Parakou

Ah, Parakou. The city of lights. Well, not quite, but it's still something for a country-boy like Monsieur Robert coming in from the hills of Aklampa. Flu season is upon us it seems (they get that here?) and that means the backwater folks get to come into the burgeoning population center that is Parakou, a glorified dustbowl during this time of year, for their government mandated stabbing. Minerets replace steeples in this part of the country and shawls replace braids, it being a more Muslim influenced region than in the dirty south. Parakou has become quite the loci for us TEFLers over the last two weeks as it was just seven days ago that we were all here for our brief respite from the school year known as PSW (Personal Strategies Workshop). Thanksgiving, that ancient most American of holidays, found us all together and we had quite the fete, stuffing a guinea fowl in a duck and then stuffing the afformentioned amalgamation into a turkey tastes better than it sounds and throw in some mashed taters and home is just a taste away. The walls of the workstation sufficiently insulated us all from the prayer calls and zemijohn drivers as we all pretended to be back home. As trite as it sounds, there is a lot to be thankful for. Just a brief list to whet your appetite; showers, books, my dog, my family, my friends (old and new), and just plain being. Perhaps another thing to add to that list is movies, it never ceases to amaze me how awe-inspiring movies are after being au village for a month. For a culture shock it's always fun to take a walk outside of the station immediately after watching "I Love You Man" or "The Hangover". Sufficiently inundated with American popular culture and rearmed with new reading materials, Aklampa is calling. A la prochaine Parakou.

Wake-Up

The sun rose sharply over the rocky hill, its luminance made less searing by the Harmattan winds billowing in from the North, which makes the atmosphere a smoggy collection of Sarahan sand particles. The trees crowded around me and the rocky crag of a colline I was on in a very African way, erasing my momentary wondering of where I was. I was in Benin, waking up on a local hill close to the village, seeing the day stretch itself and my new world awaken, life is good. Perhaps the understatement that best defines my experience here thus far, life is good.
The great outdoors is something different in America. A slogan for an air freshner, a poster in a classroom, here it's just everyday life, a fact made more clear to me by my first camping experience in Benin. Maybe that's why it was so hard to explain what we were doing sleeping out on the colline to the neighbors. "You're doing what?","What's camping?","You're bizarre, but nice." (That last one being my favourite response). It's strange to think that in America we've become so far removed from the outdoor experience that we've created an entire sporting lifestyle, complete with packaged goods and industrialized retail processes, called "camping". Camping, the hardest word to translate for me thus far. I settled on "faire du sport", as much as that falls short of the intended meaning. Either way, it was worth while. The "wow" moments seemed to multiply as the day went on, a fact owing, I think, to the fact that I was their for the day's birth, the nightly struggle of the sun against the night had been won yet again by the sun and life could go on. Marche day, Parakou bound; all facts making my day worth mention, but made all the more insignificant and wonderful at the same time by that red sun peaking over the hills. It's time to get up Brad.

Field Of Dreams

Every little boy knows the voice. The internal dialogue of an announcer calling out the name of a young sports hero as he takes the field. Practiced in school basketball courts and baseball diamonds nation wide, this young boy is no exception. Such was my delight to relive the dialogue this year at the Aklampa students versus teacher soccer game.

In my head the public announcement, after a rousing rendition of the Michael Jordan intro music to get the crowd on its feet, went something like this, "And now, from the United States of America, your new English teacher! Monsieur...MOCK...Robert!"

Needless to say, the crowd went wild as I took to the dusty Lago field for the final two minutes of the match. The air was electric as I almost was able to touch the ball while sprinting up the field, I'll get it next time boys. While I didn't get to play much in the game, a measly two minutes at the end of the game, I was happy enough to get the nod from the coach, and to show off my speed to my colleagues, the hope being that they'll realize what an offensive weapon they have to use. While I may be a bit rough around the proverbial soccer (or "football") edges, I feel that I have potential and I treated the game as a very poor man's version of the NFL combine. Look out for me next time students!

I had to squeeze into the team uniform, a blue ensemble with a corn cob on the front and "Que Le Meillieur Gagne" emblazoned on the right chest and us teachers fought those darn kids to a pretty good nil nil draw.

I was happy enough to run around as close to the sideline as possible to be further inundated with adrenaline as a result of the roar of the rabble rousers enjoying the game.

Besides my new amateur athletic career in the Collines, I also have a new roommate. Charley the lovable Beninese dog, a cute puppy given to me by a local Canadian and fellow Yovo is my new constant companion. While a bit too young to be used to harass the local neer-do-wells, he is cute enough to stop a thief in his or her tracks. That a boy Charley, kill 'em with kindness. Who needs a soccer trophy with a dog like this?

