Adventures and Learning

Sunday, 9 December 2012

I must share a story from yesterday. It will most certainly give you a chance to laugh.

So I have to explain the way my house is set up. My main room and hallway (that leads past my [bed]rooms and to the back private outdoor area) have wooden ceilings; however my two rooms do not. This means that if I close the two doors to the small rooms, a creature can go up into the attic area, and go back and forth between my storage-room and bedroom, but cannot get into my main room. It also, then, cannot leave my house, because the only doors to the outside are located in my main room and at the end of my hallway.

So after washing my dishes and showering last night I came back into my house to discover that a bat had flown in. Bats are really terrifying creatures, just because they swoop about unpredictably. This one happened to have made its way into my small-rooms section, and was flying back and forth over the hallway, above the ceiling. I didn’t know what to do, but obviously I wanted it out. So I decided to open up my back door, hoping it would just fly out on it’s own accord. All this achieved, however, was to invite a second bat to swoop in.

So I am my main room, and the second bat is flying all around above me. I flatten myself on the floor, not knowing what to do but trying to avoid it at all costs. And I reason that since it is flying, the safest place for me is the ground. It decides to fly around in an x-pattern, and to me it appears that it swoops down towards me getting closer every time. Each time it comes near, I offer up a little scream, and a string of profanities, so my neighbors must think I am absolutely crazy.

Finally the second bat decides to fly out of my house. I crawl over to the back door, because don’t forget the first bat is still there. And I don’t want that to fly out and run into me, or whatever. I close the back door. Then I decide to close the doors to my small rooms, thinking, “You know what, I never wanted to sleep in my bed anyway. Or change my clothes. Or whatever else, it’s cool.” But then I realize that’s not true. So I call my carpenter, who had actually been hanging out with me earlier this day. I partially blame him for this problem, because if he had actually finished my screen doors, the bats couldn’t get in. So I don’t feel bad bothering him. So he comes over, and I shove him into my extra room and shut the door behind him. I hear a lot of various noises, and I think something productive must be happening. Finally, he opens the door and says, “Shannon, I just can’t find it anywhere. I don’t think there’s one here.”

I insist that there is, and in fact had seen it when I shoved him in the room the first time. But maybe it had gone over more to the other room, because of the open ceiling. So he goes over there, and with a lot of noise, doesn’t find it. I come in and look at my rooms, which have been completely torn apart. My suitcases, my bed, my trunk, and so on have been moved. I look up at the inside of the roof, and the bat is just chilling tranquilly in the rafters. I point directly at it, and say, “There it is!!!”

At this point we realize that he thought I was talking about a mouse, which in French is “souris”. Where was what I really was talking about, obviously, was the bat, which in French is “chauve-souris,” or literally “bald-mouse.” He had been looking all around on the floor for a mouse while the bat had been flitting overhead.

However, now that I’ve pointed this out to him, I run back out of the room, and leave him to deal with the bat. I hear an unholy amount of clamoring, and then realize that this man is definitely crawling around in the rafters of my house. I’m also not sure how he got up there, because my walls are about 10 feet high or so, just straight cement. Also, I am worried that he is just going to fall through the ceiling, like my dad—or at least my dad’s leg—did once at our house. After a lot more noise, he finally emerges triumphantly with this bat that he had trapped and killed using only the bottom part of a broom and his bare hands. He also pointed out that I had worried unnecessarily about my ceiling, since he is, in fact, a carpenter, and therefore knows very well where he could step, etc. He is my new hero!

And speaking of despicable creatures, I had a guy who came into my work yesterday, and after 5 minutes of talking at me, told me loved me, then got mad at me when I told him I didn’t want to “confide” with him, whatever that was supposed to mean. It got really weird, until I had Anna call me as an excuse to stop talking to him. But the good news is that he actually came back when Hubert was there (I had told Hubert that he scared me), and Hubert told the guy that there were hidden cameras in the office, as well as throughout Kérou. So he told the guy he better watch out! The guy seemed scared by this, and luckily no longer lives in Kérou; he was just there for a few days. But I am glad Hubert was there to scare him off. And he suggested if I ever had a situation like that again, just to tell the guy I was calling Hubert, and start to do it. He promised me that the person would just flee quickly.

Sunday, 19 December 2012

The last week I spent in Parakou, which is the third-largest city in Benin. It is the town I went through the very first time I was headed to Kérou. It is basically in the middle of the country (north to south) but towards the east side.

Getting there is always—well like traveling in this country, hellish. From Kérou, it is entirely dirt roads, except for the last hour, when we finally hit pavement. The driver Anna (she was one of the trainers for the week, but for her sector, which is Environment) and I took was the same one that I had coming from Parakou the very first time. At least this time, however, the van was full to a somewhat reasonable amount. As in only 4 people per bench, instead of 5.

The guy drove extremely slow, averaging about 20 km/hr (that’s about 12 mph) the whole time we were on the dirt road. I get it, the road is terrible. But he could have gone a little faster. Basically we a really, really long time to get to Parakou. And we hadn’t left until 11:30, so it was night when we arrived.

We went straight to this restaurant, owned by an Italian woman. She makes this incredible lasagna, which tasted like the most amazing thing ever, after such a long day of traveling. I mean, it’s pretty fabulous regardless.

The week was actually filled with pretty good food. We got omelets and bread and butter every morning for breakfast, as well as delicious pastry morning and afternoon snacks, plus a good lunch every day. Dinner was on our own, and I got lasagna once more that week, then mostly cheap street-food meals.

Training was mostly dull and actually frustrating. There are obviously necessary things we need to learn. But the way it is presented is in an un-engaging way. We have to do stupid, useless activities. Then when we try to get a good discussion going about the topic, asking questions related to our specific post and potential projects, and giving and asking for advice, we are stopped and told that’s not on the schedule. For example, the last day we spent four hours in the morning completing a hypothetical “Project Design and Management” proposal. Just with us and our homologue. (Like, what does Peace Corps think we’ve been doing the last 3 months? We’ve all been discussing potential projects with our homologues). Really, this would be a great time to have people get together with other volunteers wanting similar-esque projects, and do this together, discussing real—not hypothetical—problems and barriers we might encounter. To top it all off, after lunch we came back and spent two hours basically re-writing exactly what we had worked on in the morning, just putting it on one, congruent paper. Sigh.

Also, this was even harder for me, because Hubert—who is supposed to be my homologue—tells me a day before I left, that he had to actually go to Cotonou to greet the mayor, who is returning from Senegal. So he can’t go. And instead is sending this woman who I have met once before. She is actually pretty cool and really nice. She is involved with a project that makes stoves like the one I bought, which more efficiently use charcoal and/or wood, meaning that women have to spend less time searching for wood, plus it saves trees and cuts down on pollution. It’s great, but it’s already an established project, and going well, so there’s not much I can really do. Plus the whole week was awkward, because I don’t really know her, she doesn’t know me, and both of us are kind of shy.

During training, it was nice, though, to get into specific aspects, like Peace Corps has a “Gender And Development” focus, where we can get grants for projects that specifically target gender in communities, like encouraging girls to stay in school, developing women’s businesses, or starting clubs where boys and girls can talk about gender relations and relationships, etc.

Anna also came and presented on “Food Security”, another huge Peace Corps focus. Although, her presentation got mixed up, because she received an email that said she was supposed to come to our hotel at 10:30, but then on our schedule was listed at 8. So Yves (my Program Director) was presenting for a while, and I thought that maybe he was supposed to, and she was only supposed to be there for the second half. But then he was like, “Well, there’s supposed to be a volunteer from Kérou here, but I don’t know where she is!” NO. ONE. had thought to call her text her when she didn’t show up on time. After that comment, I texted her, and she told me that she was scheduled for 10:30. I showed this text to my Associate Program Director, who just said, no she is mistaken. Then there was just this whole debacle where she ended up just having to come back at the end of the day. Oh, Peace Corps. Your efficiencies amaze me.

We also went to two organizations involved with Shea Butter. Shea is a product only found in a region in West and Central Africa that is south of the Sahara, and extends only a little bit into the Congo. People here actually use Shea Butter a lot for cooking. It’s kind of a base for sauces, like we might use lard or something. (Which Anna has a funny story where she bought a bar of Shea butter in her town, then proceeded to start rubbing it on her skin, right in front of the women. They were absolutely horrified. Imagine if someone in the States just bought some regular butter, then started lathering up. Yeah, weird. Well, the story gave us a good laugh.) Anyway, I bought some Shea butter to use on my burn, so that has been nice. Also, my “homologue” (whose name is Salimatou), bought the scented Shea butter, and mentioned wanting to see if we could encourage women to start doing that. One of the organizations even offers training, so we could see about women raising money to go to Parakou, getting the training, then coming back and passing it on. So there’s another potential thing for me to work on.

We also went to visit an organization that works with Moringa. Moringa is an awesome plant that grows fast and easily, and has absolutely amazing nutritional value. Some people are skeptical of its actual value, while others promote that it can save your life. Moringa is really good in encouraging people who don’t get many vitamins to consume more. But as with anything, one should be cautious to herald it as a miracle plant. I think that Moringa is good but, obviously isn’t a fix-all solution. People still need to eat balanced meals, be taught the value of nutrition, and feeding their kids a variety of food as well.

I got to talk to other volunteers about the frustrations and successes they are having at their sites. I feel a little jealous, since most of them have had the time to actually build good relationships and so on, but I feel like I’ve missed out. But I know that I will just need some time to catch up.

One of the biggest complaints is volunteers constantly being asked for money. By their host organizations and even by their neighbors or other community members. One even suspects that the only reason his organization wanted a volunteer in the first place was that they kind of viewed him as a cash cow to bring in more money. He is frustrated by the fact that the organization is completely unsustainable, and largely relies on donor aid. They build ridiculous buildings and buy motos, and don’t really care about accounting and budgeting, because they know if they run out of money they can just write another grant, and Boom! They have thousands of more dollars.

