Thursday, December 16, 2010

Holidays Cometh

How does it always seem that I manage to stay at the workstation longer than even I would like to? A morning turns into an afternoon, an afternoon an evening, and pretty soon its one more day. A metaphor for life perhaps? Nah, just my inner bum coming out once again. One semester has come and gone here in the Beninese school system, leaving one more for my carreer as a Beninese schoolteacher. Christmas break, always a welcome reprieve, hovers over my head as I anxiously wait for it to drop. Two more classes and it's upon us. I had never realized that vacations were more eagerly awaited for by teachers than students. I remember, as a student, always hating my teachers for not having a reason to go on vacation. As if we, as students, were the end-all-be-all of their lives. Well, for the thousands of students out there, I would like to apologize to my former teachers. I now know that you too have lives and are as annoyed with us, as students, as we are/were with you, as teachers. While the mornings and evenings find me in long sleeves and occasionally sweats, I'm sure the "winter" here cannot compete with the one back home. After watching an internet video of the Metrodome collapsing under snow I felt like a dog witnessing snow for the first time, confused and overjoyed at the same time. "Ah yes!," I seemed to say, "Snow does exist!", as if I had forgotten about the defining precipitous moments of Christmas since time immemorial for me and mine. As per usual in West Africa, no snow this year, but while driving through the bush country to visit a friend's farm I was reminded of past Christmases by the long rows of cotton interspersed amongst the yam rows and cashew trees. While the bush is rough, it is not wild. People and small villages line it's numerous winding roads and foot-trails. As we rode past the cotton fields, and bits of cotton fluff floated on by us, I was reminded of the month I was in. In spite of the heat and humidity, the dust and the dirt, it was December and somewhere in this crazy big world of ours snow was falling on my native Mid-West. While a pale substitution for snow, the little white bits flying by me could not but awaken my inner snowman. If only I could say I was there in the heartland in spirit. Alas, it seems spirit and body are here with me in Africa, Humanity's home, for this end of 2010, although Michigan, Indiana, Missouri, and Kentucky are never far from my mind. I know they'll always be there for me, as I'll always be there for them. Though distance my strain the bonds the bind, they cannot be broken, as love's connection is something reinforced by familial passion and not easily forgotten in foreign climes, no matter the heat or humidity. Africa may amaze me, as She constantly does, and speak to me, as again She does, but in my heart and soul I know my home and it's nestled amongst the lakes and hills of America's heartland. That being said, the holiday spirit is no where stronger than here in Benin. Food, non-stop, was on the agenda for the visit to my friend's farm as well as good old fashioned hospitality. I hope for some Midwestern wishes from Santa for Christmas, maybe he'll bring some African affection to my people back home.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Two Packages

Two packages were waiting for me when I walked into the Parakou workstation, my khaki shirt had been turned orange from the road and I hesitate to think of the color it had turned my skin to. While my eyes hurt from the day's sun they attempted to defy their fatigue in order to take in the Christmas decorations set up around the station. What a strange idea, Christmas trees and music while you sweat from the heat and can see palm trees, the idea doesn't seem to get easier to digest the second time around but only serves to remind you where you are. Benin, West Africa, an ocean and a world away from what had been and what is still, despite new cultural ideas and norms, so familiar to you. Thanksgiving has come and gone and I'm as thankful as ever for this experience, for new people that have changed my life and for new ways of thinking about home, family, and the world. And to finally be allowed to hum Christmas songs without feeling ashamed (as Thanksgiving is the legal limit when one can start the buildup to the Fourth of July in December that is X-mas). The packages, while from Halloween circa October, were appreciated as if they had been wrapped in gold, as missives from the other side of the Atlantic always are. The first tests of the semester have been composed and and this little reprieve away from the village was a bit of a reward to myself for completing one semester, and what a reward it was.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Echoes

