100 Beads

This past Tuesday, November 16, was the beginning of the three-day Muslim holiday Tabaski, also known as Eid ul-Adha. . It is a holiday celebrated to recognize Abraham’s (Ibrahim’s) submission to the command of Allah in sacrificing his only son, Ishmael. The Koran describes Abraham in the following passage:

"Surely Abraham was an example, obedient to Allah, by nature upright, and he was not of the polytheists. He was grateful for Our bounties. We chose him and guided him unto a right path. We gave him good in this world, and in the next he will most surely be among the righteous." (Koran 16:120-121)

Before Abraham was able to sacrifice Ishmael, Allah intervened and communicated that his devotion was evident through his willingness to obey the word of Allah, thus his sacrifice fulfilled. Allah gave Abraham a ram to sacrifice instead.

On the first morning of Tabaski, the Muslim people attend morning prayers at their mosque. I was invited to morning prayers by my landlord. Naturally, I accepted. He told me to wear a long skirt, or pagne, which is a piece of material 2 meters long that you wrap around your body, and a long sleeved tunic. I scrounged around through my clothes and managed to find something. I was told to meet my landlord’s sister in the morning, who lives in my concession. I went to the house of his sister Tuesday morning and told her I had nothing to cover my head. She quickly remedied the situation by covering me with a beautiful white head scarf. She nodded with approval, while the little girls giggled. We then walked about 2 miles to Mosque. The Mosque we attended for morning prayers was outside and consisted of rows divided by narrow piles of dirt, covered with mats that individuals brought themselves. We arrived early and sat with a group of elderly women who excitedly waved me over and gestured for me to sit directly in the middle, sharing with me the mats they had brought. I sat down and they started chattering away and we learned a little about each other, then one woman handed me a circular strand of beads, known as prayer beads. There are 100 beads per strand and as you pray, you move the beads along one at a time with your thumb and forefinger of your right hand. I found this strangely calming. As more people arrived, I felt something like a fly on the wall, for people did not immediately recognize me or my white skin, because my body was almost entirely covered. As soon as kids did recognize me, word traveled very quickly and most of them were no longer facing East, but instead facing me. But, I just kept moving my prayer beads between my fingers and wasn’t distracted at all. (The woman pictured lives near the outdoor mosque and requested a picture be taken).

A woman who frequents the health center saw me and hurriedly came over and squeezed between myself and the elderly woman to my left. She served as my Muslim prayer guru, elbowing me if I didn’t bow on time, put my head flat enough on the ground, or pay close enough attention, and swatting at my hands if they were incorrectly placed.

After morning prayers, goats began to be sacrificed. One of the walls of my house serves as wall of a goat pen and for the last 4 weeks, 3 fairly large goats have been kept there and have have successfully woken me up at all hours with the ruckus they frequently made. Tuesday night, I slept soundly. Those 3 goats seem to have been the prize goats. I saw goats darting throughout the village all day, never casually strolling as they often do. I offered them best wishes and promised not to tell anyone about their whereabouts. (The last photo is of another Mosque within my village).

Music was playing, drums being beaten and the sound of people talking and laughing together was mixed in with the smoke.

Marché Monday

The local market is held on Mondays in my village. Marché Monday. The Franglais alliteration helps me when trying to keep the days straight. There are also more linguistically congruent days: Malnutrition Mardi, Vaccination Vendredi, Sinner’s Sunday, etc. But, Mondays are also easy to remember because it’s my favorite day of the week. Imagine that: a traditionally dreadful day representing the end of the mystery, adventure and freedom the weekend brings; now the day I look forward to most. (The photograph is of huts that house market vendors.)

In the big picture, it’s a scale by which I can gauge my progress within the community. My first Marché Monday, I walked around with a less-than-enthusiastic guide who had been ordered by one of my protective work partners to help me find what I needed and not get swindled in the process. So, to the marché we went. It felt like the first day of seventh grade and having your mom walk you to the front door of the school, then demand both a kiss and an audible I-love-you. My guide might as well have held my hand and hung a placard from my neck that read “I have no idea what I’m doing and am considered incompetent by my peers.” The message, however, was conveyed sans placard, with brilliant clarity.

The next week, I decided not to tell anyone when I was going for the sake of my self-respect and that of a helpless teenage girl standing nearby who may have had the needy foreigner thrust upon her. So there I went, trying to feign an air of confidence, but soon realizing the vanity, abandoned that. I relaxed my arms, letting them swing without cadence, and meandered through the market. I talked to French-speaking vendors, mimed and nodded continually to those who rattled off Bariba. I wandered and weaved through the different huts, trying to avoid outstretched legs and cooking pots over hot coals. Women were sending children on different errands, who would run to perform the chore, only to begin walking unhurriedly once out of sight. Old women presented their wares of different powders atop blankets on the ground. Field workers sat by their metal buckets of yams. Young women carefully arranged piles of tomatoes and onions to ease the task of sale. Food was being prepared. Soy cheese removed from steaming pots. Then there were the sundry items unidentifiable to me. The mystery of the piles of thin, lucid meat aptly referred to as mystery street meat. The jars of pastel-colored almond-shaped somethings. The bell-shaped whatchamacallits that may come from a tree. Then there are the sounds – the honking of motos who mistakenly would try to drive through; the sizzling of oil and the blending of voices. I was enchanted by the marché and all of its’ strange charms.

