"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!
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, September 7, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