This is always hard. We need Development to happen in these countries, but Aid, with the best intentions, is often detrimental. Each organization provides maybe a few salaries in the community, but might be unhelpful beyond that. People don’t learn to be sustainable, and certainly don’t learn to develop themselves or their country, and are thus trapped in this cycle of dependency. For some people managing NGOs in Benin, it’s great, because they can sit around in huge buildings built by the French, ride on motos bought by the Belgians, and use computers given to them by the Americans. But for everyone else, it’s not so good. There are organizations out there actually doing good and making differences in people’s lives. But also many of them aren’t. And international aid organizations often can’t or won’t send someone to actually work with an organization for an extended period of time and see if they’re really putting the money to good use. For example, this same volunteer was saying that a donor organization to his organization wanted to see some accounting, which of course they have none. So the donor sent an accountant to do this, his organization gave them some information, and it was done. They got money. But they never actually learned the importance of doing accounting, because now they know they don’t have to, and someone else will just come in and do it for them. This volunteer constantly tries to promote the importance of budgeting. His group asks him to write a grant so they can get motorcycles. He says know. Then they just ask another organization for motos, and Bam! They have motos. Le. Sigh.

We also talked about the gender aspects we have encountered in our communities. On one of our trips, a volunteer and I looked out the window, and counted the number of women who were engaged in some sort of work, and the number of men. We found that almost 100% of the women were working. They might be cooking. Or selling items in a market or along the side of the road. Childcare. Carrying wood or water on their heads (often with a baby on their back at the same time). But so many men were just strolling around, not obviously engaged in any sort of task.

People often don’t see this. For example, the director of the high school in my town believes that girls don’t perform as well in school as boys because they are stupid and lazy. The reality is that when they go home, they are required to cook and clean for their family, and also take care of younger siblings. Then they have very little time left over for homework and studying. Boys have a lot more free time. In a lot of studies, women and girls are far, far more time-constrained then males, especially when you include child-care.

Also, this has ironically led to a belief in my town that there are far more women in the world than men. Like people around here believe that the ratio is 70% women, 30% males. This, they claim, is the reason that men MUST be polygamous. I have tried to explain that this is impossible, because the chances of being born a boy or girl is, say 50%. Then, once kids are born, boys are a lot more likely to receive good health care, and less likely to die. Also, in Africa there is a high rate of maternal morality, which means women are more likely to die as well. So this belief is completely unreasonable, but I think it stems from the fact that women are more visible, since they have to go out and collect wood, take care of their children, etc, etc. Men can go to their office or field, then just come home and lounge.

I also don’t understand this belief, also, because I went out to a bar one night, and it was ONLY men. Like young men showing off for each other, each trying to be the next Michael Jackson. I asked my friend why there were no other women, and he said, “Oh, they can’t come until midnight or later, because first they have to cook dinner, then clean up afterwards.” I really had an inclination to go up to every single man there and slap them, tell them to freaking go home and help the aforementioned women cook and clean, THEN they could all come out together, instead of suffering through this awful sausage fest. Like really, who are you showing off for? Why are you trying so hard to impress other guys with your dance moves? Are you trying to sleep with them? I mean if you are, that’s cool, but if not GET OVER YOURSELF. The problem is, however, that women do eventually have to accept these men, maybe even marry them. Sigh.

So those were some of the issues we discussed, and we talked about all the goings-on at our respective sites, the things we were able to do, and not. We all had to present on our sites formally, and I made some joke powerpoint slides where I presented on Cotonou and the medical ward, since I was actually there for almost as long as I was at my site.

The trip back was terrible, but luckily there were three other volunteers with me. It was Maria, Anna, and Will, who is a volunteer in Pehanco, a town two or so hours south of us. We arrived at the station around early, to make sure we had a car. It was a little Peugot, that is so common as a taxi here and Senegal, and probably every other former French colony in Africa. In Senegal, they are called “sept-places” because they fit 7 passengers. And THAT’S ALL DRIVERS TAKE. But here, no, our driver waited (repeat: WAITED) until he had “filled” it with 12 adults, and 2 kids. This meant that we did not leave until late in the day. Then the driver drove off, from the station, without us, because apparently the taxi stations don’t actually let them shove this many poor souls into one car. But all that happened was that it drove down the block, then loaded up everyone there. I complained that there was nothing we could do about this. People allowed this to happen all the time. We could refuse to take this taxi, but he would just wait until there were more people to take our spots. We could wait until the next day—staying in Parakou and having to pay for it out of our own pockets—but it would still be the exact same problem. At first the driver said that Maria, Anna, and I would all sit in the front seat. The front seat is seen as a privilege, so I guess he wanted the white people to feel special or something. But honestly, it’s uncomfortable, because of the gear-shift and dashboard, plus exceedingly more dangerous. But when we asked this, he said, “No, I am going to put 4 people in the back seat, and you are too fat for that.” We just started laughing. Being “fat” here is a compliment, but still. Besides, according to our math, that doesn’t even make sense: trying to put us 3 “fat” people in 1.5 seats (I say 1.5 because of the gear-shift), rather than putting us with one more person to make it 4 people in 3 seats. Whatever. In the end however, he shoved 4 miserable people and a baby in the back seat, then put us four white people and old, bony Muslim man in the middle row. Then the driver drove up front with three more passengers and a young girl. Trying to fit five people in the middle row was quite a challenge. I was on one end and laid practically sideways. Part of the problem was that Anna, Maria, and I all have hips, so no matter how much “fat” we lose, our bones are not going anywhere, and thus we never really could fit in this car in the normal world. Anna kind of sat forward a little bit, then Maria beside her. The bony man sat a little forward, and Maria swore she would have a very large bruise from where is bones crushed into her thigh with every bounce. Will sat on the other side of the bony man. The door on Will’s side didn’t actually close (probably from having closed on too-full cars for the sad part of it’s life), so they tied it close with a rope. We were off.

This guy drove a little faster, but how fast can you really drive on roads that occasionally have holes that look like moon craters? (I could actually be convinced they were made by meteors). At one point our car started smoking. Like right beside the driver, something was about to catch on fire. He couldn’t quite figure it out, so his solutions kept being to open his door (which seemed to be the source of the smoke) WHILE HE WAS DRIVING and look to see what was happening. We stopped a few times, and he grabbed the wires (which are all exposed, of course), and sometimes wrapped them with plastic from black plastic bags (this is clearly the same as wrapping them with black wire-tape) or even BIT THEM WITH HIS TEETH. After a while of this, he finally discovered the sources of the smoke, which was just some door-foam whatever that was pressing up against an exposed wire. So he ripped off the foam, problem solved, and we continued on.

 I was so, so glad that Maria and Anna were with me. We spent most of the time just joking and laughing about our ridiculous situation. We all vowed never, ever to go to Parakou again, because it was the worst trip ever. “Our social life in Peace Corps is over, OVER!” said Anna. (Because traveling to meet up with anyone is terrible, terrible, terrible.)

We finally made it to Pehanco, where we had to wait to unload some things. Then, after waiting there for 30 minutes, our driver goes, “Okay, now I’m going to get something to eat!” ARE YOU KIDDING ME???? We just want to get home, please for the love of all that is good. But he complains that he is so, so hungry, and there won’t be anything to eat in Kérou once we finally arrive and I am just thinking, “Well maybe if you had left at a decent hour, this wouldn’t be a problem now would it?” But, of course, there’s nothing we could do, except wander around and look for a few things we could buy, such as water or our own dinner. He takes forever, then finally sets off. It was really nice, though, because Maria, Anna, and I had the middle row all to ourselves. There was one person up front with the driver. What bliss. Then we stopped to load up a bunch of outdoor stoves, and another guy gets in. Then we get a few more minutes down the road and just stop and turn off the car. “Um, chef, what is going on?” asks Anna. No response, and he just talks in Bariba with the other passengers. “Chef, chef, why did we stop? What’s happening?” asks Anna again. The driver finally responds, annoyed, saying that he got a call that another person wanted to come, so a Zem driver is bringing him. I responded, in English “Not in this freaking row, he’s not coming!” [the back row was taken up with stoves] (that is one of my favorite things about francophone countries is that you can talk so badly and rudely about anyone and anything in English, and almost no one will understand you. And actually, no one at all will understand if you talk in really fast English.)

This whole time we’d been complaining, and Anna had said that she absolutely refused to pay him the full amount of 6,000 francs, or $12. He shoved far too many people in that car, and was already making plenty of money. It was uncomfortable, and she wouldn’t stand for it. She planned on only paying him 5,000 francs, or $10, mostly just to make a point. At this point, we were laughing, and she said, “Haha, if we really get this row all to ourselves, and the driver sits with four people up front, I will pay him the full 6,000.” We didn’t think this would actually happen, but we hoped. When they were about to get in, someone said, “Quick, pretend you’re asleep!” And it actually worked. We actually got the row all to ourselves, and four people sat up front. It was amazing. We were so happy for this tiny luxury. So we ended up paying the full amount, despite the trying times we had earlier in the day.

We finally, finally made it to Kérou. It was so late. Oh well. I was so thankful for my bed and slept in so late. Then today I just kind of lounged around and cleaned a bit. Although not too much, because I hope my carpenter will come and put in the screen doors soon, which will mean a lot of nails into the wall, and cement falling, etc. But mostly I was too tired to do much. The work will start up tomorrow!

Monday, 17 December 2012

I will never, ever, ever be able to eat another mango in the US. At all. Ever. Ever. Ever. I remember the ones from the supermarket being hard, almost tasteless, ugh. But here, oh my, they are amazing things. I bought one today, and when I came home to cut it up, I had to have a plate under me to catch all the juice that dripped down. It was warm from sitting in the sun, and one of the sweetest, juiciest things that has ever entered my mouth. Amazing. And it is one of the things that makes me grateful to be in Kérou. According to Anna, mangoes will be available for a longer period of time than in other places. It’s not officially “mango season” yet; they’re expensive. And by expensive I mean a decent-sized mango costs 40 cents. Apparently, during the full-blown season, I will be tripping over these things, and so many will go bad before they get a chance to be consumed. And they will cost 5 cents or so each. I’m not entirely sure how life could be better than this. Minus the terrible voyage to get here, and minus the lack of running water, oh, and the creatures that want to live in my house, things are great, wonderful, fabulous, amazing.

I’m also in a good mood from my most recent visit to some of my groupements. Today Anna and I visited two that are close to here; Gouginnou (pronounced GWEE-en-ou) and Kérou-Wirou (CARE-ou WEER-ou). We are trying to teach them a basic system of reading/writing and accounting. Most of these women can only speak Bariba; I don’t think any of them can read or write at all. But we want to make our projects sustainable. They collect membership fees every week, and this is recorded, and the amount the group has grows. But the problem is that once I leave, for example, then there is no one who can write down how much has been collected every week. The women won’t know how much they have in their group account, so they don’t know what they can do with it, or if someone is stealing the money.