In Africa, rain is generally considered a good thing. This being the case, Saturday's swear-in ceremony for the fifty some odd new Volunteers was indeed a good omen. The circus style tents in the ambassador's yard were put to good use as around two hundred people representing current Volunteers, administrators, diplomats, local host families, and others crowded around each other to welcome the newest addition to the Peace Corps Benin family.
Just a few weeks ago I had been training these kids with other volunteers and now they were getting ready to go to their own posts and really start their two year experience. What was I thinking a year ago as I swore in to begin my two years? Wasn't I just a kid too, aren't I still? Has anything changed? Yes and no, like life there's no cut and dry answer to things, especially when working in a developing country. But like all things it amazes me that it's already been more than a year for me and my friends here. I never expected to be able to change all of Benin in one fell swoop, that wasn't my goal anyway. Personal relationships have always held more worth for me than grand idealistic crusades to educate the people, and on that count I've certainly learned about what it means to be personal with people here. How people will call you just to say hello, or just stop by your house and sit around with you for awhile. A recognition of the importance of sharing space with people, albeit sometimes to the detriment of personal time, is something that, while so common here, never ceases to amaze (and I'll admit, at times annoy) me. And yet I can't help but admire that, that people are that comfortable to just come and sit down with you, perhaps talk a bit, but when all the topics of conversation are exhausted they'll find no need to add anything, they just like being around you gosh darn it! Two years seems like a lot but after one year I can see that it's not really even a drop in the bucket. It's more like a tease, you get to know your people and then just as you start to get the hang of it a year has already gone by, and I imagine eventually two years will fly by in just the same manner. What the swear-in ceremony really helped to do, what it gave me, was a renewed interest in what I do here, in what it means to be a Volunteer. There were speeches and food and drink afterwards, and that was all great, but it made me excited, if not more excited, for my post, my village and my job. The new Volunteers would be going to a totally new place and I would be returning to my "totally new place" after a long period of absence. I knew how exciting it would be, how trying at times, and how humbling. It felt as if I was a new Volunteer again and I'd be experiencing all these things again for the next year, and this time I'd know more what to treasure and what to brush off my shoulder. In short, the speeches and pigs-in-a-blanket were good, but they're not what it means to be a Volunteer here. It's what you do that really leaves echoes in time and space, not what you say. I hope to leave a few echoes this upcoming year.

Monday, July 12, 2010

234 Years And Counting

Independence Day! The Fourth of July! Founded on hotdogs, fireworks, and the smell of gasoline. Soccer matches against foreigners count too right? They did for me this past week as the good ole' US of A (represented by a bunch of skinny left leaning Peace Corps Volunteers) took on Germany (represented by large strapping young blond people). It was a game for the ages and was even carried on local radio from the Djougou stadium where we played. I'll state that fact again, our game was broadcast, unknownst to us at the time mind you, to the denizens of the greater Djougou metropolitan area.
While lacking in soccer skills when compared to our competition we made up for this dearth of technical skills with an abundance of patriotic pride, not to mention we were somewhat older than the younger germans, who are preparing for university by volunteering in Benin. Due to this age deferential we beat them up with our superior "dad" muscle, also known as old man muscle in the medical community.
Never before has there been a more glorious tie for the USA, going right down to the penalty kick off. Our German brethern joined us in western European fellowship at the bar afterwards and there was much merry-making.
How strange, to be spending the Fourth with young Germans and Americans in Africa. An environment decidedly unAmerican, at least in my experience. And yet, as the call to prayer sounded from the numerous mosques around the city, and the motos zoomed by, sounding like jet skis, passing the young Beninese pushing their push-carts, I knew that star spangled banner yet flew, over my home, and I was glad to be American.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Summertime

The end of the school year has always held a special place in my heart, perhaps as I havn't yet outgrown the student mentality yet. Well, it seems that that feeling is all the more present in teachers, speaking from the end of my first year of teaching.
As oppossed to the American big boom finish style, the Beninese schools prefer to limp slowly to the finish line, prolonging the academic angst. Our final exams were taken at the end of May with a month left of teaching. This was mainly due to the strike earlier in the year but this fact did not make the going smoother as us Volunteers were teaching throughout the year, strike and all.
That being said, it was nice to have more time opening up and have the joy that is summer vacation slowly reveal itself until its sunny demeanor is the only thing noticeable. It's also helpful to see some more of the problems in the system exposed to me, as I'm a first-year I hope to take better advantage of the system next time around or at least be better prepared for it.
Ah, summertime! My old friend returns and is reinvigorated by the excitement on the looks my children give me. "No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers (or students), dirty looks." For now the many summer camps of all us teaching Volunteers looms and the new trainees coming from America to join us in a new world.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Gone Fishing

The moon hung high in the sky, reflecting back to itself in the ocean. Lights from across the abyss floated on the horizon. Unknown crews, unknown cargoes, unknown stories hidden from my consciousness. Teasing me with an impossible barrier stretching out between us. More bitter, more sweet, more "wow".
This was the scene as silent figures began to emerge from the periphery. Stage left and right, an act in and of itself. More moving and full of meaning than any Oscar nominated film on the market today.
We had been lounging at the sunset bar, one of our spots. Spread out at a table like big cats, full from their supper and relieved by the night's chill.
They were fisherman pulling in the catch. Salutations were exchanged and I was forced to squeeze out all of the Fon under my metaphorical belt.
I envied them. Unjustly, I know. Theirs was a job beyond my physical capabilities and without much to show for. But how can I be immune to the romanticism before my eyes, the same act that they've done for who knows how long and they were letting me help them, letting my hands ache with theirs. Behind us stretched a sore of urbanity, unchecked growth and the hopes of a young, small country. In front of us was the dark water and a navy of traders hell bent on having their way with Africa, comme l'habitude. Perhaps I generalize. Either way, they were not the show, merely the background.
In fact it was like reality itself was our background. We were the show, the escape. A brief bit of levity and normalacy in a crazy world beyond the ability to be reached. This was the show and for forty minutes I imagined people stopping and the planet's heart rate lowering as we dragged in the night's catch.
It wasn't much really. Maybe a hundred fish outnumbered by ocean trash. But it was exciting nonetheless. To have fought the outgoing tide and come up with food as the receding water revealed old ships wreaked by the ocean, their mysteries enhanced by the glow from the moon.
"Have some fish," they said. "I'm going home, thank you," I responded. They had given me enough. Close curtains.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Rain