Zangbeto Lullaby

I could feel my eyes begin to well up as my brain chemistry was transported back to being a five year old boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. While I have been known as a sensitive guy I won't blame my sensitivity this time, no way no how sir. Rather, perhaps a lethal combo of not understanding the language and something akin to homesickness, and yet not. We'll call it foreign fatigue, alliteration trumps convention.
The problem at hand involved my being caught, like a bandit, emptying out my uneaten bowl of flour and water, somewhat of a staple food here, and the food given to me when I returned from a bank visit to Savalou. To add to my uneasiness was the complete lack of blood flow in my derriere due to the long moto ride. While the charm of riding a zem is undeniable, it begins to wear off after the twentieth minute.
I had thought that things were all hunky-dorey with my elderly neighbor/proprietor but it turns out that hell hath no fury like an old wrinkled woman. My colleague informed of my faux-pas and I was forced to face the lion. After a litany of Fon words had been thrown my way Grande-Maman broke the otherwise awkward moment with strange song and dance routine, which I was thankful for. My spirit was instantly lifted. Apparantly, it was a song that kids sing here when they get caught doing something bad, e.g. throwing out there strange flour porridge concoction.
Happiness became me, but I was still a bit shaken due to my road weariness and "foreign fatigue". It turns out everything is okay with my Grande-Maman. Like most things in this country, people begin with shouting and end with laughter, a custom I heartily admire. Dinner with my colleague allowed me to put things back in perspective and the moon and stars did the rest. I'm sure the palm wine helped as well.
A moon halo was my constant companion on the walk back home, where I greeted Grande-Maman warmly, no harm no foul I suppose. Sleep was ushered in by the whistling sound of the zangbetos in front of the temples, as deep night took hold in Aklampa. Remember, like America, if Maman ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

One Month

Aklampa, like most things in Benin, is hard to describe. In the middle of the country and straddling the split in the national highway (highway equals paved road), the super-village acts like a coin spiral donation thingie (is that what they're called?) found at museums and the like, sucking in the produce from Benin's bread-basket and then sending it out to the rest of the country.
One month down here and I've managed to find internet access in the nearest town on the gadron(highway), Glazoué. School has commenced, slowly but surely, and I'm becoming quite acclimated to the laid-back attitude of my fellow collegues, who act more like the cast from "Saved By The Bell" than like American teachers.
To give a brief recap of my adventures thus far in the shining citadel of Beninese academia I'll start with the "first" week of school. This consisted of the teachers hanging out whilst the soon-to-be students hacked and weeded their way through the overgrown savannah that is CEG Aklampa.
After the first week "netoyage" school could begin to take flight and thus far I am thoroughly enjoying it. Highlights so far include name tag making, roaring like a lion to demonstrate what a lion is, and kicking a few neer-do-wells out of class, that oughta teach 'em! I rule with an iron fist! Not really, but I've managed a pretty good classroom thus far.
The village itself has been just as welcoming and it never gets old to simply walk around outside to saluier the neighbors and make new friends, who are fast dissappearing due to my prodigious canvassing. My place still lacks some basic amenities like a bed and a table and right now resembes an austere college room. That being said it has major potential and I've already commissioned the carpenter to go to town, so to speak, ou bien, go to village.
Food, while delicious, can become monotonous and a bit trying on the intestines but I would still rank it as good, as of right now that is. In Benin, when sampling new foods, I find it better to simply put it in and swallow before asking questions, this circumvents the brain's pesky warning flags and generally makes food more digestable, at least on the surface. The favourites so far in terms of food are 1) mashed yam, 2) tapioca with lots of sugar, and 3) yam fries. The fruit is also delicious, especially pineapple. Papaya, while tasty, has some later side effects that are for the most part worth avoiding.
A bike ride around the terre rouge surrounding the village is fast becoming my favourite pastime. The sacrée forét with a giant tree residing in the middle like a king in his court supplies a much needed burst of fresh forest air that cools the body as well as the soul. Also, if ever I'm in need of a moment to reflect and get a "wow" out, the vistas along the road do just the trick. "Bon arrivée" or "kwabo", the farmers will shout, and I'll simply nod with a silly grin on my face.

Du Courage!