So the first thing we have done is to give them all numbers. They don’t know how to write their own names, but they can know, “Oh I’m number 7.” Then we are teaching them to write numbers, but not with western numbers, but little boxes that are basically an improvement on tallies. To make a box, it is four to a side, then I diagonal line to make five. Each box equals five, so it’s easy to count. Although, being from a largely illiterate society, it’s impossible to imagine how hard this concept actually is.

I would originally think it’s pretty easy. Bariba counting is a base-five system, kind-of. But the words for numbers go kind of like this: “one, two, three, four, five, five and one, five and two, five and three, five and four, ten, ten and one…ten and five and one” and so on. Also, to count money, it’s a whole other calculation, because to say “Five francs”, you say “one piece”. Then to say “fifty francs”, you say “ten pieces”, and for “one hundred francs”, it’s “twenty pieces”. (I think this is a French thing, because it was the same concept in Senegal, with the Wolof language) The problem is, however, that I don’t think a lot of people realize what they’re doing. They don’t realize that they’re adding or multiplying, because they’ve never had a math class that teaches them how to add or multiply. (And as a sidenote, even those who have had math classes typically can’t add or multiply in their head, because the leftover of the asinine-French-school-system has left nothing but rote memorization, so no one is taught how to add any random set of numbers, let alone, “think outside the box”, which makes teaching entrepreneurship here quite the challenge… But I digress.)

But the thing is that a lot of these women have never even held a pen in their lives, let alone draw straight lines. The results varied between good attempts to horrendous. One woman couldn’t figure out the concept of drawing perpendicular lines, and ended up drawing something that kind of resembled a shaky “m”.

Despite these challenges, however, teaching these women is really an awesome experience. They are really, really excited to learn. They are ready to try, and are so flattered when they finally succeed. Also, the awesome thing is, that having Pierre is really a godsend. I don’t know how Anna worked here before having him come into her life. She told me she would basically bike to a village, and sit around until the women of the group there essentially commandeered a young student, who translated for her. Every day. But Pierre is wonderful. He has really embraced the lessons we are trying to teach. He is so patient with the women. Plus he understands where they might have difficulties. For example, we wouldn’t imagine that it would be difficult to recognize a “number” made of boxes, but the women actually had a hard time with this. So he has them review by pointing out various numbers, have to draw new ones, and so on.

The next step is to teach them a sort of “accounting for illiterates” which involves drawing circles of different colors to represent various coins, then squares of different colors to represent different bills. We’re going to go over the basics with the women, so they can at least read the accounting notebook, but have a more in-depth session with the secretary, so she can actually do a simple balance sheet for the group funds. That is the plan, anyway. I’m sure to keep you updated.

Other than that, I also did some things around the house, like a little cleaning, etc. I finally was able to buy a large bucket with a lid (basically the size of a large trashcan) to store water. This means I can take one day, get a lot of water, and not have to worry about it for some time. Awesome. I made fresh-squeezed orange juice with a juicer I bought in Parakou. I am really happy about that. I also will probably be making Mango juice, which sounds fabulous as well.

Fresh Orange Juice!!!

Me with my new hammock placement
I can sit indoors as well!

My back kitchen area.
I have my charcoal stove, plus the grill I just bought (It can flip over items all at once).
I decided to just hang things everywhere rather than buying shelves.

This evening, a few girls came over to my house. I mentioned that I really enjoy my neighbors kids, who are really cute, and also wonderful at entertaining themselves. The older girl who was at my house, tonight, though, was one that originally that kind of annoyed me, because she would just sit at my door and stare at me. I now realize, though, that she was mostly really shy. She was here the other day when I gave Fafa, my neighbor’s middle child—and the only one whose name I know, as people are constantly yelling it—a sheet of paper and some markers, and she was just drawing random lines. The older girl, though, was like, “Oh, can I bring my school books here and study?” My response was, “OF COURSE YOU CAN!” I am the only one with electricity in my neighborhood, so I feel really awesome when I realize that this is allowing girls who might not have otherwise been able to study to do so. Last night, she just wrote a lot of letters, and I was able to help her by pointing out when she wrote “P” backwards. Tonight she was writing letters in cursive, and sets of conjoined letters, such as “ba be bi bon but, ca ce ci co cu,…, ma me mil mon mur”, etc.  Then she wrote me a whole letter that said essentially (I didn’t understand all of it, because I don’t think she was writing perfect French, and as an Anglophone, it’s harder to guess what she meant), “Dear neighbor, you are wonderful, and I just wanted to write you a letter. I wanted to tell you about my [summer] vacation. I spent time with my friends and (something)…” and so on. It was really sweet. I wish there was something more I could do, like actually help them with homework. But it’s sometimes hard communicating, because these girls don’t speak perfect French, or I’m possibly hitting some cultural barrier, I don’t know. For example, I tried to help the older-neighbor-girl (Fafa’s sister), who doesn’t come into my house, but occasionally sits outside my door to study in the light from my lamp out there. She was even studying English, but didn’t want me to help her study. I’m also not sure if I can, I’m not exactly familiar with how to tutor, but oh well. I’m sure I’ll figure something out.

As a final note, I would like to point out that this is the season of “Harmattan”. This means that it is actually getting cold. (I’m not going to lie, occasionally I have to put on more than short-sleeves, and I actually sleep under a sheet. Although I am constantly under-dressed compared to the Beninese who are going around in Ski jackets and hats, etc. We’ll see how I am next year, after having adjusted to this Sahelian climate; Anna now has bought actual fleece sheets because she feels cold! And she is from New England!) Also, everything is excessively dusty, because it’s been really windy. All my clothes get dirty really quickly. I really should be sweeping out my house on a daily—if not hourly—basis. But I don’t, obviously. I’m savoring this, though, for what I know is the impending hot season. It’s not terrible, though. And it’s absolutely wonderful to know that “cold” means only a sheet at night, and it’s still hot during the day. Yes.

The sunset, and 'Harmattan' dust blowing everywhere

More Precious Than Oil

Sunday, 25 November 2012

I just want to apologize for the last two months of blogging. I feel as though so much of it was dull, angst-y and trivial. Now that I am out of that huge concrete box, and happily settled back into (technically, my small concrete box in) Kérou, life seems much more enjoyable, though busy and not exactly luxurious.

It’s officially the dry season here. People say there is a “dry season” in the south of Benin; however I don’t believe them. When I was there, it still rained occasionally. But here the sky is bright, bright blue, just as pretty as some days in Charleston. There is not a cloud to be seen anywhere. And Anna assures me that there won’t be, not for quite some time.

This means now that there is a lot more concern over water, or more accurately the lack thereof. As for myself, I don’t actually mind it never raining. The roads are (somewhat) better, and nothing interrupts my work (that is, until the “chaleur” or “heat” comes in March/April, and it’s 120 degrees, and no one wants to do anything, of course, in the middle of the day, and I will probably at that point be praying heartily for rain.

I do find myself drinking more water; this means more water has to be boiled. I am wholly paranoid about my gas containers running out, as I have to take them all the way to Natitangou to get them refilled. So I want to get a charcoal grill to do things that take longer times, such as beans, boiling water, soups, etc. At least charcoal I can find here in Kérou. But, of course, I asked Hubert about it, and he has promised to show me where one can acquire charcoal, and send a person who sells better-quality charcoal grills than I will find elsewhere, but this has not yet come to pass. Hubert is, as always, his busy, distracted self.

I also had quite the time actually getting water. Luckily, I had some left over from before I left Kérou, but it was starting to run out. So I asked Landry to show me the person I pay for water (this has to be done on a monthly basis, and it is from that person I can also get the key for the pump). I haven’t interacted with this person yet, because it was Landry who went and paid on the very first day I was here. Then, since then, I have simply always managed to go to the pump when someone else was already there, so it was unlocked, and usually I had someone who insisted on doing the physical pumping for me, since apparently I do that far to slow. Then one evening I asked my neighbors where this person’s house was, and they responded by taking my water jugs to the pump (by moto) themselves, and filling them for me. Which was awesome, but doesn’t solve my long-term problem. FINALLY, I asked my neighbor’s kids, who happened to be the only people around, when I really needed water, and they took me to the pump. And just kept trying to explain, “No, I need to go pay the person who is in charge of this pump.” And the girl just looked at me as she bounced up and down on the foot-pump, filling up my water. Then it just so happened that someone who lives at the same house as the person who is in charge of the pump, and she took me there, and I paid, and all was well. I can get my water guilt-free, and by myself! Yay.

Beyond my own trivial water problems, however, water is a constant concern worldwide. Remember how there was a drought in the Midwest? The Sahel actually had a drought last year, which is even more dire, when you live in an almost-desert-area already. As a sidenote, I took my title from something I once saw, or read that was about how water may become a more precious resource, even than oil. Just as you cannot eat money, you also cannot drink oil. Yes, ¾ of the earth is covered in water. But only a very small amount of that water is drinkable or useable. You can’t drink sea-water (in fact, salt-water would actually make you MORE dehydrated). And there was something I was reading about in a class where some Middle-Eastern states were taking sea-water, and making it go through this intense de-salting process, in order to have it to supply their water-needs. But this meant ultimately destroying the marine-life, because that cannot survive in fresh water.

In Kérou-center, there are plenty of pumps and wells, and I’ve even seen a few spickets. In fact, I was told that all of Kérou used to have water faucets at their houses (and there is actually a water-tower kind of near my house, which has always puzzled me). Apparently, this practice only stopped because people didn’t want to pay for it, which absolutely blows my mind. I would pay SO MUCH for that chance. To have water just come into my house with the turn of the knob…bloody brilliant!

Sunrise; Also the water-tower I can see from my front door
...So...close...yet, so far away...

Outside of Kérou-center, i.e. in the surrounding villages, however, there are a lot less wells and pumps. One of Anna’s projects was actually to build a well for one of her gardening groups. Volunteers and other NGOs before me have paid for wells in various villages (each costs about $600, varying of course based on how deep you have to go to get water). Many gardening groups that I talk to always bring up the issue of water.

Even Fétékou, which gardens in a partially-dried-lake-bed during the dry season, has water needs. Their main complaint is that they still have to carry the water from the lake to their rows of plants, and especially for the older women, this is very hard. They want an irrigation system. They also have a new piece of land, where they will hopefully start gardening during the wet season (when their current garden is flooded). This is conveniently located right next to a water-tower. They water tower is meant for all of Fétékou, and supposedly the town is supposed to have faucet-water at some point, even though most places in Kérou don’t, and Fétékou doesn’t even have electricity… But anyways, I guess this means I need to help them work towards getting a good irrigation system going.