Each week thereafter came further familiarity with both the marché and the faces of the marché. I have loyalties to both an onion vendor and a mobile bread vendor. I am more familiar with Bariba and can exchange a basic Beninese greeting which includes asking about how their morning was, how their kids are doing, and their mothers, and their fathers, the state of their bodily functions, and how business is going. It’s an energizing experience that provides a fascinating portal into Beninese culture and the soul of my village.

I’kpunandobonjourhowareyou?

I moved to my post on September 19. The past three weeks have involved cleaning a house and making it my own, observing the health center I will be working with, holding babies, sweating profusely, and learning the dynamics of a Bariban greeting. The people of my village are very welcoming and kind. I live in a concrete house with a tin roof in a compound of other homes. My neighbors are a family, though I’m not entirely sure how they are all related. The photo to the right is of the road to my post.

One of my greatest challenges as of right now is communication. After nine weeks of slowly acquiring French skills and feeling moderately confident in my abilities, the realities of working in Africa again came swooping down with my ego firmly in its grasp. Bariba is the local language in my village and also the most widely spoken. The patterns and grammar rules of modern languages do not apply. It is a language learned through practice and careful listening. No books. No verb conjugation charts. Just humbling interactions that predictably end with laughter at both my surely-telling-confused expression, and my attempt to correctly place emphasis on sounds that are entirely foreign. I would say that 97.3% of my conversations solely in Bariban more closely resemble a serious, very animated, game of cross-cultural charades. The difference doesn’t stop with the spoken word, however, and transcends into gestures as well; meaning that as they try to explain what they’re saying via gesture, their inexhaustibly flailing arms are putting forth a vain effort.

Language preference seems to differ among the varying age groups. Little kids tend to know roughly two phrases in French: “Bonjour!” and “Ça va? Ça va.” After repeating this and echoing one another for about 11 minutes, they break out in giggles and nonsensical ramblings. The older kids, about 8-14 years old tend to speak French to me. They learn French at school and are eager to practice. The older teens and into the mid-twenties group usually attempts English. They start learning English in school at about 13. These conversations usually make it to “how are you?” Those in their late twenties to mid-thirties will speak French, as will the more educated elders. A majority of females over 15 and people over 40 can usually only speak Bariba. This is largely due to the fact that the education of females has not been among top priorities in Benin and older people have been out of school so long they forget their French skills. Then there are the Nigerian immigrants who speak English, well, Nigerian English. This means that on any given 10-minute walk, I am likely to have spoken three languages. Transitions between them vary, but by the time I get home, I am simply trying to establish which way is up.

I have found a tutor to work with me on my Bariba and try to listen to Bariba conversations and figure out what is being said. In order for me to be the least bit effective, I need to be able to communicate with people. I want to communicate with people. I want to know their favorite foods, what their father did for work, and how they live their lives and why. This last one is especially important for working to better the health of the community. When trying to counter malnutrition, prevent malaria, and stop the proliferation of HIV/AIDS, it is critical to know how they live their lives and what needs modification.

In the past week, I have learned three useful phrases in Bariba. Next week I will learn at least three more. And with time, persistence, and a sense of humor, I’ll be talking philosophy with the elders. Hopefully.

Tree of Hope

On Saturday, the Peace Corps took us to the city of Ouidah (pronounced wee-duh). Ouidah is a popular spot for visitors because of its’ rich history and culture. It was one of the first major sites for slave exportation and the people of the region have strong traditions deeply rooted in a culture that has withstood mankind’s worst kinds of storms.

First on the day’s itinerary was a visit to the Python Temple. In this region, pythons are worshipped and revered. I walked into the small concrete compound to see a haphazardly constructed straw hut on the left where people sat around a fire; a circular temple with engravings decorating the outside walls and door in the far left; and to the immediate right, a black and white goat tied to a cement slab. As we moved further into the compound, an elderly man came out of the circular temple, draped in pythons and flashing us a toothless smile. He began to hand the snakes out to people in a similar fashion that firefighters give out candy at parades. Some recoiled to the back of the group with wide eyes and fearful brows. I won’t say I was particularly happy to be handed a python, but, when in Rome, right? I felt the weight of the cool, cylindrical animal around my neck as it proceeded to make itself comfortable hugging me closer. My time with the python had expired and a fellow volunteer helped me remove the creature. I proceeded towards the back of the group to find the black and white goat in a heap with a pool of its’ own blood beside it. This had been a sacrificial goat, in addition to a chicken, whose carcass was set beside it. Another moment of culture shock for the books. Which now operates in volumes. I entered the circular temple to have a flashback to Indiana Jones Temple of Doom. The floor was carpeted with slithering critters. I like to imagine that those were the royal pythons, the regal pythons living in the temple that rule over the lay-pythons of Ouidah.