"So help me God", these are the last words of the Peace Corps oath, an oath that fifty of us took yesterday morning in Cotonou. What help?, one might ask, and I suppose only God knows the answer to that as well. Either way it is a chest full of fresh air to finally be in Benin as a Volunteer. That is correct, stage is officially over, meaning that today is my first as an official Peace Corps Volunteer, my boss is that disgruntled lot of Americans known as "taxpayers" (thanks guys).
Whats next then, eh? Well, for starters, all of my metaphorical roads lead to Aklampa, my Royaume nestled in the collines of the aptly named départément, Collines (akin to naming Michigan Hand-shaped, how quaint!). Departure time for tomorrow morning is eight-o'clock local time, meaning we should be on the road by ten and with luck, in Aklampa before sundown.
As much of stage was a hassle, it has certainly been a much needed hassle as I've learned so much in the past nine weeks. What is more, I'm sure I'll miss the structure of stage (and I'm being generous with the usage of structure here) once I get to post and will undoubtedly be left to my own devices, Aklampa look out!
As we all scatter to the four corners of Benin it'll be bitter-sweet to part with new friends. After all, parting is such sweet sorrow. The first three months at post are known as lock-down as the Volunteer is not allowed to leave his\her post for anything other than "bank trips". Bien intégre is the goal here and I look forward to the afforementioned task whole-heartedly. As Aklampa lacks electricity this will be a bit of a "Peace Corps Dark" time for me, meaning I'll not be very connected to the rest of global society, yet another aspect that has my Id grinning with delight.
Porto-Novo has been a great host for me during the past nine weeks and while I won't miss the pollution or the honking I'm sure to miss my host family who has been nothing if not kind and welcoming to me. The hot season is just kicking off here and I can't help but extract some symbolic meaning from this. As the season warms up, we as Volunteers are finally warmed up. Our bodies and minds somewhat attuned for life in Benin and ready for our service. I'm sure a more eloquent person could come up with something better, but that will have to suffice for now. The umpire has shouted "play ball!" and we're taking the field. Du courage!

Ouidah

Erected on the beach in front of me stood a massive arch, recalling the splendor of l'Arc de Triumph in Paris, complete with a processional path up and through its massive center. Through the arch stood the ocean, sparkling blue as it had four hundred years ago, when millions of people were taken from their homes and transplanted thousands of miles away in the Americas. Engraved on the arch are images of people; former farmers, warriors, smiths, mothers, daughters, fathers, sons; solemnly facing the ocean and what lies beyond, their backs to Africa.
This is la Plage de Non Retour, the Beach of No Return, built as a monument to the the crime of slavery at Benin's former slave trading center, Ouidah.
Benin was not the largest supplier of slaves but the country does rest in the geographic center of the region most impacted by the slave trade, west Africa. Close to ninety percent of African-Americans' ancestors were of west African extraction, a fact which made this trip all the more important to me as this was not just a world history lesson but a walk through America's hidden history, part and parcel of our national story. Nothing can be more moving than to look at the ghosts of our past and slavery is nothing if not the skeleton in America's closet, the ground zero of our infatuation with race and racism.
The sound of the ocean has a waxing philosophic sound, and I was obliged to simply sit and listen. I don't don't know what for, but to just sit and take it all in. We were all on the beach as Americans, no matter what our background was, and this beach is as inextricably linked to what made us a nation as the Old North Church at Boston is, or that lonely field at Gettysburg is. There are times when words cannot do justice, and this is one of those times.

Ganvié

The smell was less than flattering as we descended the van and found ourselves on the "dock" area facing Ganvié. I attempted to be lenient with my evaluation of the place as it was after all a lakeside market, specializing in smelly, if tasty, creepy crawlers. Also, it was nice to again smell fresh water and fish in the air. My leniency began to dissipate, however, as the locals began to pester us for "cadeaus". "S'il vous plait, monsieur. Donne-moi de l'argent." It was somewhat amusing to brush these folks off by asking for my "cadeau" first but after the hundredth request my response had turned to English so as to allow me to better express my annoyance, to the utter incomprehension of the beggers.
It isn't fair to portray Ganvié as a collection of people just asking for money. After all, it isn't there fault that white people line up to be boated through their city to a few souvenir shops and then leave. I would probably be annoyed by this common intrusion as well. And many people were quite open in their contempt for our presence, by twisting their faces up when they saw us or by hiding their faces, thereby making it impossible for the savy photographer to document their life. I found myself more admiring these people than the children openly asking me for pens or candy or money or whatever I would throw at them. Don't worry, I didn't give in, no "cadeaus" were given on my part, except my presence in this water town.
To be fair, Ganvié was a very beautiful community. The lake made me think of Michigan and my erstwhile watering holes and that reminiscence was well worth the trip. While it is a longstretch to compare the village to Venice (for one there are no pigeons or opera houses) the simple beauty in how people live was quite humbling. There is just something about being apart of a tourist racket that leaves an acrid taste in my mouth, especially one so far removed, seemingly, from the people it profits off of.
It is my hope that Ganvié (I'm not one hundred percent sure on the spelling) will find a better way to cooperate with the tourist industry, one that is conducive to encouraging dialogue between people rather that operating like a zoo. If not, then it might be better if the rest of the world left Ganvié alone.

