed out individual books where they will get stamped every week they pay their group fee/savings. I also printed out a whole group of papers that essentially make up and accounting book, filled with fees/savings, expenses, fines, loans, and the final “Account Totales”. The idea is to keep blank copies of these; then every year they can go and make more copies, and fill those in over the year, so it keeps going even without me and my computer.

Still, trying to make people understand all of the concepts is difficult. And I’m worried that if someone makes a mistake, they wouldn’t know how to go back and fix it, or even how to figure out what the mistake is. For example, in just the two meetings I missed, they already added things together wrong, which I caught by just adding things together in my head. By head-math seems to be impossible for people. (I think this is sometimes due to the school, which puts may more emphasis on memorization, then being able to look at any set of numbers and add them; or so I’ve been told.) And everything just takes SO. LONG. The totals, done at the end of every meeting should take a total of maybe a whole minute, but actually takes 5 or 10.

So, yeah, things are still chugging along. At a very Beninese pace.

Benin’s North Dakota

Yikes, I’ve really been slacking on this whole blog-thing. I guess I will just catch you up on a few things, then get back to my somewhat regular postings.

While in Cotonou, I spent one night chilling with some other volunteers and another guy who is doing his Fulbright here in Benin. His boss conveniently has a house in Fidrose beach, which is slightly west of Cotonou, maybe a 15 zem outside the city. It’s a nice, three-story house, that is rented for about what one would pay to rent a one-bedroom apartment in New York or D.C. And it’s only a block away from the beach. The best part is that there are no hurricanes to worry about here! Unfortunately, the beaches here aren’t terribly friendly, and in fact can be super dangerous with their very strong undertow. I guess you can’t have everything. But one day I want a beach house. In Africa or the Caribbean, or somewhere. Oh dreaming…

So I finally escaped Cotonou the 20^th of July. My doctor said that I can continue with the exercises on my own. Although, knowing the level of pain these induce, and my lack of self-motivation, I can only assume this will not work out as well as he expects. Although, I do have the threat from my doctor that if things don’t improve by the time I come back in September for a check-up, I will be forced to stay in Cotonou longer.

I really admire anyone having to do physical therapy. All I did was tear a little ligament (I mean, we think that’s what it was). And it HURTS. I have gotten to the point where I can bend my fingers back most of the way, but it’s still really hard to close them to the front.

I kind of feel weak, though. People here persevere through so much. One day, my doctor and I were just making conversation, and he mentions that he was amazed by Bariba women (he actually worked in Kérou years ago, but left because he wanted to be a specialist, and there’s no demand for those in villages). When they are having a baby, they don’t even make a sound. NOT A SOUND. They just pop out that baby, then take a moto home. And it’s not just Beninese people that say it—volunteers here have witnessed it too. Of course, the next day, when we are sitting doing exercises on my hand, he pushed it far enough that I started crying from the pain. Which I think freaked him out (“I made a girl cry! What do I do now!?!?!?). Come on, Shannon, FIGHT THROUGH THE PAIN LIKE A GOOD BENINESE WOMAN.

On a related note, I recently read an article that featured a hospital in eastern or southern Africa (I forget where exactly) that has started charging women for every scream they make. WHAT!? Just another reminder of how blessed I am to have that American birth certificate. Lord knows that whenever I am ready to have kids, they will absolutely be born in the US. And I will use and epidural. End of discussion!

Speaking of, my neighbors actually had a baby soon after I got back. I get up to go to my meeting at 7:30 in the morning, and the mom is standing at the doorway, with people coming to visit. She has just arrived home, and tells me she had the baby around midnight. AND SHE’S ALREADY LEFT THE HOSPITAL. She’s standing there, looking very tired and worn out, and all I can think is, “Please, someone, let this poor woman lie down!”

The baby didn’t have a name yet when I asked, so the dad actually comes over and asks me to help him pick a name. He says very specifically he doesn’t want something at all typical for Benin. So I looked up names that were at the top of the US naming charts for the past year. One of the finalists was Gavin, which is of course the modern form of the name Gawain, as in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (a middle-English story once translated by J.R.R. Tolkien). On a whim, I wrote down the name Orlando, as in Orlando Bloom, who played Legolas in The Lord of the Rings, and the love of my life when I was 13 or so years old. And. That. Is. The. Name. They. Chose. I should never, ever, ever be given this kind of power. Although, perhaps now that I have gotten my tribute-naming out of the way (Orlando for LotR, and Luna for Harry Potter), I can move on and my kids will have a chance of having normal, acceptable names. And I defend my decision, Orlando is a nice name, and the kid won’t ever have to know where it came from. I mean, seeing as people in Kérou have only now gotten around to watching 80s Kung-Fu movies, it will be a while before LotR makes it here.

Monday, 5 August 2013

Today I was a twenty-minute walk from home, sitting at a bar, chilling, reading, and occasionally talking to people I knew who came through. Then I looked up at the sky, and saw the Eastern sky grow dark, and a bunch of clouds rolling in. “Oh no!” I thought. So quickly I got up, paid my tab and rushed out the door, and headed home. I was walking quickly, and got to fifteen minutes away, and it starts sprinkling. Ten minutes away, and the skies simply opened up. I most likely let out a string of curse words that would shock my grandmothers and make my mom roll her eyes and say sternly, “Shannon, STOP using that language!” However, it turned out that cursing the skies was completely unnecessary, because a few minutes later, this old man ran up with a huge plaid umbrella and handed it to me. So I was able to walk the whole rest of the way home without getting soaked! How very nice of him. Some days I really do love this little village.

Friday, 23 August 2013

So I’ve been pretty unmotivated to write my blog lately.  Mostly it is because I’ve actually been super-busy, and when I do get a free moment, I like to do other things. Like read English books and French books (while expanding my French vocabulary). I’ve also started studying Spanish, because I’ve decided that I am never actually coming home. Once I’m done with my time here in Benin, I want to get a Fulbright to go to the Dominican Republic. And if that doesn’t work, I want to just move to Puerto Rico. Because I can.

[Then that plan of course alternates with wanting a real job so I can live in a nice place that actually freaking has a dishwasher and laundry machine. Then other days I want to be a inner-city school teacher, because it’s always something I’ve been passionate about, and I just rewatched an episode of The Wire.]

My new best friend is Excel. I’m using it for all kinds of calculations, as well as putting together booklets for my savings and loans group.

Projects are starting to role along pretty well. My new Savings and Loans group is up and running. We’ve started collecting money and writing down all the by-laws. I want to have a very disciplined group, especially in light of the original Savings and Loans group (Ben Club) in Kérou. I spent four hours today trying to figure out why they are off by 2,200F (about $4.40). I finally found 2,000 of it, but I still can’t find the other 200. Oh well.

But with this new group I am insisting that they count the money every single meeting. One person complained that it was too much, but I explained that with the book I designed, it should take all of 30 seconds at the end of a meeting. And if there is a problem, then you know it happened recently, not two months ago! Plus I have this suspicion that someone embezzled some money in the first group, since a few months ago about $160 went missing. And I double-checked the math, everything. But when I talked to some of the artisans, no one really wanted to go down that path of searching it out. They just kind of accepted the loss. Since then, however, I’ve been checking things more often, and the money seems to be sticking around better. It could also just be that people didn’t write down everything. Like there was one time that an individual artisan had paid for some new booklets for the group to get printed. He paid out of his pocket, and instead reimbursing him, they just credited that amount to his weekly membership fees. But this never made it into the accounting book that I made, until I happened to catch this by chance. It’s things like that.