I’m kind of worried about all of these projects that I’ve been presented with. Yes, I am very, very happy to have tons of work to look forward to. But on the other hand, each of them seem to be asking for money, and according to Peace Corps rules, I have to complete a grant-project before I can receive another grant. Which means I can only do one at a time (probably a good thing). I am worried, however, about who do I choose first (all of them are very time-pressing, with a lot of the needs starting in January or so). I just want to jump right into everything, but I just have so many directions to run. I need to do some serious planning.

Oh, and I should probably introduce a new character in my life. That is the man that has been charged with helping Anna and I in the different villages. Mostly it’s translating, but also just helping us with whatever questions, or better explaining things to us, or to the women. Plus it is nice, because he has a little moto which can actually take us to these villages, instead of us having to always bike there. So, yay!

His name is Pierre, and he is very, very nice. Also, he is an excellent driver. I’m not just saying that to make my mother and grandmothers feel better; it’s true! He makes me feel safe. Even driving with Hubert, who is a pretty attentive driver, I still have moments where my overly-paranoid self thinks we’re going to crash, there is still too much speed, and my back hurts from all the bouncing over the ruts. But Pierre drives at a wholly reasonable—if not slow—speed. And—get this—slows down when he sees an upcoming rut. What a novel idea! I only felt the need to grab on to the moto once or twice the whole drive, and that is far more frequent with every other driver I’ve taken on dirt roads.

Today I was at Fétékou. I feel bad, because I visited them during post-visit (they are the group with which I took that picture), but I haven’t seen them since. I had planned to go there the weekend after I came back from banking in Nati in October, but that was after my moto accident, so it clearly that didn’t work out. So I finally made it there, but today they actually had a funeral. The uncle of the president of the groupement had died, and so there was family from all over Kérou-county there. I just chilled for a while, then was invited to see the burial. The corpse was already in the ground, but I just watch them put some wood over it, then they poured water on the dirt that was by the hole, and through in the newly-formed mud. It wasn’t in a cemetery, it was actually just in the middle of the village, in between a bunch of the houses. And the graves aren’t marked. This was kind of weird to me; I was worried, well what if they have to bury someone else? But Pierre said, that it’s more a communal memory, that people will remind each other where the latest corpses are buried. And of course, after a few years it doesn’t matter. There aren’t coffins or anything to preserve the bodies, so they just decompose along with the wood that is on top of them, and one day a new body might be buried in the same spot! There was some music played, then some words spoken. Finally a bunch of people threw rolls of fabric on the dirt mound, which was subsequently picked up and distributed between those who had participated in the funeral, such as the musicians, the gravediggers, etc. Then everyone just sat around and ate and drank. I had many lovely conversations (by that I mean just greetings, then me staring at Pierre when people tried to say anything more complicated than “Hello”). I think the women who recognized me from before were really happy to see that I was back again. I was harassed by a drunk guy, who also yelled in Bariba at a woman who was trying to talk to me. She said “Bonsoir”, which literally means “Good Evening”. People here start saying “Bonsoir” right after noon, which is weird, but I’ve gotten used to it. Anyway, this guy yelled at her for saying “Bonsoir”, because HE knows that “white people” wait until later to start saying “Bonsoir” and she should have said “Bonjour” (“Good Day”) or “Bon Après-Midi” (“Good Afternoon”). But it’s not like it’s even my language; I don’t really care. I just gave him annoyed death-glares, then refused to sit in the chair he had brought over for me, even after I said I was perfectly fine standing—until finally I was rescued by the president who invited me to eat.

After eating, Pierre suggested that I see the village, where things are, like the market. The market is a lot smaller than Kérou, but also happens every 4 days. We started walking, and were then followed by some drummers, who wouldn’t stop following me, until I told them (through Pierre) that I wasn’t going to pay them, because I didn’t ask them to follow me in the first place. He explained the way Fétékou is actually divided up into 3 “neighborhoods”, and, technically, there are two gardening groupements, even though I’ve only met one. The Vice President of the second actually came to see me later on, to ask if I was going to work with them as well. I explained that I had heretofore never known there was a second group, and of course I would work with them!

Then Pierre took me to the dam/lake where the women all do their gardening. It was actually really, really pretty, and made me really wish I had brought my camera. And a bathing suit to go swimming. Pierre can’t swim, and is quite terrified of water apparently. But I explained to him the concept of putting in a rope-swing from some of the trees along the bank. His responses seemed to be, “Okay, whatever you like, you crazy white girl!”

I did teach him how to skip rocks. That was quite exciting, and he actually got it on the second try! I felt so nostalgic for times back home when I would go camping to lakes or rivers with my family, and my dad would skip rock so many times, and I would always try to get it like him… It was really, really cool though, to have this bonding moment with Pierre. And I realized that I really miss water-related activities, whether it be swimming, or just floating in the ocean, or just sticking my feet in a stream, or jumping next to a (small) waterfall, etc. Too bad water-activities are frowned upon by the Peace Corps. The beaches here are—for the most part—too rough to venture out in, and the fresh water too dirty and filled with unpleasant things. At least I can look, though!

Friday, 30 November 2012

A lot and not very much at all has been happening this week. I feel pretty exhausted, although that is mostly due to my inability to get a decent night’s sleep. For some reason, my dreams are filled with mice and other creatures creeping into my house… One night I had a dream that there were suddenly 3 cats living in the attic-area, but they weren’t really friendly. Unfortunately, this wasn’t actually true. Moreover, on my malaria-pill night (they give me terrible-crazy dreams sometimes), I had a nightmare that someone abducted and robbed me. Then a mouse chooses this exact moment to knock on of my metal pans on the ground, where it makes this LOUD crashing sound. I laid in my bed, wide awake and petrified, probably for a good 20 minutes. Finally I convinced myself that there really wasn’t anyone in my house, and went to investigate the source of the noise. I flip on the light and this mouse scampers across the floor. Of course I jump on the nearest chair and then just yell at it until it finally squeezes out under my front door. Must. get. cat…

I have been working in the “Sahel” (that is where Hubert’s office is, and I sell seeds) every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. NO ONE has come by to buy seeds. I feel really frustrated, because I didn’t come all the way to Africa to sit at a desk all day, surfing the internet or whatever. I could do that in America. I think I’m going to give it another week, then talk to Hubert about how I can’t do it anymore. I refuse to waste my time like that when I have so much more I could be doing. Plus it takes up huge blocks of my time when I can’t plan to meet someone, i.e. for my house or for another project. It’s really, really lame. We’ll see if it improves at all, but I doubt it. I did want to have a desk and “office hours” per say, but I was thinking maybe a few hours here, a few hours there, not three whole days.

Other than the critters and the boring work, however, things have been going pretty well. I feel like I am making a lot of progress with the Artisan groups. Firstly, I finished the by-laws for the “Ben Club”, and reviewed them at their meeting. They made some changes, and I think the next meeting they will “approve” them, then get them printed, etc. There was another association, the Masons, who had written out their by-laws, and I had offered to type them up for them. But then I was gone for 6 weeks. So they went ahead and gave them to a computer-photocopy-place to type them up. There were two documents, and the first one was terribly done. Whoever was typing it up clearly did not care about their work. There were so many typing errors, both with spelling, even not putting spaces between some of the words. I offered to get the digital copy from this place and fix it myself (I have control issues), but of course the computer had crashed in the mean time. I feel really, really bad because I could have done all of the typing, and done it really well (I’m just as particular as my mom when it comes to documents being perfectly formatted). But instead, they paid $30 to have these people do a crummy job. And the second company did a better job, but ripped them off by charging them by the page, then double-spacing everything, and using absurd margins. (Please, I know all the tricks. It’s called college. And starting papers at 1 AM the day they’re due…) It kind of confuses me, because the person who was in charge of these by-laws, was the same person with whom I worked on the “Ben Club” bylaws. But I have this feeling that maybe everyone just thought I wasn’t coming back. Or they didn’t want to wait. Oh well. But now I think I will be re-typing the ones from the crummy place anyway. At least I’ll be somewhat useful, but I just wish they hadn’t had to waste their money in the first place.

I did, however, have the success of talking to the Mayor about using the “Maison des Jeunes” (which literally means “House of Young People”, and it’s kind of used like a community center, but rarely actually used, except by the attached bar). Anyway, I had been thinking about how the Artisans didn’t want to always meet in the little uncomfortable gazebo, and were talking about spending oodles of money to just to build a meeting space. Meanwhile, the “Maison des Jeunes” sits—for the most part—unused. So why not just have them meet there, save their money for something more useful? The mayor said they could use it; they only have to pay a little for electricity every month. And this cost is split among all of the Artisan groups. I presented this to the “Ben Club” this morning, and they were really, really excited. They thanked me for working it out, and decided to call a meeting with all the different Artisan associations so they discuss how exactly they will go about collecting the fee that the Mayor requires from the different groups.

With the gardening groups, things are going well also. I had the idea to assign each woman a number, which she could remember, then each time she pays the weekly membership fee, she just has to tell the treasurer/secretary the number and they could record it. I also was inspired that the one group at Gouginnou actually did this with their “Savings and Loan” group. So maybe the women can keep the same numbers to make everything easier. I presented this to them and they seemed to really like it. So I am working on a preparing a notebook for them to start recording their transactions. Also, at Kérou-Wirou (that is a neighborhood just south of Kérou-center), the gardening group is doing well with their fee-collecting. Monday they took Anna and I to see their gardening site.

I think this is really good, to show some successes early on. I’m not undertaking huge endeavors, but showing the people that I am here to work with them. I need to gain their trust, have them be interested in the work I’m doing. So I am glad these little things I’ve done seem to have made them really, really happy.

I also had an idea for another project (like I need anymore…) But I went to get an omelet sandwich, and there were no eggs! Apparently no one in Kérou raises chickens for eggs. There are plenty of chickens running around (and plenty of roosters to wake me up in the mornings). But that’s just it; they run around and lay the eggs anywhere. No one keeps them contained, etc. So starting a chicken coop somewhere in the area would be a great way to work on Food Security (eggs are a great source of protein!), and also something that could be an income-generator. It just so happens that Pierre seems to be really, really interested in actually doing that himself, with the groupement in his village. So that’s one more thing to think about… Oh, where to begin!?

