Camp AGBASSA

So it was totally happening, and then it probably wouldn’t happen, and then it definitely wasn’t going to happen. After that, it was maybe going to happen, and then it happened... Camp AGBASSA was a slow, painful planning process, amounting to a quick, fun three days and nights.

When funding for the girls’ camp fell through, I admitted my fault to the camp planning committee (really just me and Marie-Elise, and then later her visiting French friend, Monique). I asked to try again later in the year when we were more prepared and eligible for Peace Corps aid, but the Beninese optimism that “it will happen” and “someone will help us,” (that’s another blog post for another time) was somehow irresistible to us all. So there we were, 24 hours before the camp, with 30 middle-school-aged girls invited, and not a dollar to our cause…

Normally, Peace Corps gives a community camp 4 years to become financially independent, weaning them from an initial 75% aid, to moral support. Alas, a fully community funded, first-edition, five day overnight camp was slightly stupid and atrociously ambitious.  But Marie-Elise is a go-getter, and I’ve perfected my go-with-the-flow attitude here, and so we managed to scrape by for three days & nights on donations of mosquito nets and sleeping mats, sacs of corn or rice or onions, and again, the French friend. Only 18 of the girls showed up, but so did only half the number of desired counselors, so it did somehow all work out. Eventually, though often after-the-fact, the donations and acknowledgements of the solicited community participants did finally roll in; we received 20 sleeping mats after one night had already passed and a sac of rice and several monetary donations on the last day of camp – better late than never.

It was all so Beninese: nothing ran as scheduled and no one came on time; nothing was practiced or prepared ahead of time; the most money was spent on a decorative banner and certificates of completion; adults didn’t freak out when kids were “unsupervised” or got sick, and kids entertained themselves and didn’t want to go home. Many sessions were replicas of the Beninese education system – a series of lectures in which kids don’t ask and aren’t asked questions, rather they repeat or write on the board whatever the teacher said. But I did my best to make it less like school and create a safe space to talk about all the things a young girl needs some guidance on, from goals and obstacles to relationships and health, and hopefully the girls did leave with something they didn’t have before (besides a misprinted T-shirt with some Caucasian newlyweds’ faces on the front, one of Monique’s contributions – we took what we could get).

And even though it really was a po-dunk version of a camp (nowhere near my days at Sherman Lake, or St. Mary’s, or Walden – or maybe not even Mrs. Wolf’s preschool art camp…) it was an opportunity that some girls wouldn’t have had: to take a break and do some reflection and hopefully gain some knowledge and confidence. The name of the camp, AGBASSA, means “within me” (though that’s a twice removed translation, Wemε à French à English, so the sense isn’t quite the same), and on the last day we marched around village, telling the community about what we accomplished this week, and singing about what’s great about being a young girl.

This is the first project I’ve completed in village that feels like a success, like I’ve participated in something lasting and worthwhile. I was so proud of my campers at the end of three days, at how much they seemed to learn and grow and become proud of themselves. But I was even more proud of Marie-Elise and the women’s group that supported the camp. The best part is that I actually did so very little, and I know the camp could (and hopefully will) continue long into the future, without my presence. I’m already looking forward to AGBASSA 2014!

Dormitories for 6em (7th grade) and 5em (8th grade) girls

From misprinted wedding t-shirts, to reprinted camp t-shirts...

 

The women who made the camp possible!

One of the songs the girls sang while marching through the village: "We're going to the ends of the Earth. Camp AGBASSA will never perish!" They also sang about keeping a joyful heart (the meaning of AGBASSA), and maintaining their rights to be safe, innocent, young girls. My favorite part was the chanting: "Young girls - fight! fight! fight! Without women: no nation, no development. Women - they exist too!"

Will Work for Shoes

The other week I spent an afternoon helping my Beninese Maman, Marie-Elise, with some unpacking. Three of her friends from France had sent boxes –  no, trucks full of boxes. Every room was stacked from ceiling to floor with second-hand gifts for schools, orphanages, and Marie Elise’s boutique. For three days, her home was a “Dead Yovo Marché” (the common name for markets where western-style goods and clothes are sold, as one assumes they were all sent from deceased whiteys).

