Home

Maps convey to the viewer that home is never far. It is always in view no matter where one is on the world. Almost as a reassuring reminder that you're never as far as you think you are. I suppose that this is not too far from the truth.

Home is always there, living inside of you. Either chasing you away or calling you back, driving you to be something or ridiculing you for being nothing.

This vision of what home means has become somewhat foggy since I've been back. I remember how crystalline it was back in Benin, the vision of my people and my home and now that crystallization has flipped back, across the ocean to my village of Aklampa.

I see the people I knew frozen in time, going through their daily activities and it's as if I was never there, just a ghost.

Americans, generally, don't have this connection or rootedness to homes. We live in a mobile society, a pioneer society, ready to be moved at an order. The living and breathing quality of being planted to a place, a particular patch of dirt, is not as common amongst us as in other societies.

It is only when one leaves and sees what goodness this brings to life that this way of living is rightly appreciated. People say that home is where the heart is, perhaps a better way to put it is that home is in the heart, a coal that seldom burns out but always blazes inside one's self. You learn to love at home, to cry, to regret. In short to live. Home is life.

Dakar, Or The Car?

Cotonou to Dakar, it turns out, is just as daunting of a voyage as it sounds. Through tropical forests, up and down coffee mountains, through scrub-country and into dry desert, and now bach on the Sahelian coast of Africa. Senegal is the the African mainland's westernmost country, stretching itself out into the great beyond that is the Atlantic Ocean. Dakar is the bee-hive of an African country that has wrapped itself in modern consumerism, with all its perks and pitfalls. The street-hustler here is a breed apart from the ones found in Cotonou, they persist beyond the point of simple annoyance and border on being theives at times. That being said, I myself find Dakar to be a dizzying city, concrete and glass sky-scrappers shoot up into the sky and cars speed down well maintained streets with street cafés that would make the French and Italians jealous. The impact this amazing city has on my senses is compounded by the difficulty it took to get here. A 37 hour bus ride through two countries fueled by instant coffee and cigarettes. This ride felt something akin to being at the bottom of a dirty sock hamper for a football team, hot, humid, hurty. The Bamako-Dakar red-eye we'll call it, as it left the Malian capital at four o'clock in the morning. How do you wake up for a bus that leaves at 4am?, you might ask. Not going to bed is the answer my friends. A nice local bar was very accomadating to us for a few hours as we hobknobbed with local Rastas, Peace Corps Volunteers, ex-pats, and a charming young French journalist who was headed to Dakar with us. This all made the first few hours of our bus-ride all the easier as we all immediately passed out from exhaustion upon arrival. The rest of the trip, not so easy. After having to put up with endless stops and checkpoints and other miscellaneous sheenanigans we managed to arrive in somewhat good spirits. How strange to confront the reality that this will be my last place in Africa before the jump off back into...whatever is waiting. The flight leaves tomorrow night for Istanbul, stay tuned for the next installment. Same bat-time, same bat-channel.

No Sleep 'Til Detroit

The last day in Cotonou is upon us, our bags packed and the tropical sun seemingly bursting with an intense desire to smother us all, a fitting au revoir. Our last days in Cotonou were a smorgas-board of michievous machinations with some colorful local liasons. Crazy bar full of local boxers: check. Slot machines that take Lebanese currency: check. A disection of the merits of Nicki Minaj's raps at a sodabi shack: don't mind if I do. But really, this sejour was about soaking up the dirty, rotten air of the sprawling sore of urbanity that is Cotonou, a city at once dear and despicable to me. My Peace Corps service has come and gone and I am decidely grateful to have an adventure around West Africa as my denouement. It should be a good way to slowly begin my reassimilation into Western culture. My "gong" ceremony (our closing ceremony where we officially are released from service) was an emotional event. How strange to think of what I've done here in terms of the past when it still seems like yesterday that I was still looking at everything with wide, wet-behind-the-ears eyes. Before going to bed at the hotel last night, I was able to feed the pet crocadile part of my turkey leg, from now on he'll have to fend for himself in his concrete domicile. Of the many things I've learned here throughout my experience here, I am most grateful for learning how to travel and interact with the locals. This should come in handy as we snake our way through West Africa, a smile on our face and shaking hands quite vigorously, not accepting no for an answer. Our sardine omelette with mayo, a breakfast staple over here, did the job, fortifying me for the coastal ride to Benin's sister country, Togo. Our journey begins, no sleep 'til Detroit!

