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.