Everything the French outgrew or didn’t want is now in possession of Benin. And frankly, Benin might not even want it either... I spent the day in awe of “stuff.” I recognized many specialized text books, unique kitchen utensils, fancy bath products, and several identical t-shirts with a misprint, as I have probably used several of them at some point back in the states.

I admit to fulfilling the American stereotype as someone who has always had so much stuff, struggled to find a place to put it, and put together many a box for Goodwill or the Salvation Army. While I am ever in favor to reuse and recycle, and such donations are generous and appreciated, I had a hard time seeing the receiving end of such Western consumerism, and it was bizarre to take in the quantity of goods found useless and no longer desirable to the developed world – only 3 people from the developed world, actually.

For many PCVs like me, a small draw for the job was a desire to live simply; this is a romantic yet valid assumption about life in the Peace Corps. However, we often find it hard to resist (furthermore, often gorge ourselves) when offered luxurious items, products of convenience, or foods from the home that we miss. With the opening of each box then, I prepared myself to covet something that was inside, like when I open packages from home, and I was somewhat shocked when I found myself not wanting any of it.

At the end of the day, despite my reluctance to desire the many familiar yet rare things in front of me, Marie-Elise did encourage me to take something in exchange for my help. And so, a pair of impractical (and now somewhat symbolic) shoes has found its way into my wardrobe. I wore them that weekend to a formal Peace Corps party, but I imagine they will be left to collect dust and find their way into the “leave / donate in Benin” pile once my time here is up.

I suppose I have yet to reach a genuine conclusion about the feelings I experienced that day and what it meant for me to accept the shoes, but this was clearly one of my first insights as to how the readjustment (just 18 months away, folks) to life in the U.S. will probably be equally as shocking (if not more) than when I came to Benin. I’m only 33% into service, and all my old ways are constantly questioned, just as circumstances I never thought about (i.e. where does all my unwanted stuff end up?) are finding their way into my daily life. It is without doubt that I have changed and will continue to do so, but the question and the challenge remains: to what degree?

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In other general news, here’s a quick update on the work front:

People are starting to better use my free labor, though it’s still a battle. Work was picking up in the schools last month, but I let myself lose some motivation to work there after being too naïve / hopeful that I let myself get involved with people who had ulterior motives in working with me. I am ok but less comfortable working with them, so it's been a challenge to keep motivated and keep my clubs going without the benefit of host country national partners. 

The girls club continues to go well with a group of freshman-aged girls who are learning how to develop their own opinions and gain confidence, and I do feel like I get through to them sometimes. We just did an essay contest for which the winner will get to go to Cotonou for the weekend to shadow a professional woman in the workplace. This is a pretty big deal for kids in my village, with farmers and homemakers for parents, so it does seem good to provide opportunities like that to them.

On the farm, I've got some beautiful green beans! All my cucumbers were attacked by worms, but it's an opportunity to use the garden for a demonstration on natural insecticides, so that's coming up. I'm also working on a grant to get them an irrigation system, because there's a whole lot of fertile land, though not enough man power or rain to utilize it all.

My women's group is learning all about tree planting and how to use a tree called “Moringa” to improve their agricultural and nutritional practice. My newly-formed men's co op is learning how to cooperate, and soon I'll be starting nutrition seminars with preschool mamans. So it's coming together, slowly but surely, but there’s still a long way to go. For now, I do the best I can, and appreciate the love and support from home.

Geo's Big Night Out

The other night I was ready for bed, so I went out back to bring Geo inside. He usually spends the evenings outside in my small yard, catching lizards and licking off my dinner dishes. I cooed and tutted and shook his bowl of food, but he was nowhere to be found. I stumbled out into the dark with my flashlight, poked my head around my concession, and nothing… I announced that Geo went out, and my concession brother Cedric took me out to look for him. We romped around the bush, walked into neighboring concessions, and accumulated a small search party of my neighbors, but to no avail.