Dusk

Yet another blog post, how redundant Brad. Pardon the interruption, but seeing as in only two weeks I'll be in le Royaume d'Aklampa, sans le courant électricitie mind you, I figured I would use such modern conveniences as the internet rather liberally. That's right, just two more weeks and life as an officially licensed Peace Corps Volunteer begins. Where does the time go eh?
While model school this week seemed to start off a bit bumpy it did manage to go out rather peacefully and for that I am grateful. I do really feel that we are all making so much progress together as we near the end of our incubation period together. There is plenty of room for improvement, but isn't there always?
Tomorrow all of us TEFLers head out to Ganville, the Venice of Benin I like to call it. I'm pretty pumped for Saturdays in general, and when one throws in the novelty of visiting a stilt village in a lagoon my psyche tingles with delight. Perhaps too graphic of a description? Either way, I'm excited about it.
Tonight is a friend's birthday and all of us teachers are all getting together to fete the person right. I look forward to swapping stories of students who, unbeknownst to them, made hilarious sentences in English (par exemple; "do you mind milking the fridge?", "When I am angry I beat my sister" and "If I could fly, I would"). Kids do say the darndest things, especially when they can't speak English. If only there was a French blog to make fun of my linguistic shenanigans then this Karma circle would be complete!
In short, Du courage, as I'm so fond of saying. I'll try to look up a more local expression to share with my occidental friends next time. The sun is blood red now as it sinks over the horizon, à la prochaine.

C'est la...

The days seem to be getting hotter and the workload heavier as we progress through September. What amout of this is based on reality and what amout is due to the patina of restlessness through which I view my world cannot be said, c'est la vie for a Peace Corps trainee aproaching the end of staging with post and life for the next two years finally coming into sight.
As of this writing we are all currently in our seventh week of the roller coaster ride that is stage (pronounded staajzh, in honor of the francophone world and all its glory). It seems as if the information cannot stop coming at us and soaking it all up has presented quite the challenge. While this makes for an exciting pace to life it also makes for an aching cerveau (that means brain, I need to at least attempt some semblance of French immersion whilst on le internet, Du Courage!).
A good diversion lately from the rote rigamorol of model school has been world cup qualifying and cooking sessions with our new Peace Corps Volunteer trainers. The fighting squirrels (yes, that is their real nickname), you will all be happy to know, fought Mali to a one-one draw yesterday. I'm not quite sure what that means for the team (it was the first game of qualifying for mon nouveau terre d'habitude), but it is better than a loss.
On Friday us TEFLers had the annual Iron Chef competition at the SED-TEFL house. In a close competition between three teams mon equipe was able to land a second place finish. I attribute this "victory" to my staying out of the kitchen. I did manage to haggle us some cinnamon for some bon cookies, bon appetit!
The next day was burger night for the SEDers (that's Small Entreprise Development for you civilians). They were kind enough to let us teachers-in-training tag along and sample their American cuisine, bon travail to them. Unfortunately I was unable to stay for the feature presentation of "Star Trek" as I had to haul my gas tank back home after having used it in the competition on Friday.
I suppose it's a good thing to finally be settling into life on this continent. Gone is the constant sense of awe as I walk around the streets. As comforting as this may all seem, I know that it is not to last long as my life at post (le Royaume d'Aklampa) rears its heliopic head. And while Porto-Nova may have lost some of its exotic charm to me, there are still those moments of awe managing to work their way into daily life. C'est la vie. C'est l'Afrique.

Le Roi Des Poulets

My name was the first name drawn from the hat. While I had known that I wanted to go through with it from the beginning, it was still a bit disconcerting to be the first drawn. We had all decided to draw names to decide who the five would be to deliver our five chickens to kingdom come, kingdom come being our famishied tummies.
Now I've never been squemish about eating chickens. In fact, I make it well known that I cherish chicken consumption. That being said, surburbanite that I am, I've never delivered the final blow to a foule, and that has always been fine by me. Until today that is.
I attempted to stay calm and respectful as we walked outside carrying our chickens. I'll not lie, I was tempted to say "dead chicken walking", but the urge soon passed as I looked at my large feathered friend. Large might not be the correct word, the chickens here are muscular and mine was the bulkiest of the bunch, able to leap tall coops in one brawny bound.
For some reason I went last. While this allowed me to take mental notes on the other slayings, it also allowed me to reflect on the ultimate sacrifice this king of chickens was making for me, although I supposse it wasn't really a sacrifice as I was consciously choosing to kill him. Either way, I took the opportunity to wax philosophic and imagine the thoughts of my poulet, comme on dit.
The final moment came and it was curtains for chicken. I'm proud to say that he went stoically, like a vrai roi des poulets, and shamed the other lesser chickens, who by this time were wrapped in a heap with their necks cut open. In line with the local Muslim custom, we cut all of their throuts over a hole in the ground and then covered said hole with a rock. I'm sure there is a deep religious symbolism in this but it escapes me at the moment.
Cleaning and preparing the chicken was a much more involved process. I felt like a med school student using my pocket knife to carve out the intestines and other goodies in the chicken. The whole process was really rewarding as oftentimes people are fooled into thinking that their food comes from the grocer's as oppossed to from a living breathing thing. Someone famous said, "a gentleman should stay out of the kitchen", sorry someone famous.
Next step is a goat, and I don't think I've graduated to that yet. Maybe I'll skip goat and go straight to cow. Who knows, I'm open to suggestions. My host brother asked me what I thought about killing my first chicken, my response, "mon prémiére, pas ma dérniére." Chicken-0, B.R.M.-1.