In my house, things are progressing as well. I found some curtains left by a previous volunteer, so I put those up. Plus, I actually happened to find jars of paint as well. So I took these with me, and want to paint my furniture. I started with the table that I had gotten for my kitchen. Of course, while I was doing this, some of the kids from the area just came and stared at me. My neighbor’s kids are really nice and fun. There are three, and one night the middle (girl) and toddler (boy) just came and chilled at my house. I gave the girl some markers for her to draw, an the boy just amused himself with the various items he found lying around my house. The older girl sits outside my door, and uses the light (her house no longer has electricity) to study for school. I have invited her into my house a few times, but she always says, no, she’s fine outside.

My kitchen in my house, my new curtains,
my painted table, as well as my pots and pans hanging from the ceiling.
Beninese people think I'm crazy

Oh, also, another project of mine was that I took the huge box my fridge had come in, then painted three sides of it. Then I set it against the wall, and am now using it as an impromptu shelf-thing for my jewelry, toiletries, and office supplies, etc. I am really proud of myself. Plus I ordered some furniture, so soon I will have screens for my house, screen doors, and a table. Then one day, when I get all of my reimbursements and per-diems from when I was in Cotonou, I will also order chairs, shelves, and FINALLY get a double mattress.

My former fridge-box, painted,
and all my miscellaneous accessories

This is how I dry my dishes...
Yay clotheslines and binder clips!

Sunday, 2 December 2012 

Today was quite a busy day. Well, I say that, but it’s not true. There was maybe four hours of actually doing something work-ish. But then their was the 2.5 hours of waiting, the 1.5 hour trip, more waiting, and so on.

So typically I am supposed to go to Fétékou on Sundays. But yesterday Hubert is like, “Oh yeah, so you actually can’t go tomorrow, because the husband of the president of the groupement in Firou just returned from his Hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca).” I thought this was a last-minute thing, but then all the presidents of the other groupements from around the commune showed up wearing matching tissue (that had been made into dresses). It is really common for people to get matching fabric for parties, but this takes at least a week or so to have made into outfits, so this had to have been planned…

So I the morning I had a meeting with an artisan group—the mechanics—who are having this chronic problem that their president, secretary and treasurer never actually show up to meetings. This was going on even before I got my burn, and still nothing has been done. Also, there is this complicated problem that money has gotten mixed up, loaned out, somewhat repaid, but there isn’t all the paperwork/receipts to prove all of this. So it’s a real mess, and going to be some work to figure out. But no one was really at that meeting, so they told me Wednesday there will be another meeting where everyone sits down and laboriously goes through the money, etc.

After that, I went to Sahel, where we were supposed to meet to go to the fête (party) in Firou. The meeting time was 10, but of course no one actually shows up then. I went around Kérou and bought some bananas for breakfast, tried to buy phone credit (today was a day when you got bonus money for every amount you added, and it just so happened I needed to recharge money to get my monthly-Peace-Corps-contacts plan) But the store that sells credit in large amounts (5,000 francs, or $10) was closed. So I ended up buying 10 500-franc cards, and having to enter the numbers separately. Even with all this, I was still waiting around for a while; we didn’t leave until 12:30. Then it was a 40-minute drive to Firou. The transportation wasn’t ideal; it was actually just a large, covered pick-up-ish truck. All 20+ women from the gardening groups sat in the back. Anna and I—being the spoiled Americans that we are—got to sit in the front seat, and on Pierre’s motorcycle, respectively.

When we arrived, we went to greet/congratulate the man who had just returned from the Hajj. For Anna and I, it was just an awkward series of not knowing what to do. We did, however, talk about how the Bariba system of greeting sounds almost like a song. I told you before that there is a long stretch of “Ooh”s and “Mmm”s. But imagine a call-and-response, with one person calling “A kpu ndo!” and 20 people responding “Alaafia!”, a few more Alaafias, then the call “Ooh”, 20 “Ooh”s in response; “Ooh” again, 20 more “Ooh”s (this might happen a few times); then one “Mmm” greeted with 20 “Mmm”s; “Mmm” again, and another chorus of “Mmm”s. Then the women started singing an actual song, and we made our way from the concession (a concession is just a group of houses, usually one family, that all share the same courtyard, sometimes fenced in) into the man’s actually house, which was recently re-painted and re-furbished (from the time I visited an received yams and a live chicken as a present). In corner, he had pictures of himself on the Hajj, standing in front of the Mosque at Mecca. The women knelt down, and Anna, Pierre and I stood awkwardly in corner while Hubert took pictures. Some people pressed coins to the forehead of the woman who was leading the song.

That actually reminded me of the celebration after my cousin’s wedding, when he married a girl from Nigeria. This celebration, after the American-style reception, featured Nigerian food, song and dance. People would come up and press—in this case dollar bills of varying amounts—to the foreheads of the newly married couple. Some of this money went to pay the musicians at the party, but a lot of it went to the new couple, in the same way that wedding presents do. I thought it was interesting the same practice of money-to-the-forehead, but it’s not exactly surprising, since Benin and Nigeria are right beside each other. (Although, in Benin alone there are over 50 ethnic groups, and in Nigeria over 250, each with varying traditions).

Anyway, after singing to this man, then him going around and greeting everyone, Hubert insisting on Anna and I taking awkward pictures sitting next to him (both of us with wide smiles, and him, like most other Beninese in photos with a straight face), we walked over to the mosque that was actually constructed while he was away on his Hajj. We sat down and enjoyed a communal meal of Rice, chicken, and yam pilé, then went and greeted the “Chef Arrondissment”, I guess kind of like a mayor, but not quite. After that, we left. We were actually there for less time than the time we waited in Kérou.

I went home really quick, then had to come back for a meeting the artisan association of Masons. On the way back, I stopped to check and see if there was charcoal available at this concession that sells charcoal.

Now this story takes a little explaining. I’ve really wanted to get a charcoal stove, mostly because I’m paranoid about my gas running out, and having to go all the way to Nati to get the canister refilled. So anyway, I got the stove part, which is actually really cool. Most of them in Benin are made from cheap metal, but Hubert showed me this place where an NGO has encouraged the building of clay stoves, because they are more durable and actually economize the charcoal used. The only thing that has been missing, then, is the charcoal. So there is this place that is kind of close to me that supposedly sells charcoal. I’ve been going there every day for half a week, and they are always like, “Oh, the charcoal will arrive tomorrow!” So then a few days ago, as I’m leaving empty-handed once again, this guy runs after me, and points to a younger guy and says, “So this guy says he knows where you live, so he can just drop the charcoal off at your house when it arrives.” I said okay, because obviously that was great. But the charcoal didn’t arrive, so after a few days I went back to see what was the deal. I get there, and THE VERY SAME GUY that chased after me and told me someone would drop it off, points to a bag of charcoal that is just sitting there, and says, “This has been waiting for you for 3 days. Why haven’t you come to pick it up?” I just look at him like “ARE YOU KIDDING ME????” But instead of saying that, I just say, “Oh,” and strap the bag onto my bike and take it home.

I get home and pull out some charcoal, then realize, of course, that I have NO IDEA how to actually start a charcoal fire. Well, not real charcoal at least. I’ve used the kind where you just light the bag on fire. Or my dad often liked just to douse the pile in lighter fluid, which I didn’t have. I know how to start regular fires, what with kindling and sticks, but as I hadn’t really planned this out, I didn’t have a bunch of sticks collected. Luckily, however, there was one branch that just been in my house for no reason, and I had never took out. So I broke that up into a bunch of little pieces, started a fire, and put the charcoal on top. That worked, and I got really excited, boiled a bunch of water, can roasted some peanuts in my impromptu dutch oven! Yay.

My charcoal stove and "Dutch Oven"

I was talking to my mom later, and she joked with me, saying that maybe if I had paid attention in girl scouts, when they went over the whole charcoal-starting-thing, maybe I wouldn’t have had this problem. But I told her that was when I was really young when we did that, and maybe she should have made me join a troop when I was older that did more than sell girl scout cookies so we could go to the beach at the end of the school year.

But luckily for me, there is this thing called The Internet, which has the answer to every question you never knew you had. I just googled “how to start a charcoal grill” and voila! So many responses! Included a very helpful site which has instructions for making a homemade charcoal-chimney, which I will be working on very soon. So that was my day. I am very, very excited about my new cooking-apparatus, and I’m sure will be putting it to good use soon and often.

Oh, and just as a sidenote, I feel like today I was also validated for some of my thoughts/feelings. Firstly, I happened to be talking to a lady who is the Treasurer for the collective of gardening groups in Kérou Country. I showed her my burn, and Pierre mentioned that it was with Landry that I got this. She said something along the lines of “Oh my god, Landry! He is a crazy driver! I never ride with him! If I want to go somewhere, and they tell me Landry is driving, I always say that I can’t go!” So I feel even less bad for being mad at him, plus I also now feel safer on other motos, knowing that of drivers in this country, apparently Landry is on the unsafe side, so if I have to take a moto, it will be safer than that drive… hypothetically.

Also, Anna happened to mention that it was only ever while taking taxis that she had ever considered leaving this country, so I’m glad I’m not the only one.

Wednesday 5 December 2012

So as I’m sitting here, my neighbors kids are running around my front room, laughing and screaming. I can’t decide if it was ever a good thing to let them in. I’ve set a precedent I can never take back. They are cute, but sometimes I want to do stuff, or not be bothered. They are pretty respectful though, and I can always ask them to leave. Plus sometimes their older sister of parent calls them over with something like, “Okay, you’ve bothered the white person long enough now…” I want to spend more time with my neighbors, but I also want my alone time. It’s quite the conundrum. I need to remember that people aren’t just available whenever I want them… I think maybe I need to take less alone time. It’s not like I really am doing anything productive anyway, except maybe writing this blog. Or doing research. Or deciding to teach myself Spanish. All things that can wait until I am sitting bored, in the Sahel.

I’ve been doing exciting things with my new stove. I prepared some beans, and oh my gosh, with a little baking soda, it was SO FAST, and the charcoal fire was hot and fast as well, and I wasn’t paranoid about the gas running out. It was glorious. I’ve boiled tons of water, and filtered it, and now have a bunch of water bottles filled with water, waiting to be drank. I made biscuits. I don’t want to buy much food, since I’m leaving for a week-long Peace Corps training in a few days. But, oh when I get back… there will be a lot of cooking that goes down!

