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.