Saturday, August 29, 2009

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).

Monday, August 24, 2009

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...?

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

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.

Monday, August 3, 2009

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.