Another thing that has me spending a lot of time in Excel is working with this guy I met who wants to start a restaurant here in Kérou. He currently works as the chef for the Hotel (I guess you can call it that?) in Kérou, but wants to break out on his own. So I’ve been talking to him about all of the start-up costs, and whether it will truly be profitable, etc. We finally concluded that to start he needs over 1 million CFA (about $2,000). He can get a loan, but for that he needs to have 20% of the amount he wants to borrow already in the bank. And he has nowhere NEAR that kind of money. It’s only the equivalent of $400. But compare that to the less $800 per YEAR that teachers here make. Or that minimum wage is $30 per month. So yeah. Now that he’s realized the investment, our next meeting will be discussing where he can start cutting back. For example, instead of the concrete sitting areas (gazebo-shaped) he wants to make, he can make straw gazebos like a bar I saw in another town. Maybe not get the generator immediately, but definitely by the time Chaleur rolls around. Because if people know you always have cold beers when it’s 120 degrees outside…they will come!!!!

I spent time running around Kérou researching the irrigation project I want to do. I’m kind-of (and by kind-of I mean completely) running blind here. I went to a solder to ask if he could make the watering-head thing for the hoses (what are those called in English again?), and then asked him about the price of metal piping to go along the length of the field, and how much it would cost for him to come and solder everything together. Then a few days later, I met with a guy who works for SONEB, which is basically the national water-supply company. He tells me I’m crazy for thinking I would use metal pipes, and of course we would be using PBC plastic pipes. So, just typical time-wasting for me. He gave me an estimate a few days later of what this project will cost (not including the hoses and watering-head things). I was blown away, not because the supplies will cost about $1,200, but then he turns around and asks for $1,000 for himself, as main d’œuvre fees. Now in the States that’s reasonable, probably even low. But don’t forget here, TIME IS NOT MONEY; it’s not valued as much. For example, the solder I talked to had put his price of coming to the field and physically soldering together 200 meters of pipe at $120. Even Hubert said the price was high, and that everyone knows that as a rule of thumb, fees for work are usually calculated to be at 1/3 of the price of supplies. So tomorrow we will be going back to talk to the guy. I made some changes to the design that he made that I think will help reduce some of the cost of supplies. Then, of course, we will talk about reducing his fee. By a lot. And Hubert mentioned that if he doesn’t go for it, we can always ask someone in Nati. I hope it doesn’t come to that, because I am already starting to stress over how much time this is taking before I can even submit the grant. Then it still takes time for things to be processed, for me to get the money, etc, etc. I want to finish this up quickly, before the dry season, so the women can actually use it.

Additionally, once it’s done I want to apply for another grant for the chicken-raising I’ve been talking about doing. I have to complete the first one before starting the second one. Now, it actually works out, since I want to have to first one done by the beginning of the dry season or shortly thereafter. But to reduce costs, we’ve decided to build the chicken coop with mud bricks instead of cement, and then only cover them with a layer of cement to protect the structure from the elements. And mud bricks can’t be made until some time into the dry season, when the rivers start to disappear, leaving behind….wait for it…MUD!!!

I am really excited for both of these projects. They really seem what people here want. I remembered from the very first day that I met the Fétékou women that they told me how hard their work in the garden was. Hubert commented to me that he did not realize how hard the women’s work was. Maybe they didn’t mention it to him. I wish I could be getting more input from them on what they want, and how to design it, but I don’t even know if they would know what they need. So I’m basing it off the one system I saw visiting another post, and hopefully it works!

Sunday, 25 August 2013

I swear, there are so many days that I feel like I am living in redneck territory, here in Benin. Maria joked that it was “Benin’s Dakota.” I mean, life here does primarily revolve around agriculture, so it makes sense. And the climate is absolutely horrendous, alternating between absurdly cold (for Africa), and unbearably hot. I mean the redneck thing in the stereotypes, and in both the good and bad ways. Good, because people are super-nice and friendly. Like the guy who gave me his umbrella. Or the vet who has promised to drive all the way to Natitangou, just to get rabies vaccinations for Maria’s and my cats. Life is slower, more relaxed. But sometimes—maybe a lot of the time—people are so backwards. I think about Appalachia country, where people are so very poor and don’t have access to education as much. It’s the same here, like Pierre who had to walk miles to get to school. There is such a conservative mindset, ESPECIALLY when it comes to women. “Women’s place is the home.” End of discussion. [Oh, and men only make up only 30% of the whole population of Benin, so that’s why the HAVE to be polygamous. You know, to satisfy all those women! How chivalrous of them! And yes that is a “fact” I have heard multiple times from different people]

The most recent example was this (albeit VERY DRUNK) guy yesterday, who harassed Maria and I at the buvette.

Drunk guy: “Excuse me. WHAT do you think about women who wear their hair like white people?”

Me: “What?”

Drunk guy: “In weaves. Women who wear weaves.”

Me: “Well…”

Drunk guy: “Well, I think it’s terrible. I DO NOT allow my wife to wear a weave, like those other wannabe white-women floosies.” [Okay, I’m not sure if “floosie” is a word in French, but if it were, he would have definitely used it here.]

Me (tipsy and enraged): “Who are you to tell your wife what she can and cannot do?”

Other men in the bar: “Duh, we always tell our wives what to do. Maybe where you come from, women do what they want, but not here!”

Then the drunk guy starts talking about his plethora of wives, the first two of which left him for some unknown reason (probably because he was an asshole, and I suspect he beat them)

Me: “Well, why do you shave your head? Are you embarrassed by your African hair?”

Drunk guy: “I shave my head because my father always shaved his head. I’m a traditionalist!”

Me: “Well I’m here to make change. So we will never agree, so maybe you should just leave me alone”

The guy at this point gets up, walks over to Maria, and demands that she answer his questions. She tries to shrug him off, by saying that neither of them will change the other’s mind, so why is he even trying to discuss these things? Then he storms around the bar, yelling about how he hates white people, and he hates development, and why can’t all the white people just go away and stop ruining his country? Then he comes back to Maria and I, and starts talking about how he’s been in prison. And suddenly, I had this flashback to a camping trip with my family, where we ended up in a Deliverance-themed park, next to a group of very drunk people, who were throwing whole pellets of wood on a fire, and yelling about their own prison experiences.

Because think about it. Replace “white people” with any non-WASP racial or ethnic group in the states (i.e. black people, Irish people, Asian people, Mexicans, etc). And suddenly you have a typical American racists talking about how blacks or whoever are just stirring up trouble, and trying to ruin America for the “Real Americans”.

But as each one of you are aware, not every person in America—even in rural America—is a racist and/or chauvinistic prick. I just have to remember that whenever someone here makes me mad. I want to yell at them, tell them their wrong, but obviously that will do as much good as yelling at a brick wall. I need to just stop and think about how my aunt—who is one of the most absolutely wonderful people in the world—is proud of her West Virginia heritage, and is probably offended by some of my previous paragraphs. Or one of my good friends from school grew up in Kansas, likes country music (horrors), and yet fit right in with our mix-match of international friends.

