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 30, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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