Porto-Brovo

Maman generally clou clous (knock knocks) on my door around six o'clock. While this may sound a bit spartan it really isn't that bad considering that I generally hit the hey around nine o'clock. On a good day I'll manage to get a run in before my bucket shower. Early in the morning is much easier on the lungs I find as running at any other time would be tantamout to smoking a pack whilst jogging, not something coach recommended to me back in the day. I usually am able to get a high-five out of a man who hangs around the gare on my run and at least a few runner's waves from fellow high-speed pedestrians along the way.
After returning from one of my routes I'll partake of the bucket shower. This is really fun as it involves me dumping cold water on myself, and yes I am serious. Cold water is a great way to wake one's self up and after a quick yelp of shock the water is fine anyway. Breakfast is usually a fried omelette, bread, and a cup of café instantanée. While I do love the omelettes every morning, by my eating them I generally negate my early morning exercise, but no matter, a guy has to eat.
The streets are a bit more hectic as I bike to school, but nothing unmanageable. School is school and I'll spare the nitty-gritty. Suffice it to say that I'm learning a lot and yet have much more to learn. Model school has started meaning we get to sharpen our teaching skills on real live youngins'.
For lunch we generally choose between an avocado sandwhich, spicy bean sandwhich, eggs, fish heads, beans, rice, or spaghetti. I generally pick a combo of the afformentioned Beninese food groups, one I generally stay away from, I leave which one to your imagination.
After school we might hang out at the cyber or the buvette or both in no particular order. Back at home I'll hang out with the fam, mange some food, and watch dubbed Spanish soap-operas. They're pretty great, the soap-operas that is, due to their extreme stereotypical plot lines and organ music, someone better win an award for "Destins Du Couer", my personal favorite. I'll generally top the night off with some reading or lesson planning and then wake up and do it all over again with a few quirks and deviations from the norm (I've left said quirks and deviations out of my description).

Its Good To Be The King

Happy month long anniversary to Africa and me. I must admit that it seems ages ago that I left home. So much has been crammed into the past month, so many new sights and sounds, that it is hard to keep track of them all. One of the many benefits of keeping a journal I suppose. That being said, I can still clearly remember meeting everyone in Philadelphia when we all began this journey together.
Post visit has been the big news here. All of us TEFLers just returned this weekend from a quick little visit to our future homes here in Benin. It was nice to finally glimpse our houses for the next two years seeing as our African experience thus far has been relagated to two sprawling sores of urbanity within thirty miles of each other on the Beninese coast.
For all of those fans out there dreaming your stereotypical Peace Corps scenarios with me , i.e. me in a village with mud huts and straw roofs, your prayers have been answered as that is pretty close to what my village is like. Excuse me, my kingdom, the Kingdom of Aklampa. It is kind of a big deal with a real live king and everything.
I shall amend that a little bit. Aklampa, three small villages located close together, has its fair share of tin roofs and concrete. It even has a few of its own zemijohn drivers, how exciting. And I do enjoy the sights of the straw roofed buildings in town and the eroding structures made of mudbrick, it adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the village life.
After a riveting bus ride up the highway of the nation, Erin and I, directeurs in tow, got off at Glozoue. Our directeurs, by the way, are tantamount to principals over here, essentially our bosses. From Glozoue, Aklampa is a forty minute zem ride through beautiful countryside. To paint somewhat of a picture for you, the departement where Aklampa is has the name Collines, which in French means small hills.
No electricity, no running water, but tons of character. I would describe the Kingdom of Aklampa as an African Andy Griffith show, full of friendly people and goofy relatives. The highlight of my trip was definitely meeting the king, his royal majesty, the brovo to this yovo...unfortunately I do not know his name, but I am sure it is very royale sounding.
After removing my shoes and being ushered into a room with some of my fellow teachers we were all made to bow down on a rug in front of the suppine king. It was pretty intimidating, this was my first audience with a king mind you and I did not want to ruin this first impression. The walls were covered with tapestries of large men threateningly holding weapons and in other seats were older gentlemen eyeing these newcomers with a decidedly stoic look to them.
John, one of my future collegues, translated a rustic French greeting of mine into Mahi for the king and also translated back into French for me what the king had said. The king thanked me for being here and blessed me. The benediction involved me bowing down and the king tickling my head with his royal feather duster, for lack of a better term. We all drank a round of Sodabee to consecrate to deal, a tasty Beninese moonshine. Head spinning from my royal encounter, mayhaps enhanced by the Sodabee, I went out with my fellow teachers to take in the rest of the kingdom.
Needless to say, posting blogs in a village without electricity should turn out to be a bit tricky. Rest assured, however, that I shall pop up every once in a blue moon, if not for everyone back home, then for my amusement. Aklampa is extremely beautiful and nice and I cannot wait to get to know all of its inhabitants. With luck, my next post will be to bring news of my coronation as a knight of Aklampa, Long Live King...?