I was told he’d find his way back eventually and to go home and get some rest – they could see the worry on my face. I waited until I was safely inside to let the tears fall, and I called my loved ones for comfort. I left my screen doors open, placed a bowl of food outside, and tried to sleep. But I could hear my neighbors outside, some of them still calling “Géo! Géo!,” and some of them surely laughing about the ridiculous yovo, making her cat come inside every night.

While my family always had indoor cats while I was growing up, I am all for the freedom to roam. If I had a big open farmland, I’d have no worries about Geo’s being out late at night. But as I lay in my bed, missing the sag of my mosquito net where Geo usually sleeps on top, I thought about all the motos that zip by on the road next to my house, or all the people in village who had commented on how well I feed my cat, while greedily licking their lips (it’s a matter of preference, but yes, some people do eat cat here).

So I gave it one last effort to roam around village, this time the tears flowing freely. Although, I think my tears were somewhat pardoned this time, as many people half-joke that Geo is my baby. They call me Maman Géo and then usually say “But really, Mishu, that’s not good. You need to have real children. Now. In Benin. Before you’re too old.”

It was my first night in village without Geo. And while becoming an autonomous cat owner has been a learning experience that has required many band-aids, Geo has become a big character in my life here – A friend to greet me each time I come back to my lonely home; something to be responsible for; something to share love and food with. I’m not one for cat stories, but he’s got personality.

So I laid there again, missing my friend, and worrying about what could happen to him. I cried myself into one of those deep, sad sleeps. The kind that are easily disturbed but heavy enough that you have a ½ second of ignorance when you wake, until you remind yourself what has happened, and the sadness sets in again, as it did after every subtle noise I awoke to.

But around 6h30 the next morning, I heard what I had been listening for all night – his little scratches on the door! I leapt out of bed, opened the door, and he pranced on in. I was so happy I started crying all over again. He was ok, and he came home! I gave him a big bowl of food and scratched him all over, which he probably thought was some sort of reward for his big night out…

At day break, I announced the news to my neighbors, some of whom were already up and ready to relaunch the search party. Even a man I strongly dislike had called the gongonière (man who bangs a gong when people are to assemble). The good news spread, and people kept stopping by to “Dieu Merci!” (Thank god!), because “Mishu, hier-la… Tchᴐ!” (Mishu, yesterday, tsk...), meaning I was ridiculously distraught over my missing kitten, and may never live it down.

If I don’t want him to leave again like that they said, it’s time to castrate him. I had about ten neighbors – village chief and delegates included – come tell me this within an hour of his return, and not one of them failed to accompany their suggestions with the corresponding cutting and crotch-pointing gestures... I think Geo knew what was up too, because he sat on my bed looking a bit guilty when my neighbors poked their heads in to shake a finger at him… At least Bob Barker will be pleased.

I’m just so happy to have him home. It was a long night. For us both, apparently. After the cuddling and the lecturing, and the big meal, he climbed up to take a little cat nap on my mosquito net: right where he belongs.

Family Vacation

They came, they saw, and they didn’t get sick! Thanks to bottled water and many a Beninoise (read: $1, 40+ oz beer), I did my best to keep Mom and Dad hydrated and happy. They got to experience all the realities of Benin – from delicious exotic fruits and spicy foods, to bucket baths and vulture zem drivers. And they came out relatively unscathed!

Everyone in village was thrilled to meet Mama Michelle, and Dad was thrilled to finally meet my crazy cat. Mom freaked out over tiny little lizards and Dad took pictures of them. Mom spoke French with a Georgia Peach twang (“Maaayer-see!”), and Dad affectionately rechristened cities of which he couldn’t pronounce the names (“Natitingou” will forever be, in my mind, “Nitty Titty Bingo”). It was a typical family reunion, except there were hippos and lions, and we ran 2 marathons between the three of us.