Following the temple, we visited the Sacred Forest of Ouidah. The reason for its’ sanctity is still a mystery to me, but we walked through a stone-lion guarded entrance into a lush green jungle. The trees had barks that resembled a large bouquet of vines that gave the impression that these trees were the most ancient of them all; perhaps these trees were what made the forest sacred. Their girth and bark exuded wisdom and whispered the painful past of a city that had witnessed too much strife.

Next was a museum about the history of the slave trade and also explained the influence the slave trade had on the culture of Ouidah. There was, and still is, a strong Brazilian influence. Our guide explained different artifacts and read quilts composed of squares with symbols sewn onto them. A local artist was selling paintings, carvings and wood-burned etches onto thin pieces of wood. I bought a wood-burned etching of a weary, but still strong, tree, with the words “L’arbre du Retour” burned below. The literal translation being “The Tree of Return.” At the time, I had no idea what its’ true significance was. After the museum, we were driven along the route that enslaved peoples were forced to walk to the ships. It was about 7 or so miles long. The people were forced to walk this distance in chains and bound around the neck by wood to the person in front or behind them. Along the route, there was a tree called the “Tree of Forgetting,” or “L’arbre de l’oublie” and people would walk around this tree with their families, seven times and promise themselves to forget the life they were leaving behind; forget their homes, their culture, and their captors so that they could open their minds to their new life and deal with the new world they were about to enter. Further along the march was “L’arbre du Retour,” which is not intended to be translated literally, and actually means the “Tree of Hope.” People would walk around this tree three times with their families and hope that they would someday be able to return to their homeland. We arrived at the beach where a monument had been erected about 25 years ago and entitled “La Porte du Nonretour” or “The Door of No Return,” (this is what is pictured above). It was here that, perhaps symbolically, our tour of Ouidah ended.

Each village, much like towns in America, has its own history and unique traditions that require time and patience to unearth and come to appreciate. I am enthusiastic to learn about my own village and its traditions and history.

P.S. I am leaving for my post on Sunday, and thus will not be posting a blog next week and am unsure as to when I will be able to access the internet again.

Priests, Chiefs and Kings

On Wednesday of last week, I went to the site where I will be posted for the next two years. The photo is of my first sunset in village. I met my work partner, Uma the Unstoppable (name changed for identity protection), the day before, and we traveled to my post together. She is a mid-wife, very knowledgeable and motivated. The trek to my post involved an 8.5 hour bus ride to the major city of Parakou, then a 3.5 hour taxi ride to my village. And this taxi ride was equally as charming as the last, with the added pizzazz of being on one of the worst roads in Benin: a dirt road stocked full of holes, water damage, randomly placed speed bumps, and goats, at a width of approximately eight feet, frequent games of chicken with oncoming traffic that also involved horn blowing matches were entailed.

Relieved to extend my legs and not have my feet roasted any longer by an engine that absolutely lacked a radiator, I stepped onto the red earth that was my village. It was late, so I couldn’t see very much, but I was still trying to take in as much of my future home as possible. For fear that I would starve or lock myself in my latrine, Uma hosted me for my post visit (with good reason). For dinner, she gave me a hard-boiled egg rolled in piment powder. Piment is a type of very spicy pepper here that they put in everything. She loves piment and wanted to share it with me; I took a bite, knowing full well what was coming, and within moments, my mouth was ablaze. I made the quintessential this-is-so-good “mmmmm” in an attempt to neutralize my surely-telling facial expressions and perspiring forehead. This was a vain attempt, however, as she had anticipated my response and began roaring with laughter at the sweating American with a wimpy palate sitting in her living room.

The following day, Uma took me to meet village elders and people of importance. To be completely honest, I have no concept of the power structure in place. I met multiple “chefs d’arrondissement,” which translates loosely to chief of the village. I met about four of these. Then I met the Catholic priest, the school principal and an incredibly old man who may be important for that reason alone. I also met the village king, which was a very interesting cultural experience. Upon arrival to his compound, one of his wives signaled us in and we found him lounging in what looked like a medical cot with exotic blankets, furs, and a pillow. We removed our shoes at the door; Uma gracefully slipped out of her sandals, while I stood against the door frame, fumbling with my functional Chaco sandals. Upon entering, I tried to follow Uma’s example, bowing at certain times, then responding in local language, Bariba. The bowing became increasingly difficult to follow as I would get distracted by wall hangings, and would try to recover by bowing unnaturally fast, hesitating, and standing awkwardly on guard for the next demonstration of reverence. It is very possible that the king may think I suffer from epileptic seizures. After giving me the opportunity to become one of his wives and me politely declining, we returned to Uma’s house.