Zemis

Before I get started on this post I would like to point out that the keyboard I am using is somewhat different. I cannot find the coma or apostrophe button so I guess contractions are out of the question as are fancy sounding sentences. That being said I shall start the show:
Zemijohns. While the name sounds pleasant enough, even humourous do not let that fool you. These are the business savy entrepreneurs of urban Benin and they know a good business opportunity when they see one e.g. me and other naive foreigners. I knew this when leaving the buvette late one night with my friends but not as well as I now know it.
It had been a plesant night at the club. Aside from the expected pick pocket attempt, no harm no foul bro, everything was great. As we left however this situation began to change. We were six strong at this point and four of us were heading out. We managed to discouter the price down from eight hundred to two hundred after switching drivers a few times, much to the chagrin of our erstwhile operators. To the angry shouts of gilted zemejohn drivers we made our way through the desolate streets of Porto Novo.
The city is so different at night. Bustling markets collapse into quiet streets with the omnipresent black plastic bags, the tumbleweed of Benin, flying through the air. There is a bit of a taboo about the night here. It is a domain for the vodun and egu spirits and priests and young initiates are generally the only ones out, there drums and shouts I often here from my bedroom.
We passed a few police blockades with stoic guards clad in fatigues holding submachine guns, these types are only slightly less intimidating than the vodun fetishists. At our final destination the drivers wanted more francs. While it was dark we were not budging, sorry guys, the price was agreed to. With that we walked away, making sure to securely close the gate behind us. With luck the drivers next stop will be for the vodun types, Karma west African style.
Flush from adrenaline, we turned in for the night. Exciting zemijohn experience has been checked off of the list, and I do not plan on revisiting it.

HA!

Family, it's always been important to me and my new Beninese one is no different. Maman, a large powerful woman, is pretty cool. She rules the household like a benevolent dictator and is quick to laugh at me, which I am used to. I have three brothers and one sister. Aziz, 16, Hauko, 13, and Grace, who is probably two years old. Grace is one of the cutest babies that I have ever seen, he could be the black Gerber baby.
Aziz and Hauko and Joelle, my sis, have been real helpful in terms of speaking French. Being that I have the French skills of a dim-witted young whipper snapper, I can better communicate with them than with Maman whose deep voice can be rather hard to follow sometimes.
Yesterday I was able to partake in the age old rite of passage for all youngsters in Africa, playing soccer in the street while wearing sandals. The sandals, I feel, are very important because they enhance one's inablity to be good at football, especially in my case. I look forward to many more shockingly ungraceful performances on my part as my footballer carreer in Africa progresses.
On more note on African hilarity. My first ride back from the school on my new bike the other day was yet another in a string of "pinch me" moments. Riding through the streets of Porto-Novo on a mountain bike, whaaa?! Allow me to paint you a picture, I'm wearing my best Mormon proselytyzer outfit, a yellow tucked in polo shirt and khakis, with my right pant leg tucked into my woolen sock. Classic, I know. As I approached a group of young beninois fooling around on a moto I believe the sight of me caused the young man to drop his moto.
This in turn, led to me falling off of my bike. An attempt at a conversation followed as we both picked ourselves up. The main form of communication through all of this, owing in no small part to my French disablity, was laughter. It really is the shortest distance between two people and everytime we laugh here together the failure to communicate dissappears, and we see each other all too clearly.