I posted pictures here, with some captions about what we did, and have invited them both to comment below about their take on Benin.

Having my parents here was wonderful beyond description; I feel so grateful that they made it all this way to see me, as I know Benin was never high on their list of dream vacations... But showing them the way I live my life here allowed them to better understand what I am learning and doing as a PCV, and that will be valuable long after these two years are over. Now, the challenge is to readjust from the comfort of unconditional love and support of having my family here, to the loneliness and unpredictability of life in village.

Despite my intentions to hit the ground running after vacation, it’s been tough to get back into the swing of things. I’m still trying to establish environmental clubs at the primary and secondary schools, as well as a series of nutrition and food security seminars for preschool mothers. My efforts are met with many a “come back tomorrow”’s and “we’ll see”’s, but I’m doing my best. The girls’ club is now a solid group of interested young ladies, the girls’ camp planning continues, and a few women in village are preparing for me to help them plant trees and grow the “exotic” things I plant in my garden – carrots, lettuce, and cucumbers. It’s a bit daunting when there isn’t much planned ahead, but I’m learning, as always, how to greet each day with patience and an open mind.

Porn + Politics = Ready for a Vacation

While Peace Corps predicts the first three months in site to be the loneliest and most challenging, I fared pretty well with the “integration period.” Now, as life in Benin becomes more routine and less exotic, I think I’m hitting a 7^th-month slump… Here’s a 2-days-in-the-life story from last week to exhibit how some days, I’m pushed right up to the edge.

I’m working on some grant applications for my upcoming girls’ camp, so I needed to print some paperwork. Finding the appropriate technology to do so in village is often difficult, but after asking around all morning, I located two equipped boutiques. I waited a half hour at the first one, while the dinosaur of a computer tried to recognize my USB key. After no luck, I took my key and headed to option #2…

Upon arrival, the owner of the shop greeted me by saying “What do you want? If you’re just here to say hello, I don’t want that. What did you bring me?” Despite the rudeness of this greeting (which is extremely out of character for the Beninese, who are generally very welcoming and hospitable), the part that bugged me most was the last question: “What did you bring me?” I’ve recently decided this to be my least favorite phrase here in Benin, trumping even “give me money,” “are you married?” and the yovo song. Being my father’s daughter (and therefore an enthusiastic proponent of quality customer service!), I was tempted to say “screw you, jackass!” and walk away. But also being in  village, with limited printing options and a reputation to uphold as a Peace Corps volunteer, I forced myself to say “I have brought you good health... And I want to print something.” The first answer is a generally accepted response to the question-from-hell, but peoples’ faces still fall like they don’t believe the yovo doesn’t have money or presents for them. Whatever.

I waited another long while before my USB came up, only to see that attempt #1 had in fact recognized my USB after all… at least enough to corrupt all the old files and replace them with porn. My virus ridden key was polluted with folders entitled “dirty,” “XXX,” and “Porn!!!” warranting many odd looks from the already judgmental proprietor. And it didn’t help that the folder I kept trying / failing to open was entitled “Girls” – as in girls’ camp, girls’ club, etc. A sense of humor and an appreciation for the ironic are all too important in this life I’m living... So I admitted defeat and trudged home, only to be accosted by the village drunkard, who followed me half way home repeating “What do you have for me? Give me something. Yovo, yovo, why don’t you want to give me a present? You are selfish...”

Day two, I headed out early for a 9 AM meeting with the mayor. At 1:15, he showed up. This is, unfortunately, typical for the Beninese, though I suppose I expected the Mayor’s office to run differently? When he did finally get there, he spent the majority of our meeting scolding me for having lived in his commune for so long and not yet having stopped by to greet him (even though “stopping by” is a half hour, 1000 CFA zem ride away – far and expensive by village standards). As if he would have had time for me! Not only was he 4 hours late for a scheduled meeting, the meeting itself was a circus… People kept coming in and out of his office, asking questions, pushing their own agendas, or just saying “I heard you had a yovo in your office and wanted to greet her…”­­ He also received over 20 calls and texts, answering them all in my presence (again, not out of character for Benin). I calmly but sternly asked him if this was typical of a professional workplace in Benin. His response: “There’s no problem! I’m listening to you!” all the while looking at his phone. Interactions like that make me feel like two years will never be enough to contribute to the development of Benin, let alone finish a sentence with the mayor.