Friday was vaccination day at the health center, which will be one of my work sites. Most of the people in attendance were women and their children. Uma introduced me to the crowd of smiling women and they clapped as a form of welcome. I tried to speak with some of them, but most of them only spoke Bariba, so they would just giggle and turn their heads away. Learning local language will be one of the tasks to tackle upon return to village. Maternal health and infant malnutrition are some of the principal health problems in the village, so I will be working with this crowd extensively.

The nurse at the center, who is also the health center administrator, is one of my work partners. He took me to a health center 30 kilometers away, to meet the nearest doctor. I toured the health center there, which was quite a bit larger and had a laboratory to conduct testing. All of the staff were welcoming and seemed to know what they were doing.

On Saturday, Uma drove me to Parakou on her moto, which may also be described as a tin can on wheels. She is a good driver, however, and knows the road very well. On our way, we stopped to meet a man who will likely be a third work partner. He is a farmer, and very enthusiastic about education. The last volunteer who served in my village established a library, and he has a strong interest in me setting up clubs for village people at the library. His energy was infectious and I just wanted to go round up some kids and do multiplication tables. But, we had to get back on the road. The journey by moto took about 4 hours, but I was grateful to Uma for taking me all that way. The dust from the road made me sneeze and my nasal debris was comparable to a miner’s: black. Sunday, I took a bus back to Porto Novo.

After seeing my post and meeting some of the village people, I am more aware than ever of the work ahead of me. I have great work partners and an incredible population of people that I will be working with. There are many obvious challenges, and I’m sure there are an innumerable number that are yet to be recognized, but I know that what I am working towards is necessary for these people to lead better-quality lives. And I can’t wait to get to work.

“…Pour la bonne santé!”

This past Friday, the health sector was given the task of teaching a class on a health issue of our choosing. We were divided into four groups. We share the school where we receive our training with the TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) sector and they began their “model school” training 1.5 weeks ago. Each health sector group was assigned a TEFL class of schoolchildren and that was the target audience. The picture above is a typical classroom.

My group of three taught a class on the importance of hand washing for the prevention of disease and maintenance of good health. Indoor plumbing is a luxury here, and the majority of people have latrines. I am yet to see a latrine with a sink and a bar of Dove by the faucet, meaning that a large number of people do not wash their hands after using the bathroom, especially children, and leads to the contraction of numerous maladies.

We organized our materials and worked with my ever-patient language instructor to prepare our French hand washing presentation. He also worked with us to identify classroom management strategies and ways of retaining the attention of an 8-year old. Eeks.

Our class was a group of thirty-seven 8-11 year olds, though age is fairly difficult to gauge here given that few people know their exact birthdays. With my functional-at-best French, I had to rely upon my ability to make a fool of myself to hold their attention. Fortunately, that’s one of my more reliable characteristics. I had the honor of speaking about the bacteria that can live on your hands and make you sick if you don’t wash your hands; this provided a prime opportunity to make use of creepy-crawly gestures and correlating facial expressions. By the time I was done, most of them looked sufficiently disgusted. Success.

Then we taught the class a song about hand washing written by a member of my group with the refrain being “Laver-vous les mains, pour la bonne santé!” (Wash your hands, for good health!) Up next: a hand-washing demonstration. Never has a group of kids looked more intrigued by lathering soap. Then we asked for volunteers who would like to show the class how to wash their hands. 19 kids swarmed the front of the classroom, eager to share their enthusiasm for good hygiene.

As the attention span of schoolchildren was nearing exhaustion, we moved on to the next activity. We organized a modified match of musical chairs around the circular courtyard garden. This garden was approximately 17 feet in diameter and had a cement soil retention wall that was about 3.5 feet high in most places, and a flagless flag pole in the center. We had marked thirty-two X’s with chalk on the cement wall prior to the start of class as the “chairs” in this modified game. With thirty-seven kids in the class, five would be unable to find an X, and each of the five would then have to answer a question about hand washing. For fear of the chaos that would surely ensue if kids were actually asked to sit out for the remainder of the game, everyone was allowed back into the game at the end of each round. I stood in the center of the garden and fulfilled my responsibility in this outfit as DJ/monitor for kids to walk at a normal pace without pausing at each X/dance fiend. And while the five ousted students answered questions, I was hand shaking, high-fiving, and teaching kids to pound it, as a form of gold star substitute. The musical selection was chosen from a playlist entitled “250 Best of the 90’s;” Will Smith’s “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” and Sugar Ray’s “Fly” have never served a better purpose. The students danced with incredible coordination, all the while laughing and making it look easy. It began to rain, so we returned to the classroom before the entire courtyard became one mud puddle. To close, we asked if there were any questions, then sang the hand washing song one final time.

The children had an incredible appetite for knowledge that could be seen in their wide-open eyes, too scared to blink for fear of missing something important. This was a great opportunity to experience another setting that I will potentially be working in over the next two years. So everybody remember, lavez-vous les mains, pour la bonne santé!