I’ve decided that Hubert is not all that originally thought him to be. He lies, or at least you could say he is purposefully misleading, like a good politician. He is very unclear about his expectations, but expects you to read his mind nonetheless. He will ask you to do something a certain way one week, and the next week ask you why you are doing it that way. He is always busy, running off greeting people, going to Nati to turn in reports (he doesn’t trust this thing called e-mail). He made me go thank the mayor for the electricity that he made me pay for (he didn’t tell me I had to pay for it, until the electrician knocked on my door demanding money). He can be a good resource, if he is there and upfront. But the biggest issue with him has been Pierre. So Anna found out a few months ago, that Pierre is not actually being paid. And hasn’t been for the past year. Apparently Hubert has been really wishy-washy about paying Pierre, sometimes saying that he needed to do an “internship” period first. Also, Hubert constantly reminds us that HE worked for the mayor’s office for 9 months without being paid, and you just need to have the “courage” to continue to do your job, apparently in the hopes that one day it will actually make you money. Although, quite honestly, prior to this period, Hubert had quite a good job in a larger city, and was probably more than perfectly fine financially.

Of course, for Anna and I, it is absolutely unacceptable to ask someone to work for you without paying them. So while I was gone, Anna worked out a contract, where Pierre gets paid $50 per month, and gets $20 for gas per month to take us everywhere. Also, Hubert has encouraged her (and I, once I finally returned) to go visit our various gardening groups on a weekly basis. When we calculated this out, Pierre would be spending $15-$20 per WEEK on gas. So Anna and I talked to Hubert, asking what could be done. Anna specifically said, “So the $50/month is fixed, but we could increase the $20/month?” and Hubert replied, “Yes.” So we had a meeting with him, showing him how we calculated everything, what it would cost. So he says, “Okay, you have to figure out how to reduce that, because the $20/month is fixed.” This is so frustrating for us, since it was Hubert who originally wanted us to go to all these gardening groups frequently, and is now asking us to cut back, and was also misleading about how we would go about fixing this money problem. (But hey, honestly it means that Pierre will be doing less work, and still be getting the same salary, and perhaps Anna and I will have less gardening-groups work, and can do other things). Plus, I’ve talked to him about steps I think we need to take if we want to start working towards his Dailey-Gardener’s-Market project he wants. He agrees that absolutely, we should start doing these things, and he’ll do blah, blah, blah, but as of yet I’ve seen nothing done. Probably in a month, he’ll be like, “So have you gotten the grant for that?” and I will tell him obviously not, because he’s not done anything either.

Sigh. I think I’m going to be looking for more work that doesn’t involve Hubert, finding other community partners. And try to stop working at Sahel so much. Although, today, when I was there, I had my first two customers. But honestly, they only came because Hubert had informed them that he was there, so they came by. This is what he doesn’t understand, that people only come there looking for him. When I’m there by myself no one has come by, unless they’re looking for him anyway. Also, it’s not like I’ve received any training, so this guy tries to asks me questions like, “How long will this seeds last?” as if I would know. I just work there. When people actually show up, I have no idea what to do. I don’t know anything about the seeds or insecticide or fertilizer. I actually didn’t know how to record any of the transactions until today, because of course, I was never informed of the process. Also, I don’t speak Bariba, so when women come by (looking for Hubert), I have no idea what they’re trying to ask, and they have to find someone on the street to translate for them. This is all very frustrating. I mean, I’m planning on maybe just going to gardening groups and hanging out for a day, seeing their garden etc. I don’t expect to be able to communicate with them, but at least I will be building relationships, they’ll get to know me, etc, and it will be more than a 30-second awkward interaction. It will be a few hours of awkward interactions. So there. I really like the women. I love the artisans. Plus, Pierre is great. So I have plenty of avenues to search for work, it just might take a little more effort, at least more than waiting for Hubert to give me assignments and what not.

Final Days in Cotonou, and my Return to Kérou

I am now back in Kérou, so some of the earlier entries are kind of irrelevant, but oh well, I'll just include how I was feeling at the time.

Friday, 2 November 2012

I need to get out of here, p.r.o.n.t.o. I hope no fellow volunteers read this, but I really, really hate being around them all the time. It’s nothing personal. I just want to be able to cook in my own kitchen without 50 people asking me what I’m making. I am really, really self-conscious about my cooking and eating habits. Firstly, I’m probably not making something with a name. I probably grabbed all the stuff I have in the fridge, and threw it in a pot, and stirred it up and VOILA! Actually, right now I have been on a mission to cook specific things—always with my own twist—but I really, really, really hate it when everyone asks me what I’m making. If I’m making something like samosas, I don’t want to tell anyone until I’m all done, it’s actually turned out well, and I can perhaps share it with people. But before the moment of completion, I’m worried that it would actually turn out horrible, and I don’t want everyone to be all impressed by my lofty goals, then the massive failure I would hypothetically try to hide from them. Or if I’m successful, I hate the praise like, “omg! You’re such a cook!” No I’m not. I’m just bored. I just have this knack from my dad that allows me to throw a bunch of food together, sprinkle on a ton of spices, and have something decent come out. STOP GIVING ME ALL THIS PRAISE.

I just want my time alone. Granted, I really do have a lot of time alone. I have walked all around Cotonou, by myself. I’ve sat by the ocean, eating my plates of plantains and fish. I’ve also had people join me on these various journeys, and it’s been fun, really. But there’s nowhere that I can go just to sit by myself. There is a lounge-room up in the sick ward, and although it’s mostly abandoned, people still walk in occasionally. I share my room with someone. I’ve had a few nights to myself (conveniently, the night after I watched a horror movie with other volunteers), but mostly I’ve always had a roommate during my stay, one that changes every few days. I just want to go somewhere that I can be absolutely sure I won’t be interrupted. I really, really, want to be able to cook without anyone observing. Is that weird??? I HATE people observing my cooking (unless, it’s something we’ve planned together). I’ll be hungry, think about making something, then realize someone else is in the kitchen, so nope I wasn’t that hungry!

I want out. I didn’t come to West Africa to spend my days surfing the internet in a concrete building. Watching stupid movies I would never take the time to watch, even at home in America. I don’t really enjoy watching movies all that much. Ok, that’s not exactly true. I enjoy them if you plop me down in front of the TV, and we watch a movie. Otherwise, I’d rather be doing something else. And the most frustrating thing is that even when volunteers do show up the weekends, so far no one has been interested in the thing that I want to do most, which is going out dancing. Please, someone for the love of all that is good, take me out dancing. I need at least one person to go with. But no, we spend our nights drinking at dinner, then maybe watching a movie. Then I just stay up until 4 in the morning reading a book on agricultural development. Reading. NOT doing. I want to scream.

On the other hand, the books do get me excited for the work I will be doing back at post (hopefully). I am currently in the middle of a book called “Rural Development: Putting the Last First.” Firstly, it makes me feel smug for what I am doing here. The first chapters talk all about “urban bias”, how academics and aid workers alike all want to live in urban areas, where they can have the convenient life, easily meet tons of people interested in development, and so. And let me acknowledge that I am guilty, guilty, guilty of this bias. I think if you go back just a few blog entries, you will find evidence of that. But the author writes about how development workers and theorists need to be more concerned with the truly rural, truly poor. Those who live far, far off the main road. The ones who are in the remote, tiny villages, and who have very few amenities. Now, relatively, Kérou is certainly not the poorest of the poor. There are many villages nearby, even within 50km, that are much tinier and much poorer. So HA, I was actually forced into living the life that this author extorts as necessary for truly and fully understanding poverty.

It actually makes me think of a conversation I had with my aunt (who is from West Virginia) a few years ago. I was trying to figure out what to do with my life. I was thinking maybe something along the lines of Americorps or Teach for America. Where I’d work with inner-city youth trying to make a difference. And she sighed, and exasperatedly said something like, “Huh! There’s so much focus on the inner cities! Always the poor urban people! You know, there are people who are so much poorer in Appalachia! You can find rampant poverty all over West Virginia! I hate how aid programs are targeted at the inner-city, but no one cares about the poverty hidden away in the mountains!”

I think at the time, I probably did something like roll my eyes at her, for being so biased and un-knowing. I knew that in American cities there was poverty. I remember the first time I really felt moved to help someone, that was after a Orioles baseball game, I was walking back to the car with my dad, and I saw people begging on the streets, sitting there with their signs, saying they were homeless and asking for money. I was moved by this, but I didn’t exactly know what to do. I remember soon after that, printing out a page from the internet called “25 Things You Can Do to Help the Homeless.”

But if you think about it, there’s no baseball stadium in the hills of West Virginia that forces people to parade by the poverty that exists there.

But see this is the problem with poverty. Poverty is largely hidden. We can live in the nice parts of town, or in the suburbs. We can see our neighbors, who are of the relatively same socio-economic class as ourselves, and pretend that the majority of America is a snug “middle-class” and that there isn’t rampant poverty, that there isn’t a huge, growing divide between the rich and the poor. We can pretend that problems exist on the outside, and really don’t affect us.

Urban poverty is at times—but only at times—harder to ignore. People there are in bigger groups, they could—potentially—organize. And they often happen to live very close to bigger, more important people. It is a disgusting fact, that you can drive away from the steps of Congress or the White House—where some of the most powerful men in the world reside—and see other people sleeping on concrete slabs. Even here in Cotonou, there are locals driving around in their fancy American- or Japanese-made SUVs, or expats living off their fancy salaries, yet also people who have to drag themselves on their hands—because their legs don’t work—to beg for money.

The point is, however, that you see it. Granted, you can try as hard as you like to live in a bubble. You can live in the nice neighborhoods, send your kids to the nice schools, and so on. But one day, you’ll be stopped at a stoplight, and someone there will beg you for money. Go ahead, make your excuses, place your blame, but it’s still there.

However, you can choose to never, ever drive through the mountains of West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia. You can joke about the banjoes playing, but never have to go there, and see if it’s a real thing, if it meets your every nightmare. Here in Benin, and across Africa, it’s easy to drive through the cities and down the paved roads and never see the true poverty. Even in more remote areas, the towns along a paved road are better off. They have more traffic, and therefore more of an economy. Then women can run up to your car windows and try to sell you oranges for 20 cents. But venture off to small villages, where there are some people who have nowhere to go to the bathroom but one creek—then must also drink from that same creek. Or perhaps you would see the woman in Nicholas Kristof’s “Half the Sky” who got a fistula during pregnancy, was left to die, and had to fend off hyenas, then drag herself, with non-working legs, kilometers to a missionary’s house, before being brought another many kilometers to a hospital.