There are plenty of people here that are dedicated to improving their lives and ideas. For example, I have a friend named Louise, who is 14. Her father insists that she and all her sisters go to school—something that doesn’t always happen here. He isn’t trying to marry her off quickly, and in fact discourages her from needing suitors or whatever.

And there are definitely people who are willing to listen and change. Also yesterday, I had a conversation on two separate occasions with people about calling me “batoori”. I told them that I didn’t like being called Batoori, and they responded. “But you are. You are white.” I then asked them that if they came to the States if they would like it if everyone ran up to them, pointed, and yelled, “Black Person! Black Person!” They thought about it and said, “You know what, you are right. I would hate that.” So I told them my name, and to call me that instead if they saw me again.

I really should stop being argumentative with drunk men. Not only are they drunk and therefore less reasonable, but here they also have more of an issue with being corrected by women, and feel the need to “man-splain” their point. [I HAVE A PENIS! ERGO, I AM RIGHT!] I think, though, this country could have some good brought to it by women who actually stand up to men. Another volunteer was recounting a story where on a taxi, a man demanded that this other girl give him one of her cookies, and she agreed, probably because she felt she could not say no. Then the guy asked the volunteer, and when she refused he tried to grab for them. This erupted into a whole debacle. And in the courting rituals, some men seem to be under the impression that “no” means “try harder”, and “never call me again” means “call me 5 times a day, even at 3 in the morning, until I break down and give in.” [true story, except for the giving-in part]

It seems really hard to find the balance, though. How much am I hear to spread ideas and practices, and how much am I hear to learn about and accept different points of view? I certainly don’t want to adopt that paternalistic attitude of “helping the poor, backwards Africans.” But should I try to encourage people to view “time is money”, or should I accept their more laid-back regimens? Should I tell them that women or equal, or allow that here, it’s the man’s job to care for the family?

Because not everything is black and white. For example, many of us are horrified by the idea of women wearing hijabs. “SO OPPRESSIVE!” we say. However, there are arab feminists who differ, and say that maybe western women are the ones that are actually oppressed. For women who wear hijabs, their body is their own. They can walk down the street, and people can’t see all of their forms, their skin, etc. They have to judge them by their speech and actions, not if they have a sexy body. Meanwhile, western women are forced everyday to look perfect: to wear makeup, have their hair styled, wear exactly the right clothes, be exactly the right shape. Their bodies belong to the world, to constantly be judged

So for me, it’s more about creating an environment where each and every person makes their own choices and their own destiny. I want to focus less on yelling at asshole men, and more about empowering women to take control. Or not, if they choose to let a man take care of them instead. Less on lecturing people on business, and more on giving them multiple ideas for success, from which they can choose. Less on getting angry at racists, and more on just discussing things with people, so they can see my point of view, and tell me about theirs. I guess those are the goals! It’s really hard to have the patience, but we’ll see.

Tuesday, 10 September 2013

Just as an update on my projects: So I had Hubert call in another person involved with irrigation. This guy is from Natitangou, but someone with whom Hubert has worked before. He came to Kérou, saw the site, and then talked with us about what we wanted to do. Then he gave us his estimate. The PVC equipment will cost around $800, vs. the $1200 the original guy was asking. Then, this guy ONLY ASKED FOR $200 DOLLARS for his “technical services”. I was so overjoyed. There are some added expensive, for example I will be paying a little over $100 for his travel and lodging, plus I have to pay for the transport of materials. But still, it works out to be considerably cheaper than the guy from Kérou. AND, I even doubled the amount of hoses in the garden—so that more women can work at once. It’s so much better. I feel awesome that I’m not being taken advantage of, and so HAHA to the greedy man, GUESS YOU’RE NOT GETTING EVEN ONE FRANC, JERK! Now I’ve submitted everything to Peace Corps, and just have to wait around for it to all get approved. Yay, progress!

And finally, some pictures for your enjoyment:

Luna, sleeping in the sun

Luna, trying to make a friend

Me, with various "artisans", aka the mechanics, solders, masons I always talk about.
These are the more prominent leaders

ONE OF THE GREAT TRAGEDIES OF MAN’S LONG TREK ALONG THE HIGHWAY OF HISTORY HAS BEEN THE LIMITING OF NEIGHBORLY CONCERN TO TRIBE, RACE, CLASS OR NATION. - Martin Luther King Jr.

So I guess I want to thank everyone for their outpouring of support. My last post was quite dramatic, so thanks for not just writing me off due to my craziness. Everyone that wrote me individually expressed that they were proud of me and such, and that is definitely the encouragement I need. But I also want to let you know that I kind of felt like sharing my despairing experience was just necessary to share my full experience. Everyone has their ups and downs. And I’m just hoping that by pointing out my weaknesses that I can move forward. Thank you, family and friends that gave their own support as well as sharing ways of dealing with certain struggles.

Perhaps I do have too high of a standard for myself. But you know, there’s some saying that’s like, “shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you’ll land amongst the stars.” Maybe it’s a paradox that I say, well I’ll set my standards low for what I can ever actually accomplish in Benin, but set the standards uber-high for myself. I know some of you out there are impressed by what I’m doing, but my parents have always insisted that I hold my standards to myself, and not anyone else. For example, my parents always said that if I got a low grade in a class, it was perfectly fine, as long as I can say that I tried hard. On the other hand, I was never allowed to make the excuse that someone else had done worse than me, therefore making my low grade acceptable. That’s what I want here. I want to give it my best effort, but the final impact isn’t as important. As long as I did my absolute best and at least impact some people. I want to care about people here, and I want to work every day to going out and meeting people and doing a good job.

I successfully started the second Village Savings and Loan group. As in we actually started collecting money and appointed a provisionary secretary and treasurer while we take the time to write out the by-laws. At this point, I have said that anyone can leave for any reason without any consequences. But once we finish the by-laws, and everyone agrees to them, then there would be a penalty for anyone who wanted to quit for no good reason. I have also introduced the concept of rain dates, so we can still have a meeting the next day if it rains. As well as a phone tree, so the whole group can be informed and ready. Both of these ideas were somewhat revolutionary. But I hope they will make a big difference.

Furthermore, I think I’ve gotten more of a focus on what I want to do for the next year. I’m finding that one of the greatest barriers to economic development is that almost NOTHING is actually produced in Benin. All Benin is good for is raw materials, if that. For example, right now, I see so many Shea nuts. The only shea butter that is made is really non-quality butter used for cooking. There are very few companies in all of Benin that make Shea Butter to be sold on a wider market. The same is true for cotton. A few months ago, the roads from Kérou were littered with cotton trucks, so much would fly off the back of them that women would go to the sides of the road and collect the wayward cotton and re-sell it. But no factories in Benin even to make t-shirts. Or take mangoes. The past two months, there were so many mangoes that I couldn’t walk 10 paces without tripping on one. Many of them even went rotten before they could possibly be eaten. But no production. If someone could do something with them, like Mango Wine (btw, did you know you can make MANGO WINE??? I would buy that every day, no joke), that would be something that could help the country. If there could actually be factories, Benin could develop so well, but no, everything gets shipped overseas for the factories. Cashews even get shipped to other countries for processing, then return to Benin at ridiculously high prices. And we supposedly have the best Cashews in the world.