Blast-Off

Camp GLOW (girls leading our world) has come and gone already, a more amazing feat when one realizes that this was my last Peace Corps project of my service here in Benin. What a ride it has been. I usually like to think of life as one giant trip, with no clearly demarcated lines seperating the chapters, but instead one infinite ball brimming with whats, cans, maybes, and sheer experience. But how can one deny the emotion of leaving a place just recently become home after two years of following the ebb and flow of what is modern life in Africa. Refreshing it is also. Refreshing to be back on the road again carrying home the spoils of friendships forged along the way. It's really hard to digest what this experience has meant to me, its ethos goes to the core of me and in such a way that can only be felt and not justly explained. Perhaps that's what home is, a feeling of grounded-ness, like the trunk of a tree, to an area. I've reached out across the waters and dropped a complimentary anchor on a people I had no idea existed before, I say complimentary because my roots rightly stem from the Midwest where my people are, but being here has opened my eyes to what it means to make a family, to forge one's roots where before there were none. Where before I was just a strange man living in a strange village, I leave feeling like a son leaving home. A place exists in its people. When I think of home, it's the faces that come up, the experiences, good and bad. Those are the places that mean something to me, a place that flows organically from the names and faces of those dear to me, and because of this, is always apart of me. Thursday is the blast-off. Look out, 'cause here I come.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Parakou

Ah, Parakou. The city of lights. Well, not quite, but it's still something for a country-boy like Monsieur Robert coming in from the hills of Aklampa. Flu season is upon us it seems (they get that here?) and that means the backwater folks get to come into the burgeoning population center that is Parakou, a glorified dustbowl during this time of year, for their government mandated stabbing. Minerets replace steeples in this part of the country and shawls replace braids, it being a more Muslim influenced region than in the dirty south. Parakou has become quite the loci for us TEFLers over the last two weeks as it was just seven days ago that we were all here for our brief respite from the school year known as PSW (Personal Strategies Workshop). Thanksgiving, that ancient most American of holidays, found us all together and we had quite the fete, stuffing a guinea fowl in a duck and then stuffing the afformentioned amalgamation into a turkey tastes better than it sounds and throw in some mashed taters and home is just a taste away. The walls of the workstation sufficiently insulated us all from the prayer calls and zemijohn drivers as we all pretended to be back home. As trite as it sounds, there is a lot to be thankful for. Just a brief list to whet your appetite; showers, books, my dog, my family, my friends (old and new), and just plain being. Perhaps another thing to add to that list is movies, it never ceases to amaze me how awe-inspiring movies are after being au village for a month. For a culture shock it's always fun to take a walk outside of the station immediately after watching "I Love You Man" or "The Hangover". Sufficiently inundated with American popular culture and rearmed with new reading materials, Aklampa is calling. A la prochaine Parakou.

Wake-Up

The sun rose sharply over the rocky hill, its luminance made less searing by the Harmattan winds billowing in from the North, which makes the atmosphere a smoggy collection of Sarahan sand particles. The trees crowded around me and the rocky crag of a colline I was on in a very African way, erasing my momentary wondering of where I was. I was in Benin, waking up on a local hill close to the village, seeing the day stretch itself and my new world awaken, life is good. Perhaps the understatement that best defines my experience here thus far, life is good.
The great outdoors is something different in America. A slogan for an air freshner, a poster in a classroom, here it's just everyday life, a fact made more clear to me by my first camping experience in Benin. Maybe that's why it was so hard to explain what we were doing sleeping out on the colline to the neighbors. "You're doing what?","What's camping?","You're bizarre, but nice." (That last one being my favourite response). It's strange to think that in America we've become so far removed from the outdoor experience that we've created an entire sporting lifestyle, complete with packaged goods and industrialized retail processes, called "camping". Camping, the hardest word to translate for me thus far. I settled on "faire du sport", as much as that falls short of the intended meaning. Either way, it was worth while. The "wow" moments seemed to multiply as the day went on, a fact owing, I think, to the fact that I was their for the day's birth, the nightly struggle of the sun against the night had been won yet again by the sun and life could go on. Marche day, Parakou bound; all facts making my day worth mention, but made all the more insignificant and wonderful at the same time by that red sun peaking over the hills. It's time to get up Brad.