But the even greater tragedy is that even if someone wants to help the poor, they still want to do it in luxury. And YES I KNOW I’M GUILTY OF THIS. I think I complained quite heavily about being sent to what people here call “la brousse”. And I still, with all my heart, would much, much rather live in a city. I have to reconcile that with the work that needs to be done. But this is the bias for almost everyone. Doctors from Africa move to the West to get better jobs. Or worse jobs, but still in the West. The doctors left behind jump for urban assignments, and resent if they are forced to serve in the remote areas. I mean, really! Who wants to live in a far-away town with limited entertainment and amenities? I’m doing it because I’ve been forced to—but I’m coming to mind it less and less (even idealize it as I am stuck in Cotonou for longer and longer).

I wonder if after Peace Corps, I will give up some of my selfishness and continue working in more remote environments, or if I will consider my debt to society paid, and move on with my urban lifestyle. Find a nice, cushy job or something.

But for now, I can feel smug in this book’s admonishment of Aid Workers’ “urban bias”. (“Ha! I’m working in ‘la brousse’ ”). I also feel really smug that this book encourages people to not come at development from a strictly academia perspective, nor a strictly pragmatic aid organization perspective (“Ha! I’m doing both with my fancy-schmancy Peace-Corps-Masters-International-Program”).

Beyond that, however, I really need to look at what this means for my work here. I’m sitting in Cotonou (the urban center) trying to develop a survey of sorts about Food Security in Kérou, which is exactly the uninvolved perspective this book preaches against.

I guess my point is, please let me go to Kérou, and get on with my life. Let me start working out the activities I want to undertake, the projects I want to do, the observations I want to make. Let me figure out what is going to work for Kérou, what I am going to help facilitate there, and maybe in two years figure out what that means for my next step.

(What a rambling blog. I apologize. I hope you can takes something away from it, though.)

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

So after my rant about not wanting to be here and deal with other people, I actually had quite a lovely night with other volunteers. A lot of people were here to do banking, see each other, etc. And a few people were here to watch the Michigan/Nebraska game, since there were a few Michigan and one Nebraska Alum. I wasn’t involved in the game-watching, but I did indulge in the Chili & Cornbread & Guacamole making that accompanied it. It was really delicious! Then as some people went upstairs to watch the game, some of us—including the wife of a Michigan fan, and some other girls that were there—just sat downstairs, eating, drinking, and chatting. We talked about a lot of stuff, Peace Corps related and not. It was really fun.

Some people have been observing my cooking and joked that I should have started up a little business, since I’ve been stuck here for so long. I could cook for volunteers, charge them a little money, but they can eat good, but not have to spend so, so, so much money in Cotonou. If only I had know from the beginning how long I would be here…

Sunday night I took off my bandage (I’ve been letting it “air out” the night before the doctor changes the dressing), and I saw that it is actually almost healed! In fact, the only area that’s left that’s now new “skin” is about 1 by 2 inches. And this whole remaining area was—for the first time—completely healed over with a scar! I got really excited, and ran around telling everyone who was left. But I don’t think they were quite as elated as me. In fact, some of them looked a little repulsed, but that may have been because I said something like, “It’s no longer oozing!!!” which conjures up plenty of un-pleasant images. But the one girl that I’ve been sharing the sickroom with the past few nights is actually a Health volunteer, so this was more interesting than repulsive. So she was properly excited for me! Although, unfortunately, as I walked around, I think it pulled at the scar, and it started opening up again. When I saw the doctor on Monday, he said I would definitely be here another week. Sigh. But at least at this point, I really feel like the end is in sight! I’m so close!

I also went to have dinner at my teacher’s house on Sunday. It was really nice, I got to meet his wife and two kids!!! I wish I lived a little closer, and could see him more often. But we ate yam-pilé with peanut sauce, it was so good! It was weird, though, because I was actually a little shocked when I walked into his house. He lives in what is kind of town-house set up, where you share the walls with a bunch of people, and a courtyard as well. But his house was pretty small. Although he does have plenty of things like a fridge (and sells ice to his neighbors), a TV, and so on. During dinner, I could hear some shouting in the distance, and looked up. Then he laughed, and made a comment like, “Ha, your are in the REAL Cotonou now! This is the real Benin. You’ve been at the Peace Corps office too long!”

That is so true. The Peace Corps office is in a section of town where there are tons of Embassies, UN buildings, house of officials, which are all, of course, huge, multiple stories with tall fences around every one. Even though I’ve been walking around a lot, I’ve still been staying in the “nicer” downtown area.

Of course, every city has that divide: the nicer neighborhoods, and the not as nice. My teacher by no means lives in a bad part of town, but it’s still just worlds apart. And he is even a professor (and working on becoming a full-time lawyer!). It is really important to stay aware of this. Granted, even Kérou is nicer than a lot of places in Cotonou. My house there is probably twice the size of my professor’s! (Probably cheaper, though, because it’s not in a city). And there is a huge difference in the wealth and lifestyles of people that live in Kérou-center and the villages just a few kilometers away. So this is just really important for me to remember as I’m doing work there. I need to remember this gap exists and I need to think of all people when I am designing projects. And not forget this, even if I do end up moving to Cotonou one day.

Thursday, 15 November 2012

So I am writing this from my bed in Kérou. YAY! I finally made it out. Monday was a holiday—Vetern’s Day (Embassies and Peace Corp ADMIN get host-country AND American holidays, always, the double-dippers). So I finally saw the doctor again on Tuesday, and he gave me approval to go home. Then Wednesday I was able to begin my two-day journey (of misery) back to Kérou.

I say misery because that’s what it is to travel in this country. Firstly, I was paranoid that everything would go wrong, like I would try to buy my ticket, and they would tell me it was sold out, and I’d have to wait in Cotonou another day. Or something would happen where I would have to go back to the medical unit.

The actual trip had none of these problems, but plenty of others. First of all, the nice ATT bus broke down before we even left Cotonou, so we had to switch buses. When we got on the second bus, everyone just butted in front of me, then sat down wherever they pleased. I tried to get my proper seat, but people just yelled at me to keep going. So I was forced into the VERY LAST row, which has less leg room. Sigh.

They stopped so much at the beginning, waiting for people, then having to switch the buses. But they booked it the rest of the way. It still took 11 hours to get to Natitangou. I stayed overnight by myself at the Workstation, which was actually quite nice, because I could just do whatever I felt like. I had to re-pack all my bags. (Oh yes, I should mention that part of my strategy for coping with my boredom was just to buy a lot, a lot of stuff for my house/kitchen while in Cotonou. And go through the piles in both workstations where volunteers leave things they no longer want, but other might, such as clothes, etc. Which I now had to bring back. Anything in glass I tried to avoid, or transfer to plastic, so less risk of breakage. I did however, find jars of paint in the workstation, so I wrapped those up very carefully, and attempted to bring it back. One broke on the way to Nati, so I changed it to another jar, then tried to wrap them up even better)

The final stretch to Kérou was the worst. I honestly don’t know what I hate more the motorcycle or the bus taxi. Even minus my huge burn, I recall that the moto ride from Kérou involved a hurt wrist and thrown out back from bouncing around so much at high speeds. I think I hate both of them because they have irresponsible drivers that don’t think of the other people in the vehicle. I hate that traveling here is so uncomfortable and borderline unsafe. I don’t like that I can’t just drive myself—but then again, I couldn’t afford it. AND I haven’t spent my life figuring out how to navigate muddied roads! Sometimes, there are only enough of the passable road for one moto-wheel to fit. Sometimes cars have to drive along at angles. I would probably get myself into more trouble/accidents by driving! But then again, I would probably be very prudent, so maybe not. I just wish that I could find someone to drive me who is a responsible, thoughtful driver (if such a person exists). I guess that is my next assignment! If you could find someone willing to take their time to make sure you got somewhere in one piece and without too much pain, perhaps even comfortably, everything would be a lot more pleasant.

The taxi didn’t leave until 1PM, I think because they were waiting around hoping more people would show up. They only ended up taking 6 people or so. I thought this would be luxurious. No. I was in one of the back rows, because my thought was “Oh, I can stretch out!” What happened was, we went over a few bumps at such a pace (and with that shitty van which has no shocks left) that I was bounced up and banged my head on the ceiling. I yelled out an obscenity, and tears sprung to my eyes, just as everyone turned to look at this yelling, crying white girl. The second time this happened, I could feel the pain crushing through my neck and my back, and I just flung myself down on the seat, sobbing unwillingly (you know, a physical reaction to the pain). And wondering, “Why me?”

I actually considered giving up. Telling the taxi to stop, and in fact take me back all the way to Cotonou. Then I could go back to America and drive MYSELF on paved roads, in my beautiful, wonderful car. Oh!!!! I miss my car! My beautiful, young, smooth, stick-shift.

What did I do to deserve this, any of the shitty luck I’ve had? But then, as I thought more, lying on the seat of this bouncing van, clinging to the seat for dear life, what did anyone in that van do to deserve this? The government that won’t build them the paved roads, that won’t enforce things like speed limits to make the roads safer, the poverty that allows these crummy cars to be acceptable as taxis, the developed world that dumps these crummy cars on their country to make themselves feel better and to get rid of their junk, the poverty that makes motos the preferred transport, dangerous though they are? I can go back to America (and I will—one day!) But none of these people can.

I still couldn’t tell you what my original reason was for joining the Peace Corps. But I still know that I just want to help people, to make a difference. It seems impossible, when the roads are that crummy, so I know that getting products made in Kérou to the larger markets is hard. But I do have hope, as I saw in one of the grocery stores in Cotonou some Shea Butter that came from here! So it is possible!

I really hope I don’t have to travel much here. I know Anna and Thomas have a lot, since they were trainers for my group, and so on. I am really discouraged to do anything related to Peace Corps outside of Kérou and the absolutely mandatory events. I hate the fact that I have to go all the way to Nati every month just to go banking. At first I was excited, because that means Peace Corps pays for me to go to the “big city” (of the Northwest), but I just wish my journey wasn’t miserable. Oh well.

I also fully believed that everything I bought in Cotonou was broken and ruined. I heard things bouncing around on top, and thought it was over for my spices, my olive oil, my cheap rum, and my paint! But alas! I arrived home, and everything was in one piece. Or well, it’s own pieces. I have tons of bugs/critters that have invaded my home during my absence, but I killed off all the roaches again. And Thomas’ cat is going to have kittens soon, so I’m getting one to take care of the mice, which have left little droppings over the entirety of my kitchen. Thanks to my cool box, though, they can’t get to any of my actual food. Then I took a shower to wash off this dusty, sweaty day, and I got a semblance of a hot shower! The water had been left out in the sun, well for the past 6 weeks, technically, but it was still warm, so I got a delightful warm bucket shower, and I felt so refreshed.

