The Boys Dance

The dancing was a spontaneous continuation of our evening soccer game. It started on the way back to the NGO center from the field, our first full day of boys camp had just been completed. What had been a tired march back quickly transformed itself into a chanting parade through Ouesse's small streets. This was the scene from boys camp a few days ago and will be the image I take away from the experience, nothing feels better than kicking off the camp season magnificently and we most certainly did just that, summer can begin.

Education volunteers, like myself, have a built in vacation period when the school season ends. This does not mean we just run off to town and leave our communities. Rather, we continue what we know how to do, teach kids. This past weekend was Camp Espoir in Ouesse, a good size town north of my community, Aklampa. Six teams were present at this camp, Aklampa, Tchaourou, Challa-Ogoi, Kemon, Ouesse 1 and Ouesse 2.

Camp, for Beninese children, is really a novel idea. For most children, no school means more work. More going to the fields to help their parents, more going to the well to fetch water. Our goal was to reward our best students from our respective communities and to so them how to continue their education in new creative ways.

Just a quick sampling of our presentations for you; model parliamentary session, sexual health education, nutrition and health, and drug abuse and addiction. What camp would be complete without a movie night, Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, en francais, Indiana Jones et La Derniere Croisade. C'est bon!

The camp really serves to bring us closer to our kids, the people we're most connected with at our jobs. Each member also brought a teaching pal with them from their community making it that much more of a bonding experience. It was more poingent for me and a few other volunteers present as we will be leaving soon. To see the children you've been trying to impact bloom around other students also working with volunteers, just to see them interact and share their experiences in a fun atmosphere meant the world to us.

And so we danced. We danced because we knew we were doing great things. We knew these kids would grow up and make this country better. And we knew, and know, that little time is left. Americans are generally embarrassed to dance, as if they are showing a part of them that is meant for them and them alone. It wasn't worth being afraid to dance on this day.

COS

The realization that I'll be leaving soon has been pushed to the front of my head dramatically by the recent completion of the Close Of Service (COS) conference. Questions such as what has my service meant to me, what have I accomplished, and what do I wish I had accomplished, instead of floating around in my head, have been brought forward and, although the conference is over, remain out in the open, teasing my brain to come up with multiple answers for them. I suppose that is the purpose of the conference, to crack through the hard shell that we've constructed around us so as to not think about the next step, and to force us to face the truth that home is still over the water. Not to say that we've forgotten, but it is often told to us that it's impossible to straddle the Atlantic, one must pick a side, and in order to live on a day to day basis without much mental strain, our America is pushed to the back of our consciousness. We know it's there but feel more comfortable focusing on the task at hand, living in the moment, and what have you. A wealth of information and forms were provided to us to show us that, indeed, there is life after Peace Corps. Most of us were quite glad that we still have a few months to get our act in gear before we shove off for the western land. It's strange to think that the image of my village where I've been living for the past two years is already begginning to crystallize in my mind. Hearing former volunteers speak of their experiences and how they viewed their villages was like hearing an echo from the future, of what we might say twenty years from now about the people we knew au village, the experiences we cherished, and something that will always be with us lying as we continue on our journey. Our hotel, full of modern amenities and conveniences that are now somewhat foreign to many of our thoughts, loomed a giant dock, Benin's window to the world. The cranes moved giant boxes containing goods which continue to slowly weave the small country's economy into the giant global machine that is the world-wide economy. How fitting that this global window, symbolic of where we came from and what development, at times, represents, towers over us at this conference.

The Beach and Back

The ocean does something to everyone. In my case it not only has left me with a plethora of philosophical thoughts and metaphysical conundrums but also with a wicked reminder of my skin's incompatability with the sun in this part of the world. Pain aside, Grand Popo is a beautiful place, with a relaxed atmosphere (somewhat rare in the south) and history that can howl, so to speak, giving its proximity to the remnants of the colonial societies of Portugal and France and, in a more contemparary sense, vodoun culture. That's not to say that the only people one sees on the beach there are either wearing a frock coat or cowrie shells, Grand Popo is Benin's most tourist focused city, bringing people here from all over West Africa to get a piece of the tourist pie. We stayed at Lion Bar, home to a charming rasta man by the name of, you guessed it, Lion. The rooms are named after famous reggae singers and reggae permeates one's eardrums all night, a nice duet with the crashing waves a few hundred meters down the beach. It amazes me that the ocean, in all of its epic enormity can seemingly be hidden when one walks 200 meters away from the beach. Looking at it's size one would think that its presence would be felt for miles inland, and indeed its smell is somewhat trickier to get rid of but that does not convey the earth-shattering hugeness that is transmitted from one's eyes down to his fingertips and , if you're lucky enough, down into the depths of the soul upon viewing the great big sea. Most of the time was spent on the beach pondering this great nothing and what it all means and the rest of the time was spent recovering from spending too much time in the sun. The sultry beach air of Grand Popo, named apparently because the Portugese thought the people here had big behinds, did give me good fodder for the Earth Day, Passover, and Easter weekend. The relative coolness of the north, which I have since returned to, is quite refreshing and while the ocean never ceases to amaze my trip has reinforced my belief that I am a landlubber who needs green fields to run around in with hills full of trees as my background, and maybe a good dog to run after me.

Dancing With Ghosts

The tenth of January is Traditional Religion Day here in Benin, commonly called Vodoun (Voodoo) Day. Though Christianity and Islam, the two largest monotheistic religions on the planet, are the faces most readily portrayed to the outside world by the Beninese, it is clear to all that the life-blood of the nation's religious activities is, and always has been, Vodoun. Vodoun is actually just the Fon word for it. Throughout West Africa it is much the same, the worship of multiple local gods and, most importantly to the locals, ancestors. Vodoun lacks much of the theological complexities of the large Western religions and opts for a smaller more filial setting for its practices, placing food and drinks on the tombs of one's forebears (generally buried under the family house to be closer to home) and telling stories about where one's people came from. That being said, one can't help but thrill at the mention of Vodoun. Thoughts of African mysticism and bayou charm, the slaves from present-day Benin brought their beliefs with them to Haiti, Brazil, and Lousianna, are instantly conjured up in one's mind at the thought of it. The day for me began with a visit to a friend's father's birthday party, a man who passed away in the 1970s. Shots of sodabi, distilled palm wine, were liberally passed around and raised to an imposing portrait of a large man in tradtional garb, his visage daring anyone to smirk at his judging, stern look. Pounded yams with peanut sauce, a local staple, was then consumed in great quantity followed by more shots before I was graciously allowed to head back home and nurse my swollen belly and swimming head, it was not yet nine o'clock in the morning. Adventursome young lad that I am, the rest of the day was spent visiting local temples to particular local dieties, the lightening goddess, the mountain god, and the chameleon goddess. This required a lot of eating to counteract the effects of the alcohol given out, one could compare the day to a pagan St. Patrick's Day in this regard. The culmination of the day was a joint dance party with all of the different temples and the head families meeting on a dusty clearing, the stomping dancers churned up the dust until one could not see and our tongues were caked with Africa's red soil. It's always interesting to talke to Africans with traditonal beliefs, oftentimes these beliefs go hand in hand with their families recent adoption of Christianity or Islam. Is it real? or what do you actually believe in is a common theme that comes up, and it seems like the villagers of Aklampa don't usually think about it on a grand scale like that. To many no one can claim to know what God is like, to pretend to know what is after life seems the height of folly. What is known and accepted is that when you die, you don't leave the family, and who can't find any charm in that? So next time you have a nice glass of wine, why not pour out a sip for Great Grampa? Who knows, he might appreciate it.

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.

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.

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.