A little citronella, please.

Traditional medicine and traditional healers are in about equal abundance in Benin to modern medical treatment and modern doctors. Naturally, the two conflict on occasion. This is one of the matters that I will have to work with as a health volunteer in Benin. I am an educator and will provide people with the information necessary to ensure that they remain in good health, but also need to respect the traditional methods of treatment that exist within Beninese culture.

For a cross-cultural field trip, we were taken to a private clinic that practiced both traditional and modern medicine. It was a run by a father and son duo. The father is a traditional healer and learned the trade during his youth because his own father was sick quite often, so he learned from the men who would come to treat him. The son is a doctor of modern medicine and also a molecular biologist. They provide clients with information regarding their health situation and the choices they have within traditional and modern medicine. There was also a traditional medicine museum (pictured above) near the health center that displayed various ingredients used to concoct traditional treatments. There were roots, barks, stumps, corn cobs, herbs, objects I could not identify, and animal pelts. It was fascinating to see all that people had collected for the treatment of various maladies. But, what I found most interesting of all, was the coexistence of two approaches to health. While they may differ in opinion, it is possible to reconcile those differences and work in a way that best serves the patient. This is an important idea to keep in mind once I begin my work at post.

Following the visit to the clinic, we were taken to a large, bustling, marketplace called Ouando. Here, we had to find the ingredients for traditional medicine treatments. With our patient language teachers leading the way, we wove our way through the marketplace that was pulsing with African drums, the bells of bicycles that were mistakenly brought into the market, and the always-shocking amount of stuff that women carried on their heads. After distractedly wandering through the market, we arrived at the traditional medicine vendor. A person would tell the vendor, “My stomach aches.” “I cannot sleep at night.” “I get awful headaches.” And she would then give them some herb or shrubbery and tell them how to prepare it to help with their issue. Some of us have been having problems with mosquitoes and their tendency to chomp on us, so the women gave us bouquets of citronella grass and told us to place them in the corner of our room. While I might have been burning a citronella tiki torch 2 months ago, I now have citronella grass tied to a bedpost with a plastic bag in my room. Cool. After we all obtained our “treatments,” we piled back into the van and returned to school.

I look forward to learning more about traditional medicine and working with traditional healers towards our common goal of better health for the people of Benin.

Dancing with spirits

This past week, we went on our technical visit. This is a four-day excursion where you travel with two-three other members of your sector to a current volunteer’s (we are not considered volunteers yet and are referred to as trainees) post and shadow them. It provided insight into daily life of a health volunteer and the various factors that compose the volunteer experience as a whole.

The first challenge of the trip was transportation. We first took a “taxi” to Cotonou; when I say taxi, I do not mean a clearly established yellow vehicle with a light on top indicating availability, I mean a beat up, hollowed out, starts-by-means-

of-hot-wiring vehicle driven by a man who likely decided that morning that he would act as a taxi for the day. When we arrived in Cotonou, we had to change taxis to get to our next stop. The picture is of the interior of our first taxi. When we stepped out of the car, men flocked to us, all advertising their driving services. This was an interesting event to observe; at first, the 13 drivers unionized, demanding the same, over-priced fee. They stood strong for about 5 minutes and when we started to walk away, one, brave, profit-seeking individual, offered us a price less than the other. This was when hell broke loose. All bets were off; amidst heated debate, I was sure that we were going to witness 7 different fist fights. Fingers were almost lost in trunks being opened to welcome our baggage, only to be slammed shut by competing vendors. We were able to find a decent price, and shuffled through the agitated crowd of drivers to our taxi. After 2 hours with 8 other people in a 5 passenger car, we arrived at the second stop. The volunteer we were going to stay with lived in the back-country, jungle-bush. We took zemidjans for the remainder of our trip; it was a beautiful 30-minute ride on paths that wove through small villages and the lush green jungle. At long last, exhausted, but still wide-eyed, we reached our destination.

With the guidance of the current volunteer, we led two information sessions for women who were taking part in a 14-day nutritional recuperation program that aims to combat malnutrition via education and hands-on practice of preparing enriched meals. This was a great experience to help prepare for work at our own posts.

One of the best parts of the visit was walking around neighboring villages and talking with local people. They were all welcoming and patient with our clumsy fragments of local language, Fon, which we learned on the spot. They laughed at what was surely poor pronunciation but were delighted by our efforts to speak Fon.