Anyway, that’s what I’ve found as a really cool business opportunity. I’ll spend the next year working with local production—I’ve already got in touch with the guy who is in charge of the Shea nuts gathering/selling in Kérou. Then the year after that, the goal would be to work with a group in Cotonou, and learn more about actual production at a national level and exporting, etc.  Maybe after Peace Corps I could then start up some sort of great international business or something. With MANGO WINE. Or something. I just want to learn more about the realities of exporting items and selling them abroad. If it can even be profitable, etc. I haven’t gotten the placement yet, but I have a whole year to figure it all out. I’ve already talked to Yves, my boss in Peace Corps, about this possibility, and together we’re searching for a good placement. I’m really excited about this, but I’m still keeping other career options open. I still have quite a while before I have to completely decide.

In the mean time, I’ve been talking to Hubert about setting up an irrigation system in Fétékou. He had talked about building a well or something. But I pointed out that many of the women in this group are quite old, and have complained to me in the past that it is very hard to carry water on their heads, even if it’s somewhat close. The advantage of the garden is that there is a water tower nearby, and the pipe leading to the village actually passes right by the garden. So I am looking into the possibility of creating some sort of hose-irrigation system which would be used during the dry season. During the wet season, the women could use this site at no cost, since the rains would be watering everything as they do now. But during the dry season, women could choose to use this site and have the watering be much less labor-intensive—but have to pay for a plot. Or they could choose to go the old site, which would be free, with the water right there. But they would have to carry the water all the time, and would be taking the risk of flooding. But at least that way even the poorer women would still have the opportunity to garden. Plus it might even free up larger and more desirable plots in the old site, as some women move to the new one.

The first step, though, is to talk to the person at the Mayor’s Office to confirm that the water tower could actually supply the water necessary for the garden, and still continue to supply the town. Then we have to figure out exactly what we would need, and how this whole system will work. I’m really excited to start, however, and see how it goes.

Another project I will be working towards is with Constant. He wants to have a handball tournament with girls and boys at the local schools. Then the winning teams would receive school supplies. He already did this with Thomas, so it should be relatively easy for me. And it’s something that Constant is really excited about. Plus it will give me a chance to start working more with kids. Plus, when school starts in October, I want to actually start the business club that I was supposed to be doing. I randomly met an economics professor at the high school at the bar, and he seemed really interested in helping me.

So a lot of stuff looking up. Of course, I’m never sure if it will all work out. I’ve had so many plans over the past year, and a lot of times they just don’t pan out. But at least one or two things have to work, right?

I am still very stressed about how Hubert is always trying to get rid of Pierre. However, I talked to my boss in PC, Yves, who is awesome. He really understands volunteers and their needs, and stands up for us. He realizes how important Pierre is to my work, and the volunteer that might replace Anna. So he has promised to talk to Hubert about keeping Pierre. Although at this point, Pierre might just be better off moving on with his life. I just feel bad for the next person that Hubert will sucker in.

I also took a little break from Kérou, and came down to Cotonou for some fun. I had a fun weekend going out with Maria and some other volunteers. Plus we went to the beach a few times, which was really relaxing and awesome. It was exactly the break I needed, plus I got to talk to Yves about projects and other things. I did discover that I may have torn a ligament in my hand (I SWEAR I COULDN’T MAKE THIS STUFF UP IF I TRIED), so I’m in Cotonou now getting physical therapy to try to get back movement and strength. Sigh. I wonder what’s it’s like to be healthy the majority of the time…

At the Beach with Friends

 

A Pretty Picture of Me

Thoughts on America

And even though I’m in Africa, I still keep up on American news. Especially when I’m in Cotonou and don’t have a lot of better things to do with my time. What has been on my mind—and many others—has been the George Zimmermann trial and verdict. Over a year ago Trayvon Martin was stalked and killed for no other reason than being black and suspicious. And now his killer has gone free. I saw a picture of Trayvon’s dead body, lying on the grass, his eyes open and lifeless and I cried. But, as another person mentioned, at least my white privilege means that I am simply reading things of Facebook, looking at articles and pictures, but I am not being forced to return to my home, long bereft of my dead son, and feeling the weight of never being able to get him justice.

But you know, one day, that could be me. One day I could stand on a podium and say, “If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon,” because let’s face it, I have dated almost all black guys, with one Asian and a few Hispanics thrown in (technically I could say that would lend to having a son that looked like George Zimmermann. But if my son were ever such a racist prick, I would have already disowned him). Maybe one day I can say that my son would—or does—look like Amadou Diallo, Travares McGill, Oscar Grant (and SO MANY others) or perhaps my fiancée could look like Sean Bell (shot the night before his wedding). And if you don’t know any of those names LOOK THEM UP.

According to the laws, I guess Zimmermann should walk free. And I value a justice system where, if I am charged with any crime, the prosecution must prove my guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

But what kind of country do we live in that it is legal to think that just because someone happens to be a young, black male, that he may be stalked by a non-police (or in many other cases actual police), then when they turn around to confront this possibly psychotic stalker, shot dead. How can anyone look at the situation—the situation that Zimmermann got out of his car—and not find him culpable? It sickens me that this is possible and correct under the law.

But beyond that, I am sickened by our entire country and our way of dealing with race. Paula Dean says something racist, but it’s not shocking because she’s southern and old. THIS IS WRONG. Stop it, you northerners, feeling all high and mighty. Stop it you liberals, feeling justified by your “black friend” that may or may not actually exist (and YES, I am both Northern and Liberal). People in the North can be hella racist, and just because you once talked to a black person and don’t actually refer to people as “black”, but rather “African American” doesn’t make you less of a racist.

Let’s have a real conversation about race, nationally. Let’s talk about black people that are black, white people that are white, brown people that are brown, red, yellow, (okay, for some reason the last ones are slightly more offensive, but the team the Redskins is okay?) blue, purple, green, orange, pink, aqua… you get my point. (And along the way, also talk about mixed children, because apparently people go crazy when they see a half-black/white child in a Cheerios commercial.) The point is that there is still racism. History and subconscious feelings don’t go away just because you want them to. And it’s really, really bad that we don’t have a justice system that will address this. Our justice system insists on being “colorblind” so much, that it actually refuses to listen to claims of racial profiling. Even if you present in a case studies that show that statistically black people are arrested at a higher rate, prosecuted for crimes more intensely (in terms of prosecutorial discretion for similar crimes), given longer sentences, and so on, this can’t be shown in court, because it’s not proven that there was racial profiling for THIS PARTICULAR CASE/person, it is therefore invalid.

You should read a book called “The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness.” I know some people might jump back, because it is quite an intense name, and quite an intense idea. But in it, Michelle Alexander lays out a thoroughly convincing case, with a plethora of statistics and facts (you know, those pesky things). It lays out how the War On Drugs has become—and this is not a conspiracy theory, but simply the way things have evolved due to lingering racial prejudices—a systematic way to imprison predominantly black males, and force them to a status of second-class citizenship for a very long time. They are second-class citizens because drug laws force those convicted to never be allowed to have things like food stamps, public housing, pell grants for college, and furthermore, are forced to put this on every job application, meaning there chances of actually getting a job and reintegrating back into society are very slim. They are legally discriminated against for the rest of their lives.