The earth had been dry for longer than I had cared to remember. After months of living in a dryer-machine like atmosphere one's brain becomes numb to the heat. Most especially during the peak hours from around ten o'clock to four o'clock. What would back home normally be considered the most productive hours of the day is reduced to a hazy, narcotic like heat trance forcing all ages outside under the nearest mango tree. It never ceases to amaze me what the human body can become acclimated to. And while heat is certainly acknowledged, accepted, and feared, in its ubiquity it is not even an issue but just a physical fact of nature, like gravity.
This was the scene for nearly four months throughout the long dry season. And this fact of life was mercifully broken for a short day by a righteous rain that changed my understanding of what I had always thought was just water from the sky.
Rain is a simple enough concept. Back home, every so often some water would fall from heaven and interrupt our outside activities. At best a nourishment for the yellowing lawn and at worse, and more frequently, a cessation of the enjoyment of the greater outdoors. In Benin not the case.
The big sky was already starting to look angry as I began the walk to school. I had wondered if the kids would show up during a rain storm, especially with the other teachers striking, but responsibility reared its ugly head and I was compelled to take the walk anyway, poncho in hand and binder in the other. Halfway there the slow pitter patter began to increase and I was obliged to suit up. By the primary school I pass on the way this pitter patter had become a downpour. Buckets upon buckets, falling and falling and falling. What I had always thought were dusty creases in the trail become flowing rivers and I imagined tiny towns being carried away in the current.
How different the scene now was as I looked around. The fogginess instilled in my minde by the long dry season's heat had seemed to be lifted and my eyes were new. The laughter came slowly, seemingly answering the pounding of the rain and by the time the poncho was off tears were in my eyes as I could hardly stand due to my cackling. It wasn't funny...Well, maybe a little. At least the thought of how ridiculous I looked in my poncho whilst walking to school. But the laughter was more caused by joy or reverence for the rain. I'm not a farmer, but almost everyone else is in Aklampa and I get my food from these farmers. No water, no food. But then again, the joy I was feeling in my soul wasn't just a, hooray I can eat!-feeling, it was something more primordial. A realization that for at least one more year, the sky hadn't forgotten us. Water fell, like it has always done, and though the dry season tried again to fool us into giving up hope, the heavens opened up and acknowledged us. Hope springs eternal, especially when the spring is the sky. I could hear the children pounding out beats on the desks before I rounded the corner to my classroom and at the sight of me approaching an uproarious shout was let out by the students and the beat stoutly held its line, trying to answer the gratifying noise of rain on tin. Dusty orange and red had already began to change to deep brown and green, signs of emerging life. The smiles on the children confirmed what I had thought on the walk to school. We are born again in Aklampa.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Cotonou Tries

The Cotonou skyline is nonexistent, the city being simply a series of concrete buildings carpeting the beach along the bight of Benin. And yet, I still felt like a farm boy in times square as I look for a zem to the bureau. What a difference living at post will do to one's view of modern conveniences like traffic lights and other new fangled contraptions like running water is quite impressive.
My first trip to the nation's economic nerve center since training. Pizza, internet, movies, all things to be had in this city and to confuse me with their exotic nature. To further complicate matters, the novelty of my being white/foreign/American does not quite exist in this more cosmopolitan center of commerce, where I've become just another face in the crowd. The brief weekend respite from the countryside, while fun, also serves to get me excited to return to "normalacy" back in Aklampa. What need have I for hot water when I have my trusty bucket back home? Who needs to watch "Desperate Housewives" when I have th drama of an adolescent puppy to entertain me (Quite large now, how fast they grow!)? Besides, the new semester has gotten underway and my kids must hit the books. Like all good things, city life is good in moderation here in Benin. The sprawling sore that is African urbanity is better left sequestered down south, to be visited once in a blue moon and only with the intention of a brief stay. In short, Aklampa edges out Cotonou in terms of quality of life, at least community wise. The Mahis up north are more relaxed than their Fon brothers down in the south, and appreciate a salutation more as well. So thanks Cotonou for trying, but I choose you Aklampa.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Racing Thoughts