Fete Nationale

For those of you not in the "know", two days ago was Benin's forty ninth birthday. The big 4-9! Pretty young I know. I think it's interesting to compare how they're doing to how we were back in 1825, when the good ole' U.S. of A. was forty nine. While it's clearly not completely fair, what all with globalization and the like, it's still pretty cool to think about it. What is more, who knows where le Republique du Benin will be in another two hundred years? Look out world!
My adopted Maman, Momzilla I like to call her, took me to the parade in my adopted town, the capital of Benin, Porto-Novo. It was quite the occasion with vodun priests and fire trucks all vying for the crowd's attention. Faux rois shared the stage with army generals and mayors in a ceremony eerily reminiscent of New Orleans during festival.
After our return, a family friend took me on a walk through the quartier. While I am generally liberal minded, I like to think, it was hard for me to get over the fact that my friend kept on holding my hand. Apparently it is quite common for men to hold hands as they walk through the streets here and for a nation that doesn't believe in homosexuality ("what is this thing you speak of?") I found it somewhat humorous is not extremely so.
As Odilla and I walked through the blood red streets of Porto-Novo, hand in hand, we came across a festive crowd. We were in luck, for we had stumbled onto a football match. When I say football, mind you, I mean soccer, African style. When I say African style, mind you, I mean on the sand with goals the size of shopping carts. Even then, the crowd was quite into it. It was small enough for jokes to be heard throughout the stands and yet large enough to feed the electricity being channeled troughout the thriving throngs, craning their necks for a chance to see a goal. We were able to see a goal, always a perk in soccer, and for the celebration one would have thought they had won the world cup.
We left the game and returned home, walking past a fetish mama's hut and the passing crowded buvettes packed with people celbrating life and their nation's birthday. The people here and their attitude toward life is astounding. To be thankful to have so little and to laugh with such gusto. La vie est grande.

Ah, Cotonou

Another day here in the humid African air of Cotonou. It seems as if I'll never lose my awe of this place. Yesterday I had my first zemijohn ride through downtown Cotonou (don't worry safety police, it was only a training run so we would know how to do it on our own). For those of you who aren't experts on West African modes of transportation, a zemijohn is essentially a motorcycle taxi and is the most common way to get around the bustling city of Cotonou.
What was interesting about this ride was that it was through the more well-off section of Cotonou. I actually saw my first traffic light and all the roads were paved, zut allors! It never amazes me how shocked people are to see a white person in their neighborhood. They will literally stop in their tracks and stare and the kids will jump and shout "Yovo, yovo" with a huge grin on their faces, it's pretty entertaining and I get a jolly good kick out of it.
After the zemijohn ride we did a tour of the market district. While at first I found it extremely intimidating (I can understand hardly anything!), I settled down and really enjoyed taking in all the sights. It should be an interesting experience when I attempt to haggle for my first couple bananas or yams.
My interview with the TEFL (Teaching English as a Foriegn Language) leader was today and it was just great. Maria, a local Beninois, is her name and her energy is so infecting. I can tell that she has so much to share with all of us and I can't wait to get started. In an interesting side note, she says I remind her of her son, so it seems I have a West African dopelganger!
Homestay begins tomorrow so, needless to say, we are all quivering balls of emotion. I can't wait to meet my new family as I'm sure it will be quite the experience. Rest assured that I'll do right by you all and share many stories from home with them, especially embarrassing ones, those are always the best.

Yovos On Parade

Greetings from the land of friendly people, Benin. It feels amazing to finally be in Africa and I'm trying to soak up everything around me. The flight here was long but pretty fun. Also, I hope my scattered brain can be forgiven as I feel like I've been given new eyes here.
I went to church yesterday and had quite the experience. While it was Catholic I don't think that was the main obstacle to my understanding of the operaton of the service. If you think French is tough (and I do) then do not go to a catholic service where Fon and French are preached. Not only preached mind you, but mingled into an indescernable jumble of words, beautiful jumble, but jumble nonetheless.
The novelty of white people was quite the experience for the worshippers there and the preacher managed to work us into his sermon as we were asked to stand and given a round of applause (the woman next to me actually had to tell me to stand, yes my French/Fon is that good). I was also able to shutup a crying baby, as my sight caused his crying to turn into a curious gaze worthy of a Hallmark card. Oh, and they have good music here, who would've thought? In all seriousness, I absolutely loved the music and dancing. I have no doubt that church turnout would be much higher in the states if you took a cue from Africa and got down in the name of God. Praise Him!
Also, everyone will be happy to know that I was able to run this morning. While my lungs may regret it, my legs sure don't. It felt good to stretch out my stride on African soil, and I also enjoyed the stares and shouts of "Yovo!" from the peanut gallery (Yovo=foreigner).
More to come very soon from my new home. I love everyone here thus far and the excitement and commitment is extremely palpable, I like it! Bonne Chance et Du Courage!