On Friday night, our host volunteer told us that we were going to a party. She also told us to bring a little money to contribute; we figured this would be for food and drinks. At about 9:30, we left her house and began walking down the dirt path – following the sounds of the drums. At about 9:55, we arrived. Recognizing their volunteer, they greeted us excitedly and led us through a horde of people also thrilled to see us, to a rickety bench at the front of a dirt courtyard. The four of us sat, trying to take in all that was going on and anticipate what was to come next. This, however, would prove impossible, for what came next could not have been anticipated. The mob of people surrounded us and three tiers of children quickly piled behind us, applying the pressure to our backs that can be expected of such a crowd. Without knowing which way to direct my eyes, drums began to play, a cowbell started to clank and men began to chant and then three figures that resembled 7-foot high, 5-feet wide, stacks of hay, appeared and began dancing and spinning wildly. They spun so fast that dirt and dust was being stirred and flying into our faces. These figures are called “zambettos” and are spirits that occasionally appear physically and visit their village. Apparently, these zambettos heard about the foreigners who were in town, and decided it best to dance for them. Trying to fight the urge to sing “Woolly Bully,” I sat in a state of complete speechlessness. The four of us clapped along to the beat while bracing ourselves against the increasing pressure on our backs from the rabble of children. They danced, shouted, shook, spun and at the end of a spinning spell, would collapse to the ground. After about 10 minutes, we learned what our money was contributing to. One of the village men in charge asked us for a monetary donation for the dancing zambettos. After money matters were put aside, the zambettos began dancing again, and the four of us got up and danced with them. This made the villagers go insane – they were clapping, laughing and yelling. They do not normally dance with the zambettos because they believe them to be actual spirits, so they thought we were absolutely out of our minds.

After the dancing ceased, we walked back to our host’s house; all of us trying to process what just happened and what we had been allowed to witness and even take part in. Personally, I’m still processing. Each village has its’ own traditions, beliefs, values and culture as a whole and I am excited to discover those of my post village. One thing is for certain, wherever I go, whether it be with mothers, children, or spirits, I will be dancing.

High-Fives and Tambourines

As part of our health sector training, we had a baby-weighing practicum this past Saturday. The purpose of baby weighing is to ensure that babies in the community are receiving adequate nutrition and allows mothers and health professionals to chart the progress of a baby. One of the roles of a health volunteer is to detect and counteract malnutrition via education and awareness. Malnutrition is a huge problem here and is one of the leading causes of infant mortality.

While the description above may make the practicum sound technical and dry, I can promise you, it was anything but. We arrived in the designated village at about 9:00 a.m. and clambered out of the overloaded bus/glorified van with grace comparable to a gaggle of Hell’s Angels. A few volunteers rushed to nearby bushes to relieve their back-of-the-bus car sickness, while the rest of us attempted to wipe the sweat and dust from our faces in an attempt to appear at least moderately presentable. We had arrived.

We were led into a straw-thatched roof structure with a dirt floor and a concrete half-wall where two scales were hanging from log-support beams. People quickly gathered around us and women with their babies slowly filtered in. Once the hut was full, a woman who appeared to be running the show, handed out make-shift tambourines that were ceramic plates with metal rings pierced around the edges, to all of the women in the hut, volunteers included. She set the beat, and we followed. A simple 1-2-3-pause-1-2-3-pause, to start; once it was apparent that we were able to handle the beat, she began to sing, leading the other women of the village to join in chorus at certain points. Within moments, we became a one-hut band. She suddenly quickened the rhythm of the tambourines and then the dancing began. A few of the women danced in a traditional Beninese style that I have seen in music videos and on the streets in which women move their shoulders back and forth quickly, in unison, hands are slightly open and allowed to follow where the shoulders lead, while slightly bent at the hips. This continued for about 10 minutes while we all watched and just tried to take in the rich culture of which we were suddenly a part. After that song concluded, another began. Round two. Following the second song, one of our facilitators explained to us that in the future, it is very important to dance with them because it makes the women more comfortable with you and establishes rapport; even if you do not know how to dance, you are expected to stand up and ask someone to teach you. A little embarrassed that I thought they were simply dancing for us as a form of welcome, I nodded and readied myself for the next dance party.

After the initial songs and dancing were over, the baby weighing began. The first baby I weighed was fat and healthy – excellent. A vital component to the success of this baby weighing activity is the interaction with the mother. If their child is healthy, it is important to congratulate the mother and tell her she is doing a great job, then inquire as to what she feeds her child. The benefits are three-fold: one, you may learn something; two, with other women present who may have babies that are not as healthy, they may learn from one another; and three, you are acting as a source of positive reinforcement to encourage further healthy habits. If a baby is underweight and falls into the malnourished category, the conversation with the mother is equally important. Again, you investigate their feeding habits and make suggestions, as well as make an at-home visit at a later point.

The baby weighing seemed chaotic with crying babies, naked babies, peeing babies, women talking, kids hanging over the concrete wall watching to see what we would do next, and in the midst of all this, attempting to talk nutrition in broken French. While we waited for everyone to finish, some of us played with the kids in the village. And when I say “played,” I mainly mean give an excessive number of high-fives. They LOVE high-fives – they were going crazy. We were called back to the hut for the closing of the baby weighing session and the mob of children moved with us. The high-fives did not cease, either. I sat on a bench with both of my hands up, smiling, as they just slapped my hands excitedly, laughing, and it became apparent that their enthusiasm was not going to be exhausted any time soon. It was hysterical, at one point I almost fell off the bench from the force of the excited high-fivers. The woman who had led the music earlier reappeared and initiated another energetic song. This time, I was ready. We all were. We got up and danced as our facilitator showed us how to perform traditional Beninese dance. The kids were jumping up and down shrieking at the sight of us dancing, while the women with babies on their laps laughed and sang along. This was a day at work.