And I know there are plenty of people out there that will say, “Just say no [to drugs]” to these black people. But the reality is that people of every race USE AND SELL drugs at about the same rate, and young white people actually use drugs at higher rates than pretty much everyone else. Yet black people account for a significantly higher rate of those actually arrested, prosecuted, and imprisoned for such crimes. In fact, the United States imprisons black men at a higher rate than SOUTH AFRICA UNDER APARTHEID did (just let that one sink in). So the real issue is here, is that police and prosecutors can make choice about who to target and prosecute, and they overwhelming choose black men. (With a few white people thrown in to “legitimize” the system as non-racist)

Because society tells them these are the real criminals. When white people smoke marijuana, they’re just relaxing, spreading world peace. But when it’s black people do it, they’re criminals. Ask any person in America to draw a picture of a drug dealer. Most likely the person they draw will be black.

Michelle Alexander’s sums this up: “When black youth find it difficult or impossible to live up to these
standards— or when they fail, stumble, and make mistakes, as all humans do— shame and blame is heaped upon them. If only they had made different choices, they’re told sternly, they wouldn’t be sitting in a jail cell; they’d be graduating from college. Never mind that white children on the other side of town who made precisely the same choices— often for less compelling reasons— are in fact going to college.”

And this is what needs to stop. We first of all need to break out of prejudices. It’s not that we need to stop seeing color. But is it impossible to see color and yet love the people of a different culture? I love different cultures. I love fried green tomatoes, quiche, tikka masala, fried tostones, kebabs, plus many other items from cuisines across the world, and I love my aunt’s sweet tea. I love different values that people in different parts of the world have. I love that people here in Benin will invite me as I walk down the street to come eat with them. I love my own culture too, that people value my time enough to call me if they’re running late. I don’t love everything about every culture, and not everything about my own culture and history. But that doesn’t mean we can’t reach out. To grow and evolve together, while maintaining our own unique identities. To know that NOT EVERYONE HAS THE SAME EXPERIENCE. Maybe you or your parents worked hard and they made it. Maybe that drop-out black kid’s parents’ worked just as hard and didn’t make it, because life isn’t fair, and also because our nation still has many racial prejudices it hasn’t dealt with.

Because in the end, even if one day I do marry a white man, and we have white babies, IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER. Because I will still care about people that are oppressed, harassed, treated as second-class citizens, and occasionally gunned down. Whether or not they look like me or my offspring, I want to still care. I don’t want to live in a society that continues to ignore racism because it’s unpleasant, or doesn’t coincide with the nation we want it to be. I want there to be a nation where criminals are criminals, period, and race doesn’t change anything. And I certainly don’t want to live in a nation where a murderer walks free just because his victim’s race made him less valuable.

Because that was a lot of the arguments that were trotted out on the internet. That suddenly, when Trayvon had a little bit of marijuana in his system, was once suspended, suddenly he deserved it. As one article points out: “Whether or not Martin was a good kid or a bad kid, an angel or a thug, a normal teenager or a dangerous deviant, he had every right to walk in the streets of his soon-to-be-stepmother's neighborhood without fear of being shot. A criminal record, a manner of dress, a height: none of these make the shooting of an unarmed, law-abiding teenager justified. And yet here we are, forced to defend Martin's honor, as though if he had been a gangster there'd be nothing to say. As though the minute a black man is anything but a choir boy it's okay to shoot him in the street.” (http://gawker.com/5896490/your-guide-to-the-idiotic-racist-backlash-against-trayvon-martin)

So let’s try to shake this image. Let’s not cross the street in fear when you see a black man coming your way. Let’s extend love across racial lines, across neighborhoods, and begin to truly care. Begin to understand the realities that exist for other people that don’t exist perhaps in your own life. Try to walk a mile in people’s shoes. Or at least read about it. And CARE. And do something, even something small, in your own life.

Ups and Downs

Sunday, 5 May 2013

Today I came back to Kérou. I think this is the most excited I’ve ever been to be back. And that is quite remarkable, since I’ve actually had a pretty incredible last three weeks. I got to see a lot of fellow Peace Corps volunteers, and partied a lot. I spent two weekends in a row going out dancing in Cotonou; then one weekend in Nati, plus some pool time. Pretty relaxing. Plus, I only got stuck in the medical unit for one week; so that’s a record escape time! But as I mentioned, it did give me the chance to party a little more in the big city and meet some cool people there; so I’m really okay with that.

The point is, however, that despite all this good stuff happening elsewhere, I was still really happy to get back to Kérou. It is my current home after all. It was almost comforting to be back. Of course, I also had my kitty to greet me. Luna was terribly annoying, refusing to leave my side, and biting me if I stopped petting her for even one second. It felt nice to be loved/missed. My neighbors, too, were happy to see me back. And then I walked into town, greeted by the usual chorus of “BATOORI MA SOEUR”, but to my everlasting delight, these children were actually told off, and chased away by this old man. I finally feel like I might be fitting in. Well, no, not fitting in. But just becoming more part of the community. People know me; remember me; notice when I’m gone, and have started listening when I say I don’t like being called “white person”, etc. I also have plenty of work looking up at me, so I’m really ready for all of that.

Then, to top it all off, I discovered that MY FRIDGE WORKS. No need to think about how many times I’m going to call Hubert or the Mayor’s accountant or the electrician. Nope. It’s just done. Set and ready to go!!!!!!!!!!!!! And tomorrow is market day, so I can go fill up on whatever veggies I can manage to find and not worry about if they’re going to go bad tomorrow. And I can have cold water. AND MAKE SWEET TEA. Oh my goodness, my life is wonderful.

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

Well let’s just say the lord giveth and the lord taketh away. (no, it’s not my fridge). Last night I finally had my proper greeting to the north in the form of intense intestinal malfunction. Let’s just say that I didn’t make it to the bathroom, and as I’m cleaning up after myself, I just started crying, wondering what the heck I am doing here. My body must hate me for all the sickness and infections and just general. And often I feel like such a failure because I suck at going out and making friends, connections, etc. I’m scared to talk to people. I procrastinate so much at the thought of having to actually put myself out there. How can I actually say I’m a good volunteer? So I start thinking this, and then thinking about everything else that ever went wrong in my life (especially about my father), and eventually find myself bawling my eyes out into my pillow, praying that my neighbors can’t hear me. Although they probably can. They hear me when I talk to myself (don’t judge me!), how could they miss me absolutely wailing. Then I reasoned that in movies, people use pillows as silencers for guns, so the pillow has to have drowned out my cries. I really, really hope so. I also finished by writing this inspiring piece:

LOW POINT

You’re supposed to get over your grief in a damn time, a moment of reconciliation with reality. BUT you don’t. It lingers there. Even past the anniversary when you pretend you’re over it. You pretend that you’re not shocked. It’s been three years. You pretend you’ve moved on. But ever still it lingers, until you’re crying yourself to sleep in a concrete box in Africa. Saying he still would’ve wanted you to be here. Which he would. But damn, why does it have to be so hard? WHY is it that it’s the first time, three years later, when I realize that this is the first time I’ve really let myself cry? For real. The first time I haven’t been trying so hard to hide it from people around me. No, I let loose. GRANTED into a pillow. A pillow to suffocate my despair. At least I hope it did. Otherwise, it’ll be awkward in the morning with the neighbors.

But a pillow. Three years and some odd days later. God knows I have not been counting the days like I used to.

WOULD I GIVE IT UP? I look at my life, and for a moment I think “YES!” But then I remember that this has also in a way brought me closer to my father: the man, the farmer, the accountant.