City Air

City air makes you free, as the old German expression goes, and never has a saying seemed more appropriate. Philadelphia has truly been the city of brotherly love for me these past two days as like minded people gather and exchange aspirations and anxieties for our upcoming trip.
Everyone has been amazing and exactly what I expected from Peace Corps people. I look forward to getting to know them more as our time together continues. How fitting that our last city in the States is Philadelphia, a city rich with history and culture. The second capital of the U.S. of A. for you trivia buffs out there.
To those thirsty for some knowledge I'll drop a few names for you, I'll let you wiki them though, that's the fun part anyway. Good ole' B. Frank (Benjamin Franklin), the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, the First and Second National Bank of the United States (no relation to President Obama's policies), and many other cool things to wake up those brainwaves from the gelatinizing television programs that pass for entertainment these days.
Time is burning, as it always does, and I do believe that I require some more of that city air. I'm not sure about the air situation in Cotonou, although stay tuned for updates. As Benjamin Franklin once said, "Rock on dude," (in more or less words).

Old Friends

The deer perked his head up toward me as I entered the park. I knew that jumping the construction fence was worth it as soon as our eyes locked. "Long time no see," seemed to be what the deer wished to convey to me. After all, it had been quite awhile since my feet tread upon Marshbank, the place where I first fell in love with running. Just like getting on a bike though, the movements came back to me quickly.
With the construction going on throughout the park my friend seemed to realize that we were on the same side. He was as unwelcome in his home, Marshbank, as I was and together we would be the incognito freedom fighters of the park.
Here it comes again, I thought to myself, that irrepressible running urge. The bushes became the stands and the trees in them my spectators, all itching to see what the young man and his quadrapedal companion could do as they wrought havoc with the fury of their feet. This is why I had come back here. The hills maintain their magic even though we might lose ours. The flies nipping at my head seemed only to spur me on faster toward that elusive goal. I'm home boys, if only for one more night.
My last run stateside. Wow! Enough said. I had chosen the run in late afternoon purposefully so as to catch the last bit of daylight and watch the world slip into dusk. As I came up the hill to exit Marshbank I imagined my fellow deer-ninja running in the woods alongside me. Godspeed friend, mayhaps our paths with cross again, mayhaps not, either way I'll not soon forget you.
After delaying the inevitable as long as I could I finally found myself back in front of my house. Mmm, burgers, beans, and America, that is what was on the menu, and the pungent smells of the afforementioned delicacies greeted my sore muscles as I trotted in. The shadows cast by the setting sun played pleasant tricks with my eyes and I was happy to be home, at least for one more night.
All in all, the last run, like most runs, was more than a run. Rather, it was a dip into my idyllic, prelapsarian childhood, when the world was pure and whole, small rather than large, and welcoming rather than intimidating. As my feet may move me farther from my home, I'm sure my cup will continue to overflow, if from nothing else than from this, my last run in Michigan.

East From Ann Arbor

I've decided to forgo a mission statement or any other form of structured rules to this page. Plans generally don't go along the desired path and, as has been observed before, I'm no planner, so I'll leave as much room for change and dynamism as possible.
With that being said let me shout out a collective phew for all my people out there, "Phew!" While I'm not in Africa yet it feels good to finally have pushed this crazy boulder down the slippery slope. It's been a long road to get here but hang in there, I do declare that the slope shall get more slippery before it's all said and done.
How strange to be in my peaceful suburban basement as I write these first paragraphs. Yesterday I said goodbye to my eternal city, Ann Arbor. A week ago I was in New York City. One more week prior, Saint Louis. It's a wonder my head is still attached, and I believe it still is...yup, it's there.
So now begins the, how shall we call it, process I suppose, of starting something new. They say that every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end (the first of many song quotations friends) and what an ending this has been!
Thanks to everyone who has been apart of shipping me off right these past few months. Your thoughts, company, and love has been far more than I'm worthy of. It is your love that is my most cherished possession as I start down this road, wherever it may lead, and it is with all of you in mind that I hope to do right by the world. Think of me fondly and I shall return the favor.
Sentimentality, ah how I can smell its thick scent in here! I'll not linger much longer as there is much to be done. Stay tuned for more action packed scenes from the life of a Peace Corps trainee! Will our hero succeed in making his flight on time? What awaits him on the other side of our planet? All these questions and more answered in our next installment of...HERE AND THERE! (Brought to you by our sponsors, Borders bookstore, The University of Michigan-Ann Arbor, the beautiful city of Ann Arbor, my family and friends everywhere, and these United States of America.)

Mock, out.