We thanked the women and the community then piled back into the purely functional white van and drove out of the village with the children running behind us, waving wildly and shouting farewells.

This experience made me even more excited to get to my post and begin my work here in Benin. And… to dance.

Happy 50th Birthday, Benin!

On August 1, 2010, Benin became “over-the-hill” as it celebrated its’ 50th anniversary of independence. Celebration here, as you may have imagined, is very different from the traditional Fourth of July I am used to. Parties and social gatherings are private and the parade is composed solely of the military. The president, Boni Yayi was present as well as various other leaders of Western and Central African countries. A celebratory futbol match was held in the afternoon. My family and I watched the thrilling parade on television; I thought my eyes were going to bleed from boredom. I would close them when my Maman wasn’t looking. It was about three hours long, and Maman’s favorite military march was the last, naturally. The soldiers marched in slow, melodic procession in which their arms would swing opposite their legs and freeze for 2 seconds with each leg extension, then step, freeze, and step. My Maman was giddy with excitement at the sight of them. I failed to see the fascination, but enjoyed watching her laugh and smile broadly as her eyes were pasted to the television.

On Saturday, Independence Day eve, my host sister and brother took me to the Beninese equivalent of Miss America: Miss Independance. It was scheduled to start at 8:00 PM, but in true African tradition, began at 11:30. The most surprising part about “African time,” is that everyone seems to know exactly when things will start, despite the deviance from a schedule. Everyone except those who are yet to acquire the “African clock.” I’m working on it. We arrived at about 11:15, and the crowd came in ten minutes later. Just in time. As we entered the museum where the show was being hosted, a towering man in a metallic silver shirt grabbed me by the elbow and led me away from the flow of human traffic, signaling to my host brother to come also. He began speaking to me in French far too rapidly for my novice level of comprehension, failing to see my expression of grave confusion and preparedness to flee the scene. It turned out that he thought I was there to give a speech at Miss Independance and to act as a judge for the competition because I was white. My sister said, “She doesn’t even speak French!” The man looked at me with a look of “Then why are you here?” and finally released my elbow from his tight grip.

This experience so far has made me more aware of my skin color than I have ever been. This is not surprising, but has created a sandstorm of thoughts regarding race and the value assigned to a person based on the color of their skin. My sister watches music videos on television here, and almost all of the women in the videos are light skinned or white. The same can be seen in the States and it is interesting to see the overlapping issues within society and the social pressures placed upon people, women in particular. While differences between American and Beninese life are certainly abundant, the struggles of daily life are, fundamentally, very similar.

Every day is something new and leaves me with a perpetual wide-eyed and fly-catching mouth expression. There is a lot to learn, always, and I am eager to see what comes next.

Sink or swim? Staying afloat.

“Yovo Yovo

Bon soir

Ca va

Bien”

… and repeat. The term “Yovo” here means white person, or foreigner and the above is a song that children sing when they see me, or any other person with lighter skin than them. From what I have heard, they are taught this in grammar school. It basically represents the level of fluency a “Yovo” has in Benin and their limited ability to communicate. I am no exception, of course, though I wish I were. Some people become very annoyed and agitated by this label and the song and reprimand the children who say it. It doesn’t bother me, however. The term yovo does not have any racial implications. For a lot of these kids, I’m the first white person they’ve seen, or at most, one of the few they’ve seen, and they’re just curious and observing what they see. The polite thing to do in Benin when greeted with the Yovo song, or just “Yovo!” is to say “Bon soir” or “Bonjour.” However, this becomes a little exhausting when I am running and in between breathing the humid, dust-filled air, dodging zemidjans (and hoping they return the favor), and attempting to maintain a challenging pace, I also am saying “Bon soir! Bon soir! Ca va bien, merci.” Woof.

This past week has been a three-ring circus of new sights, tastes and experiences in general. We were placed with our host families and have begun our intensive language, technical and cultural training. My family is very kind and patient – thank goodness. My French is coming along, though I still have a lot to learn. Familiarizing myself with the city of Porto Novo Is quite a challenge, also. I have a fairly good sense of direction and have my bearings on the cardinal directions here, but I still have to remember landmarks such as the corner with the excessive number of goats, the fence with a monkey tied to it, or the road with erosive water damage in order to get home at the end of the day. Supposedly, the streets have names, but I am yet to see a single sign. For now, my method seems to be effective; just don’t ask me for directions.