I realize now, I’ve been working a lot only on those last two, or at least things related to them. Okay, neither of those are easy. But being the man that he was; that’s the hard part. Can I just talk to people; listen and learn? To not mind being stranded or lost on the road or in a crowd. To bring in clients after a few chats and make friends with ease.

But can I ever be like that? I’m scared. To talk to people. To have them judge me. But maybe I’m like my Mother. Just scared of my potential.

WHO KNOWS?

But is that a cop-out? Maybe I’m just actually lazy and lying that being scared is my excuse. But how can I say I’m lazy? Okay, sometimes when I’m actually in village, people tell me I work too hard. They joke that I can’t stand NOT to be working. But that doesn’t account for the hours I spend at the bar, or watching shows on my computer, or surfing the internet. Sure I need time for myself, but I need to spend way more time making that effort. But I do try. EVERY DAY. I’m not sure if that makes me a good volunteer or not. But does it matter? Who am I here for? Me? Then I’m probably doing a shitty job. Because my body is deteriorating from the inside and out, and it seem like my mental state suffers from extremes as well. On the other hand, I’m growing. Am I here for the Beninese? It’s so hard to see if I’m actually doing something useful. For my future career? Not if my future employer ever reads this blog…

In the end, I hope to make a difference; of sorts. Hey, it’s Peace Corps in Africa. I can’t have to high of expectations; except of myself.

Anyway, those were my thoughts at their rawest, slightly incoherent form. Sometimes, it just helps me to write things out, and I did try to conclude on a somewhat uplifting note. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind this unpleasantness of my entry, but to quote Marilyn Monroe, “…if you can’t take me at my worst, then you certainly don’t deserve me at my best.”

I once told someone that Peace Corps is just a journey of extreme ups, and extreme downs, with A LOT of waiting in between. I’m just here, trying to help people, but it also requires that I make sense of my own life here; my own presence and purpose. It’s so easy to be conquered by your own demons when you are sitting in the dark surrounded by concrete and dirt, with an angry stomach, and far from anyone you know. Luckily, things such as cell phones exist, so I was able to talk to a fellow Peace Corps volunteer, just so she could make me laugh and what not. Later I talked to my mom as well. We both suffer from a lot of the same insecurities and roadblocks, but it’s good to talk to each other. We know where are faults are; but we often need someone else just to say, “GET OVER IT, and just do what you need to do!!!”

Every day is a struggle. I don’t mean just me, here, in Africa. But I know that every person struggles with their own problems, their own failures, their own needs daily. And everyone’s is different. And I would never want to insinuate that my problems are worse. You just have to read about them, because, well, it’s MY blog.

There are so many ways in which I disappoint myself. I tell myself that “I exist to serve” and I strive for that, yet in so many ways I just sit around and serve my only gluttony and sloth. I tell myself I’m the nice person, yet I see myself doing wrong to others. So I must work every day to change. Every day to use these depressing thoughts, and these LOW POINTS in my life to push myself to do better, do what I need to do for my happiness, as well as the happiness of those I wish to serve. Every day, work to be a better person. And to make the world a better place just by doing that.

Sunday, 12 May 2013

You’ll be happy to know that my life did improve over the next few days. Wednesday morning, I went and talked to my tailor, who called out my extremely swollen eyes, but then blamed it on my moto ride back to Kérou. I didn’t bother to correct him that the ride was days ago.

I also went to talk with an artisan who in charge of Ben Club’s new accounting notebook that I set up. He had been collecting the information, such as who paid their weekly fees, but didn’t want to enter it all in the final ledger, since he’s still not entirely sure of what he’s doing. I’m trying really hard to explain it in the way that he understands WHY he has to do certain things, etc, instead of just “Do this! Do that!” It’s frustrating for both of us, because I think he just wants to have me tell him what to do, and this way it goes a little slower. But this is the only way that he will still be able to do this after I’m gone, no matter what situations arise.

After doing this, I went to see a man named Ibe, who has his own garden right beside this swamp area. He apparently been around and friends with westerners for a while, and was friends with a French volunteer who worked at the Catholic Mission at the time that Ben (of the Ben Club) was here. Anyway, Anna was there the other day, and he asked her to help him do financial planning, so she referred him to me, and we set up a little meeting to talk about his current state of finances, and then go from there. It was really interesting showing him the calculations. He knows, for example, how much he made from gardening last year, and approximately how much his wife makes selling things at the market. But he’s never sat down and calculated it all out. Although when I showed him that his wife makes about twice as much as he does a year, he just kind of accepted that. “Yes, I kind of figured that. The women, they can make so much money just selling things at market!” The problem, he notes, is that almost all of the money his wife does make just goes to sending money or gifts, etc to people who are celebrating a major life event, whether it be a birth, death, or marriage, etc. One thing that did shock him was the idea that you need to take out all the expenses of your business (in this case, his garden) from the gross income to find the profit. “I’ve never thought of that before…” he says. Something that seems so obvious to me, but I guess that’s the advantage of being raised by accountants. Anyway, I’ve told him to start writing down each transaction (income and expenses) for his household, then soon I’ll sit down with him and show him how to put it all in categories, so he can see if he’s following his budget.

Thursday I went with Pierre to Fétékou. It was actually a very disheartening trip. Apparently, due to the very early and hard rains we’ve been having, their garden, which of course is located in what is usually a lake, has mostly flooded. Usually this happens about a month later, so they had planted thinking that. Now, their plants were not ready, but are underwater, except for a few plots that were on higher ground. Many women are very discouraged, because they were really planning on the later crops, such as tomatoes to be the real money plants, and where they would make the extra money to put into the savings that I’m helping them with. I did some looking around as to what might be done for next year, so this situation could be avoided. The best—but most expensive—thing to do would be to build some smaller dams up from the gardening plot, so as to keep more of the water there, rather than letting it all flow into their gardening area. I am also by no means an engineer, so I don’t know how much advice I can really give. Time to do some researching…

The Fétékou garden. Or what's left of it, floating in the water.

That evening I went to Gouginnou, which is Hubert’s village. There is a gardening group there that the NGO FAFA gave a lot of money to (about $8,000), so they are one that I have to go to, and talk to three women, and fill out a notebook on their inputs and outputs. This is a most interesting story, because I asked the women about seeds, fertilizer, insecticide, etc, and their response is that the gardening group paid for everything. Which is to say Hubert bought everything—probably with FAFA’s money, even though that money was destined primarily for potatoes. Then, for the potatoes, Hubert actually planted all of them on his land, using his children as labor (the women don’t actually know how to plant potatoes, they’ve never done that before), and he (or his children, rather) watered them occasionally with his moto pump, and some complicated system of moving dirt around to direct the water flow. The women occasionally weeded, then helped harvest them, and Hubert gave them all potatoes to sell on their own. Some of them made up to $50 or so. Other than that, however, their garden was almost entirely a bust. I think that had to do with the poor quality of soil. It’s a new garden, and hasn’t really been prepped for having crops grow on it, so things just didn’t grow well. All they got out of it was perhaps a little for the family to eat, and for one women a goat ate all of that too. At least they didn’t put any money into it!