Just to that tree. That's as far as I'll go. Well, Naturally, I'll have to turn around afterwards. But no farther than that tree. The fields had been trotting by me as I made my way through the country-side, all willy-nilly and what have you.
How far is it anyway? Maybe that's why I asked? Only getting there ever really answers that question. It's fun to speculate but it's the getting there that actually proves it, the "it" being what I don't know. The journey, the quest, the adventure. That eternal voyage where the story lies.
What's it like when you get there? Well, it turns out it's just a tree, as expected, and then I turn around. Is there a new goal? A new vision for my eyes to feast upon? If there is, it's only in my mind. Heck, isn't that what makes a goal anyway? The fact that it's there, in your mind.
While the goal may not be visible, the journey sure is. I see it. Stretching out before my strides. In a blur by me as I pass onlookers with their mouths open and landscapes burnt dry by the scorching sun.
An old woman stops me as I approach. I passed her on my way out and, just as I said in local language, I'm back. She shoves some peanuts in my hand and we say our goodbyes. I couldn't help but take the nuts, the novelty of running with a handful of nuts suiting my comic disposition. What's more, their presence added a rhythmic backbeat as I bounded up and down on the sandy road back to village.
The unbaked clay fetish is still there, as it has been for countless years, as I approach the village limits. Phallus pointed at me, locked and loaded, and a devilish grin, half welcoming half menecing, greets me as I approach. Legba, this region's Pan, Coyote, the trouble maker. I try to stay on his good side more often than not, to varying degrees of success as friends and family can attest. I pass him smiling, mimicking his grin, as I always attempt to do.
Still no goal in sight as the hills recede and signs of habitation increase. Unless, of course, you count the mind's eye. And that, in any regards, is rather shrouded over with thoughts. Dancing Zangbetos mingle with two stepping loved ones and memories of long ago. Regrets and hopes meet in a terrible tango only assuaged by the salutations of my neighbors as I pass.
The goal is made mental by the journey because the journey is so ubiquitous. It envelopes you, surrounds you, chews you up and spits you back out. It hits you, hugs you, knocks you down and builds you back up. Running makes that clear. It's Reader's Digest for life. As I approach my house, I almost wish that it doesn't materialize. That it somehow will stay hidden so I can prolong the journey. But it doen't work like that. It'll show and I'll have to forget all of these thoughts for another twenty hours or so. But ca rest tomorrow. And who knows what the goal (or should I say journey?) will be then.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Dogon Dream

Camera panning out, view of the cliffs in the background as the sun sets and the horse cart begins to trot away, roll the credits and cue the applause. Your standard ending for most epic movie endings, right? How lucky then, that I got to experience this phenomenon as I left God's gift to Mali, the Dogon country. Perhaps I'm being a bit unfair, the divine Power that be was kind enough to grant Mali a plethora of amazing sights, and somehow lil ole me managed to see a fair share of them; the Niger river, the Djenee mosque, etc.
But I digress, this post is about the Dogon country, a place bigger than a stopping point on my hectic vacation. Rather, one of those places that you just have to see to understand. I had never thought that tourism and traditional cultures could exist so close in tandem but, for the moment, the Pays Dogon is managing to market its incredible natural beauty in a beneficial way, both for the indigenous inhabitants and for those lucky enough to venture out here.
The Dogon chose the cliffs of the Bandiagara for its beauty after traveling around central Mali for many ages. I, for one, don't blame them. One would be hard pressed to find a country more awe-inspiring and spirtual in nature. From the cliffs one sees out over the river (dry for half of the year) and beyond that what is left of the "forest", as the desert in the far distance ever encroaches on the natural rock faces that are these people's homes.
Within the cliffs are hidden more villages and fairytale landscapes just as suitable for a J.R.R. Tolkien novel as for a Louis L'amour western. It was hard to not break into a sudden game of cowboys and Indians as Baba, our guide and friend, took us through what are his stomping grounds and his livelihood.
We waved by to our new friends from our horse cart as the driver began to pull away, the marketplace and other guides came out to wish us on our way. The cliffs stayed with us for sometime but eventually, as we continued, they sank beneath the horizon, following the setting sun and leaving the horse and us in a moonlit landscape with the wind whispering in our ears. Baba's story of the Tellum, the forest people who had lived here before the Dogon, was still fresh in my memory. "Why did they leave?", I asked. "Because we cut too many trees down." And still they cut. Even Baba himself has noticed how small the "woods" are now compared to when he was a child. It was hard not to notice the sand blowing in the wind and the few remaining bastions of skinny trees as we approached the more arid hinterland of the Pays Dogon. The Tellum have already left after trying to teach their lesson, with hope the Dogon will not follow.