On the subject of getting around Porto Novo, we received our mountain bikes this week and I have been riding mine to school everyday. This is not the typical “ride-my-bike-to-school” image you may have of a smiling kid with a cute basket-bearing bicycle and a red horn. This is get-your-clip-on-shoes, where are your bike gloves?, hold on tight, grit your teeth and go, ride-my-bike-to-school image. There is a reason they give us mountain bikes. Whoa. It’s better than being on foot, most of the time, but it’s certainly no smooth ride in the Boston suburbs.

Life here is, as one might suspect, a whole other world from the one I have always known. Nothing is simple. Drinking water requires 4 hours of planning ahead; boiling then allowing to cool then filtering. Doing laundry is a 3 hour feat of intensive labor that involves retrieving well water, transporting it to the washing site, scrubbing, rinsing, hanging and then disposing of the water. Going to bed at night entails spraying myself with Deet-concentrated bug spray, climbing under the mosquito net, then tucking it in at the sides to ensure no malaria-infected insects try to nibble on me. It has left me wondering – what did I do with the extra time I had when the modern amenities in America were readily available? Obviously, we always find ways to fill our time, but time seems even more precious now. The moments of freedom from daily obligations are more rare, yet of more value. It’s interesting to think how my concept of time will have morphed when I return to the States. Time is something I hope to never take granted.

A lot happens on sidewalks

One of my favorite ways to explore and see a new city is by early morning runs; awake before the city begins to roar, and just listening to the rhythm of the strange place. I exchange curious glances with local passerby, though some looks received more closely resemble bewilderment. As my run progresses, I watch the city wake with explosive energy. Without warning, people are bustling, cars are zooming, and the air thickens. My run comes to a close.

Yesterday morning, I was finally given the opportunity to run in Cotonou. One of the current Peace Corps volunteers offered to take a group of us out at 6:30. We left the hostel at 6:34 and began to run towards the city center. We ran mostly on sidewalks, however this does not imply that the terrain was not challenging. In Benin, a lot happens on sidewalks. There are piles of rubbish, sand that has drifted across the stone, gaping holes from lost stone tiles, failed man-hole covers that will take you directly to the city sewage drain, and moto-drivers who cannot pass a vehicle on the road, thus decide to off-road it. I felt like Indiana Jones, sans leather satchel and a phobia of snakes. An exciting way to start the day.

Later that day, we received zemidjan (pronounced zemee-john) training. They are the primary means of transportation here and are similar to a small motorcyle. We learned how to flag one down, the dynamics of the interaction with the driver (i.e. haggling), proper mounting procedure, and how to ride without falling off or burning your leg. It was a blast. But, what I found most interesting was the interaction with the driver. Prior to initiating any conversation about destination and travel fee, it is very important to greet the driver and ask how he is doing. This custom is also valid for any interaction with a stranger; I think this is a noteworthy gesture. It represents people acting as human beings and recognizing that humanity in others, as well. I thought of how often people actually greet the Subway sandwich worker before saying “Veggie Delight on Multi-grain bread. Toasted.” It’s a simple action, but carries significant weight.

Let the Adventure Continue

I began the process of becoming Peace Corps volunteer on June 3, 2009. This was the one-year anniversary of my grandmother’s death. Her influence and presence in my life has played, and continues to play, a pivotal role in who I am and who I strive to be. I decided on June 3, 2009, that every year on the anniversary of her death, I would do something to celebrate her life. It is important that her selflessness, ceaseless giving, and peace-spreading nature be reincarnated in the hands of those who were fortunate enough to have borne witness to her unparalleled embodiment of that which she valued most.

On June 3, 2010, I notified the Peace Corps of my formal acceptance of the invitation to serve as a Community Health Advisor in Benin, West Africa, departing July 14. It is a French-speaking country, which is exciting because I’ve always wanted to be, at least, bilingual. In conversation, the usual question to follow is: “Do you speak French?” Answer: While the College Board seems to find my French sufficient, I have no doubt that I will be struggling to find the words for marketplace items and to speak in any tense but the present.

There will be 9 weeks of Pre-service Training where we will live with host families and attend classes for 8-10 hours a day. Classes will include intensive language instruction in addition to technical training in our area of specialty. Our host families serve as the source for our cultural education by providing information about Beninese culture and feedback regarding our performance within that culture. After the 9 weeks, we are given our community assignment and move to our two-year service site.

I’m excited to see the world from a new perspective and learn from all of the wonderful, interesting people I am sure to meet. While concern has been expressed in regards to safety, communication, the prevalence of snakes and my ability to resist the temptation to adopt one as a pet, I am confident in the Peace Corps ability, and my own, to ensure that I remain healthy, educated and free of snake bites.

I appreciate all the support that my friends, family, and strangers on airplanes have given me. I love you all. Peace Corps is another chapter in the big adventure that is life. So let the adventure continue.

P.S. I do not know how readily available the internet will be once I am in Benin, so these posts, and communication with me in general, are likely to be irregular and infrequent.