“…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.