So at least this day has ended more positively! I am excited to meet with my artisan groups tomorrow, to talk to Hubert, see my wonderful post-mates again, and then get back to cleaning/organizing my house, and finally order my furniture (I believe that’s all in chronological order). I leave behind the misery of traveling, the boredom of being stuck in the medical unit, and hopefully start on all the community interaction and projects I came here to do!

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

So a lot has been going on since my return, so I haven’t had time to write. Plus it was only late last night when I finally got electricity, so my computer usage has been limited.

Okay, so I guess I shall start with Friday, I met with the artisan group, as usual. Everyone was happy to see me. And I think perhaps now that they see that I’ve suffered through this huge moto burn, and still returned, they have accepted that I am here to stay. One artisan went around and told me everyone’s name, plus their profession, and said that we would do this every week until I got everyone down. (THANK YOU for understanding that I need review!) Also, three of them came by my house Saturday morning to “saluer” (greet) me. And they gave me some money. It is typical for the group to decide to give money to a member (even though I’m not really) who is ill, hurt, etc, because usually when someone is injured and can’t work, they don’t get paid. I can’t tell them that I still get money even when stuck in the Med Unit, and in fact get more to compensate for living in a more expensive city (thank you, US government). But it was so nice of them to think of me, almost as one of the group!

I met with Hubert, and we went over times that I will be working in the office, with groupements, etc. He is always so rushed, though, it’s hard to talk to him about everything that I want to, I have to do it in little chunks. Then I met up with Anna and Thomas, it was good to see them again!

After that I went home, and started the process of reclaiming my house from the dust, dirt, bugs and mice. I moved my kitchen to the main room, which Beninese people think is wholly bizarre, but I really, really like having the kitchen/living room combo. I HATE having to go all the way to the back to cook, firstly because then I can’t know if anyone is coming into my house, secondly if I do have guests, then it’s awkward to leave, thirdly, because my fridge is in my front room anyway, fourthly because I would like to have my music from my laptop playing, etc, and fifthly to get it away from the stupid mice. Anyway, once I get my apartment in the States, I will insist on it having an open kitchen/family room combo. I have been warned that I will regret my decision here during the hot season, when trying to cook will make my house even hotter, but we shall see. I’m pretty sure I will suffer through it with my stubbornness. Also, I’m planning on getting a little charcoal-grill thing, which I have to use outside, so maybe I will just resort more to that. I got a big pot that I can use as a dutch-oven-ish as well, so I am super excited about that! It’s sweet potato and watermelon season, so going to the market was a very pleasant experience! Plus I got peanuts, and am going to attempt to make my own peanut butter! I am very excited to try out all the things I have been researching while in Cotonou.

Saturday Hubert invited me to a “party” which turned into an inescapable affair. It was to celebrate one year of a Village Saving and Loan group in his village, Gouginnou. Then women there got to see how much they saved over the year. One woman saved approximately $9, and just kept repeating, “I thank God, I thank God!” It’s such a good reminder of why I’m here, the intense poverty that these women live, which makes $9 saved in one year seem like a huge amount.

What’s really cool is this program is a shoot-off of the whole micro-finance movement, which started in India, giving out small loans to groups, and later mostly to women, so that people might start their own businesses and generate more income, and bring themselves out of poverty. A lot of times, however, this would simply lead to individuals becoming strapped with debt, and unable to break out of the cycle of poverty. This Village Savings & Loans program, however, requires that the women save for a year. Then they can take out their money they have put aside after the year, and use that to invest in a new business or something. Therefore, they won’t have to go into debt. Some programs allow for the group to become a place to get actual loans, but only after the full year, and once a good savings has been collected.

So it was really exciting to see these women successfully saved, excited about their prospects, and so on. But it was weird since Anna and I, who were both invited, had nothing at all to do with this group. And, wow, it took so long. First they had to add up, on paper (and with a small calculator) the totals of all them women to make sure the final total equaled the amount of money which was in the box. Then they divided up all the money into a pile for each woman, and then had each woman collect it and “sign” (being mostly illiterate, the women simply stamped their fingerprint) for it. This took hours. Then there was a presentation recorded for the radio. We had to sit around watching the women practice singing, until the radio show host was satisfied. Then he went around interviewing women, and separated them between those who were well-composed, and those who were not. Then he practices asking the women who he thought were good enough to answer questions live. Finally, we started the live recording. There was singing, interspersed with various interviews, of local leaders, of the presidents of this Village Savings & Loans group. Then at one point, he is talking, and Anna and I here the word “Batoori” come up a few times (because, oh did I mention ALL OF THIS was COMPLETELY in Bariba?), then the radio show host asked a question in Bariba, and shoved the microphone in Anna’s face. No warning, no practicing, nothing. She didn’t have anything to say, because how could you, when you have barely and idea of what is going on? I think they were disappointed that the white people didn’t say anything, but oh well. Finally, 8 hours after I arrived, I was able to escape, go home, and just lie on my floor, exhausted from sitting around all day in the hot African air.

Monday I had programs with some gardening groups. It is complicated, though, because Anna and I have one man who is supposed to be there to take us to the various groupements and be our translator, etc. But we have some different things we want to do, plus everything always takes more time then we plan for, and then we have to rush off to the next scheduled event. (We are planning on meeting soon to work out a better schedule) So at both groups I had to take a lot of time to sort of the “weekly-fees” that had been collected in my absence. The hard part was that since the women are illiterate, all of these tallies were just kept in their heads. So it takes a lot of time to sort out. I am hoping to come up with a system where the women can record all of the transactions themselves. They need to be able to do this after I leave. Anna is working on sharing an “Accounting for Illiterates” training, so I will try to use this. I am excited to get all of this rolling, hopefully more smoothly soon!

Then today, I am working at “Sahel”, which is the seed-distribution building. Hubert’s office is here, even though technically he works for the mayor’s office, and this is an NGO who built this, coordinates the seeds, etc. This is where Landry used to work. He doesn’t work here anymore, but is still in Kérou. I don’t exactly understand what happened, but there was definitely a falling-out between him and Hubert. I think I would feel more sympathy for him, were it not for this huge chunk of pink skin on my leg. And the fact that him stopping by house always leads to him asking for something. Like I showed him my backpack, which has ripped again. His response is, “Oh, you MUST give that to me!” Like, wtf? If I’m still using this crummy, torn backpack, clearly I have no other option, and I’m not going to give it to you! Grrr… Then again, the only interaction with him is asking for information, like where can I buy charcoal? Where do I go to pay for my water? I’m not much better, but I just don’t have any respect for him. I don’t understand why he keeps stopping by my house. I think he’s wanted to be friends, but I think we just annoy each other a little too much to make that a reality.

Anyway, back to the Sahel. Hubert asked me what days I had scheduled other things, and then was like, “Oh, you don’t have anything Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday? Great! You can work at Sahel then!” Which means I have NO days at all in a week where I have nothing to do. Which on one hand is frustrating. But on the other hand, it’s not like I work full days (except when I will be working in the Sahel). For example, Friday I have a meeting at 8 in the morning, then at 5 in the afternoon. So two whole hours of scheduled work. Plus I can do whatever I want, surf the internet, read, etc, when I’m working at the Sahel, until someone comes by to buy seeds. Plus this means I actually have to leave my house every day, so no full lazy days. It’s really not bad. We’ll see how it works out.

Okay, now I want to talk about my electricity. Yes, it’s been out since before I left. That makes it almost 2 months. One of my neighbors, in fact, moved to another apartment because of this. Apparently the electric company needs to determine EXACTLY how much “Le Chateau” bar stole from them, etc. So for two months, the good people of this neighborhood have gone without electricity. Meanwhile, Le Chateau has a generator anyway. This all makes me just want to take someone and shake them.

So the solution, instead of calling up the electric company, and being like, “THIS IS F-ING RIDICULOUS! Fix it now, so my citizens can have electricity” the mayor just decides that they’ll just build me a direct line from the Mayor’s office, so I can get my electricity from there. I’ll reimburse the mayors office my approximate monthly usage. But the thing is, it’s only for me. My neighbors still don’t get electricity. So here I am, like the privileged little white girl, getting electricity while my neighbors sit in darkness. I hope they don’t hate me. Then the electricity is supposed to be working, but all that happened was that the one light outside kind of flickered on and off, and none of the other lights worked. So the electricians came by and worked for a few hours before they finally got everything working. Oh! Electricity! Then I plugged in my fridge, it kicked on for a minute, then stopped. I burst into tears. “NO! This can’t be happening,” I was thinking. “I’ve spent so much money on the fridge, getting the electricity to work [I had to pay for the line from the mayor’s office], and all I want is to use my fridge to make my water and food cold.” I probably sobbed for a good 5 minutes, once again considered leaving, before I calmed down. “It’s probably just been sitting around for so long,” I thought, more level-headed. “It just needs time for the fridge and the regulator [which protects it from surges] to get used to actually having power again.” And sure enough, a few minutes later, I could here the very low humming of my fridge as it started it’s process of becoming a cooling area.

I feel guilty admitting that I’ve been brought to the brink of wanting to quit, and over the stupidest, stupidest things, like an uncomfortable ride, and a fridge that didn’t work immediately. But I think Peace Corps service is filled with extreme ups and downs. Like there are moments when I feel so loved, then 2 minutes later, I want to slap the next kid that shouts, “Batoori!” I think some of this is readjustment/culture shock, after spending my time in the luxury of the capital, with flushing toilets you can actually sit on, grand fruit markets, paved roads, reliable(ish) electricity, and only having to worry about ants getting into the sugar, not about cockroaches and mice. That was my life, and now I have to adjust, without going through the more obvious transition of moving to a new country. At least when you get on a plane and travel for hours, you know you’re in for a change. But I am still in the same country, technically, so I’m not mentally prepared for all this. I still eventually realize that there is nowhere else I’d rather be. I think, maybe if I had something to come back to, maybe these little instances would push me over the edge. But no, I’m still here.

I also wanted to give a SHOUT OUT to Pastor & Mrs. Turley, Mrs. Martha Shanahan, and my grandmother Rosella for the cards I received. Thank you!