When they tell me how things are really working, though, I wonder if I should mention any of this to FAFA. I mean, they gave this group quite a significant amount of money, which Hubert just seems to be gifting out in an attempt to motivate the women, earn their favor, and maybe actually get the gardening group to function. But clearly, this experiment was utterly unsuccessful. The women sold nothing, except for what Hubert gave them, and really, how does that help them? They have a few extra francs, but no actual knowledge of how to grow potatoes, if they wanted to try on their own next year. Plus I utterly fail to see how some fertilizer, insecticide, and having someone come to build the gardening rows costs $8,000. And then I was talking to Hubert and he said, “You know, one problem this year was the water. FAFA promised to build us a cistern, but they didn’t!” And I’m just staring at him like, “Well maybe you could have used some of the $8,000????” But then again, I don’t know the inner dealings between Hubert and FAFA, and where this money has all gone, but given the previous rumors around Hubert…I just can’t believe that he’s all innocent and not on the take.

But then I ask the women if they are happy with this situation. They’re response is that “Well, it’s not bad.” They get free stuff, get to hope that maybe next year they can actually sell the things they grow. In their view, Hubert is just trying to help them. Even if it means they have to lie and say that they really did work with the potatoes, etc. If Hubert weren’t around in the first place, they wouldn’t have any of this. So Hubert gets to skim off a lot of money just because he knows how to make the right people happy. Politics. Sigh.

So the weekend was filled with artisans meetings, as usual. Plus I had a meeting to see who was interested in participating in the “Second Ben Club”. Hopefully this will help more people get involved, as well as those disheartened by the current political climate in the first Ben Club. Unfortunately, the only people that showed up were Mechanics, who had the advantage of having their own meeting RIGHT before the one I organized. But there have been more people who have expressed interest in getting involved, so I will spend this week going around to them and reminding them to come to the next meeting.

Tonight, I was supposed to have a meeting about the Reading & Writing class I organized for the Artisans. It was going fine, but then there was like one week that the teacher couldn’t make it, and after that, everyone stopped coming, even though I told them that it was back on. Then I was gone, and of course, nothing improved. So I want to organize a committee of people who will kind of manage the class, keep up the correspondence, etc. Of course, it rained, so the meeting didn’t happen. (No one wants to travel anywhere on their motos—or in my case, my bike—in the pouring down rain.) Guess we’ll have to see for next week. Constant informed me that he can’t have the classes this week anyway, since he is studying for an exam he must take if he wants to possibly become a director in the school.

Saturday, 18 May 2013

Another week gone by. And once again, all I have to say for myself is that I did a lot and absolutely nothing.

Monday, I spent the whole morning at the bank, well because nothing actually works fast in this country. It took an hour alone just for Pierre and I to make deposits into 7 different accounts. It’s actually really depressing though. Apparently, years ago, there used to be a CLCAM actually in Fétékou, but then one day the bosses decided that the more remote locations were costing more than they were making, and shut them down. This is reasonable, but then what happened was a bunch of these women had accounts there, still with money in them. But there was no longer a place near them where they could take their money out, so they just left it. Then each year, the CLCAM took out their fee, and now, after so many years, it’s all gone. Women lost anywhere between $1.40 to $20. For me it seems like a huge scam by the CLCAM, to go into these villages, take people’s money, and then just up and leave. Obviously, I don’t think they conspired to do this, in fact they probably had great aspirations to be able to serve the most remote people in Benin, and then realized it was a bad decision for their business. But on the other hand, maybe they could have thought, “well, we’ll make an exception for those people who were in villages where we shut the CLCAM’s down; we won’t charge fees.” But I guess that would be TOO much thinking outside the box.

On the other hand, I also realize that if a woman couldn’t bother to spend about $1 to come into Kérou to retrieve her $20 from the bank, maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal. I’m just not entirely sure that everyone understood exactly what happens to their money. I remember one artisan saying to me when I asked him if other artisans had personal savings accounts, something like, “Well, some people used to have accounts there, but then there was a rumor that the CLCAM took your money!” Umm…that’s what fees are.

Anyway, I would feel really guilty about encouraging the women to deposit their money, if it weren’t for the fact that the CLCAMs have decided to only charge fees for accounts that exceed $40. Most of the women wont have more than that, and if they are getting close I will at least encourage them to keep it at $39. Besides, if they are motivated to give now, hopefully they completely understand that they will have to go into Kérou and retrieve it. I just feel in some ways like the former Fétékou CLCAM: easy to deposit, hard to take out. On the other hand, a lot of the women are talking about how much they want to be able to take out loans (despite my exquisite drawings  and flawless presentation on how costly loans are, and how much better it is just to save), so they will have to come into Kérou at least once a month to pay that back. So anyway, I just hope that I’m actually doing something good here.

Plus Tuesday, I went back to Fétékou, and discovered that the entire garden has now been wiped out. Even those lucky women who had some access to their plants before have lost whatever was left. So I’m worried that if that were to happen again, then these women, to whom I’ve given help in getting credit, won’t be able to pay that credit back, will be strapped with debt… and so on.

But then I go to their new site, which is a field on the other side of town from their old garden. This, they will actually be able garden during the rainy season as well, because it’s not in the middle of a lake. Plus I think they are getting their water from a water tower near by, meaning they could set up a decent irrigation system. It was really incredible to see these women, who have just had their crops destroyed, right back at it. They were turning over all the earth, in what I feel could actually literally back-breaking work. All they have is some hoes, and they just lean over, hacking away at the earth. And some of these women are pretty old! I just don’t know how they do it. Both mentally and physically. To be so devastated by the loss of their plants, then just go the next day and labor away in the sun, getting ready to plant the next round.

The women working on their new gardening site

I talked with them about their dam, about their plans for this garden, their savings, etc. Then Pierre and I headed back. Oh, and on the way Pierre happens to see someone selling guinea fowl eggs (it’s apparently the season for these eggs, since guinea fowls start laying them when it rains. Which also means, that if you have some guinea fowls, and want them to give you eggs, apparently all you have to do is just literally water them with a watering can, and they’ll think the rainy season has started. I think that officially makes them dumber than chickens, and that’s saying a lot!). Anyway, we stop and buy them, and he gives them to me like, “Can you hold these for me.” A little bit later, we see someone selling a chicken, so he stops, and I tell him there is no way I am holding the chicken for him. He buys it anyway, and then just hangs it off the handle of his bike, all the way back to Kérou. Oh, Africa.

Friday, 31 May 2013

So I’ve been really slack about writing lately, as you’ve probably noticed. I’ve been really down lately, and lacking in motivation, etc. Then the past few days I’ve been in Parakou, a large city in Benin. There were some other volunteers here, and they started discussing amongst themselves how they are all going throught their “mid-service crisis”. This is apparently something that all volunteers experience about a year into their service, where they seem to get depressed, upset, etc. I kind of realized that this is probably what I’ve been feeling lately, ever since the night I wrote the sad piece up above in italics. Then I felt mad, because that just means I’m normal. I think I mentioned at the beginning of my service that I didn’t feel like I needed some of the adjustment training, blah, blah, blah, because I want to believe that I’m stronger than that, and I’ll be just fine. Culture shock and mid-service crisis are not for me! I guess I’ve been proved wrong, but now that I’ve realized what was going on, I suddenly have this huge desire to NOT be like the common folk (although, honestly, it’s not right to call my fellow volunteers common. They all are really amazing, strong people, and it’s silly for me to feel like I’m any better. Actually some of them are way better at this thing than me, but still I have this reaction that I can’t help. I guess just the desire to feel special or something). I guess it’s a good thing though, because now I want to snap out of it. I want to prove that I’m still strong, that I won’t be pulled down by this depressing cycle.

So I’ve spent the last days at this training learning things, obviously, but also contemplating what I want to do when I get back to Kérou, for the next year, and then after that—whether it’s staying a year or doing something else. I kind of have a bunch of different things that I want to do, so we’ll see how it turns out.

Monday, 17 June 2013

So… still slacking at the writing thing, sorry. I guess the main problem is that there isn’t much to report. Gardening season is over, though the women at Fétékou are starting up their new rainy-season garden. But I’m not going there as much, and not at all to the other gardening groups. My artisans don’t really need me. I am trying with the new Village Savings and Loans group, but every week people miss it or it rains… sigh. The literacy classes are floundering. Oh, and after a whole month of waiting for the report to help me with chicken coop from the people in Nati, I get this photocopy of a diet regime for chickens, and the prices of some items like feeders scrawled out on a piece of paper. I am so mad, because these people promised me they would write out dimensions for the building I needed to build, how many feeders I would need—not just individual prices—and so much more. I’ve been putting off thinking about this project, because I figured I would jump so much on it when I finally got the report they promised me. But now I realized I’ve wasted a whole month for some last-minute crap. I hate people. Whatever, I guess I’ll just have to figure it out on my own, like I had originally planned.

Otherwise, I’ve been just plodding along. The rainy season is killing me, because I’ll spend one day twiddling my thumbs, then the next day, I might even have a full(ish) schedule that just gets ruined by the rains, and I’m stuck inside, twiddling my thumbs again.

I did have one successful thing, though. A local gardener, Ibe, had asked Anna to help him with financial stuff. So she passed along that task to me. I think I mentioned this before, as I had already started working on it with him, but the other day, we went and finished up. I also had to talk to his wife to know how much was spent on food, since she is more in charge of that. Based on the information he gave me, and my calculations, his yearly household income is about 925,000 Francs (that’s about $1850), but the family spends about 1,400,000F ($2800). But just think about that. His income is $5 a day to take care of himself, 2 wives, and I’ve met at least 5 children so far. Ibe was really sobered by the numbers I gave him, realizing he is living above his means. So we discussed his two options: either to raise his income or lower spending. But that’s kind of hard to do. His wife already works every 3 days out of 4 selling things at market, and that is their largest income source. Ibe’s garden helps (both monetarily, as well as contributing to family nourishment), but it’s hard to expand beyond what he’s already doing. And spending-wise, even buying minimal food (mostly just rice, occasionally beans, and then a tiny bit of seasoning), it still costs about $1,000 a year. The only excess is soft drinks he gets for his kids. But who is going to tell their sweet faces no more sodas? So we talked about cutting back here and there. Trying to spend less in every category (such as clothes, personal items, the soft drinks, etc).

But I think the best accomplishment was that I gave him a notebook where he can help organize his expenses. One part is writing down every time he spends money, and then at the end of each week he adds up the totals for each category. He kept talking about how before he knew money came in and money went out, but had no way of tracking it or analyzing his spending patterns. And it’s especially hard when so much of his income and spending is irregular (harvest time vs. school payments, etc). Now I’ve broken the process down for him, and I’ll come back to help him analyze it. Hopefully this will help him get his spending under control. He was really, really grateful for my help, and I was glad to be able to give him that.

A part from this, I also randomly spent some time with his neice, but I did not know she was his niece at the time. I had met her once before, and she had been friends with a former volunteer. Mimi—that’s her name—happens to have an aunt who lives near me, so she saw, and came over to my house and chatted. Then she took me around. I met her aunt, who happens to make “chook”, which is homemade beer. We hung out there for a while, then she took me to her grandmother’s house. Her grandmother has a black cat (the first one I’ve seen in Benin)—which fits, as Mimi tells me she’s a sorceress and can see the future. We then went to her mom’s house, who also makes chook. There I met a man who seemed to be quite drunk on chook, and we had a conversation that went like this:

Man: “You’re from America!? I love America! It has 52 states.”

Me: “I’m sorry, what? How many states?”

Man: “52.”

Me: “No, it’s 50. There are 50 states.”

Man: “No it’s definitely 52. I know this. I’m a teacher.”

Me: “Well, but it’s my country. I know my country, and I know there are only 50 states.”

Man: “But I’m a teacher, I learned this, and there are 52.”

Me: (starting to worry more than ever for the school system in Benin) “No there is not. There are only 50. There are 50 stars on our flag, one for each state. 50 states.”

Man: “Your flag was made a long time ago.”

Me: “Yes, but it changes every time we add a new state.”

Man: “Well maybe it’s changed now, and you just didn’t know.”

Me: “I’m pretty sure I would know. It’s my country, and that would be a big deal.”

Man: “Maybe you’ve forgotten one.”

Me: “Like what?”

Man: “The one up above. With all the fish.”

Me: (trying to think of all of the costal states) “Okay, up above. Like Alaska?”

Man: “No, below that.”

Me: “Hawaii?”

Man: “No, lower.”

Me: (taking the leap to territories) “Guam? Puerto Rico? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Man: “There are 52 states.”

Me: “NO THERE’S NOT.”

At this point Mimi kicks my foot, and gives me this look to stop talking. She tells the man in English that she hates him (I assume because he was being rude to her guest), and then he insists that he speaks english better than her. That was a lie. Mimi speaks better English than him and can only say things like “I love you” “I hate you” “It’s my baby!” “I speak English small-small”. Eventually we both ignore him, and after a while he goes away. 5 minutes later, he returns, apparently attempting to impress this American with his faulty knowledge about her own country.

Man: “What state are you from?”

Me: “Maryland.” (which apparently sounded like ‘America’ to him)

Man: “Yes, I know you are from America, but what state?”

Me: “Maryland. MARYland. Merry-land. La terre de Mariam.”

Man: “Where is that?”

Me: “Near Washington.”

Man: “No it’s not. I know America very well, and your state cannot be near Washington. I know the states around Washington.”

Me: “HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY SAY THAT YOU KNOW MY COUNTRY???? YOU JUST TOLD ME THAT THERE ARE 52 STATES, THEN THAT MY STATE IS NOT WHERE IT IS. YOU’RE REALLY DUMB. PLEASE GO AWAY.”

We return to silence, and he pesters me for a while longer, then finally asks if he can leave. I reply “Yes, PLEASE LEAVE.” Then he just stares at me for a while, and asks again if he can leave. “YES, PLEASE LEAVE.” This goes on for a while, until one of his friends—who by the way, kept signaling to me behind his back that the man was obliterated and silently apologizing—finally managed to drag him away.

So, all in all an interesting night. I could do without the annoying man and his man-splaining, but, hey, it makes a good story. And while I was rude to him, I went out of my way to be extra pleasant to everyone else there. I didn’t let him ruin my night, and I think most people were sympathetic to me. Plus Mimi was a good friend, backing me up. I hope I get to see her more.

In other news, Anna has left Kérou. She is leaving earlier than some other volunteers, because she starts grad school a little over a week after she gets home. It sounds really stressful, but I’m sure she’ll figure it out. We had a little party for her, which was a huge success. Then spent some time just hanging out and saying goodbye. Kérou just won’t be the same without her.

And here are some pics just for fun:

Me and Maria

Luna and her bunny