Icing on the cake that day: when I got home, my zem driver raised the price upon arrival (one always agrees on the price and destination before getting on the zem! Raising the price once you get there is NOT ok, and Beninese people won’t put up with that – when it happens, it’s plain and clear prejudice). He said “you’re white; you can give me more than that.” I told him how bad that was of him to do, but he continued to bother me. I was so fed up and tired from the bullshit of the day that I forfeited my principles, tossed him an extra 200 CFA, and walked away. He called after me: “My dear, are you married?”

Aside from the many culture clashes I’ve been having lately, this is also the longest period of time I have ever gone without seeing kin… Thankfully, the ‘rents are on their way! Starting tonight, I will be taking a 12 day vacation to show Benin to my parents. I’m hoping their visit will give me a break from routine and some fresh eyes to appreciate the good things about Benin once again. The agenda includes a visit to my village, a tour of Pendjari Wildlife Park, and a marathon in Parakou. This will be a lot of new territory for me as well, so I’ll be sure to update about our adventures in the coming weeks! 

Voodoo Fête

January 10 is a national holiday to celebrate traditional religions of Benin – namely, Vodun. I joined two of my close-mates and a HCN (“Host Country National”) for the festivities at a nearby mayor’s office. The HCN is affectionately known by several volunteers in my region as “The Voodoo Man.” Voodoo Man is one of those awesome HCNs who made friends with a PCV once and now says “hey, you’re a foreigner, and there’s some cool stuff in this country – let me share it with you, for nothing in return but your company!” I love it when I meet people like this, and I have had some of my best culture-sharing adventures here with them. Voodoo Man is a priest and authority figure of a regional vodun cult. He often invites PCVs to witness ceremonies, and many volunteers have gone to him to receive scarification – a common body modification practice in Benin, like tattooing, that denotes your heritage and has spiritual (or souvenir-ical) significance.

When I arrived, I found my party with 3^rd row seats on stage! From there, we sat among the Voodoo Man’s colleagues and important kings from the region, and we got to witness all sorts of costumes, dancing, and music!

  

Like most clothing in Benin, the costumes of these voodoo spirits and traditional medicine man were incredibly colorful and elaborate!

 

 

These haystack looking things are called “Zangbetos.” They are spirits, and their apprentices will dismantle them to prove there is nobody underneath, just a talisman or animal of some sort.

When someone performs for you, dancing or drumming, it’s custom to place money on their forehead. These guys made bank today.

               

Holidays and Harmattan

I spent December 24^th – 27^th at the beach in Grand Popo (the beach town was named by Portuguese explorers and means “Giant Poop.” But really it’s a very beautiful place…). Several volunteers met up to take a few days to finally act like tourists. We stayed at hotel Lion Bar, self-proclaimed “Happy Reggae Place Forever.” The hotel was essentially a tikki bar, next to which we pitched tents on the beach. Perfect way to spend my non-Christmas feeling Christmas!

  

"Happy Reggae Place Forever"

Breakfast view. Corona commercial?

When I returned to village, the following week was all about preparing for what Beninese consider to be the real holiday of the season – the new year! On the eve of the 31^st, the singing and drumming started, and children dressed up, covering their body head-to-toe in clothing, complete with homemade masks. Kids went door to door with their tam-tams, dancing in return for candy or money. Beninese Halloween! (But way cooler, because kids dance and sing and play drums incredibly well here, which is far more impressive than saying “trick or treat” from under some WalMart mask). I passed out Girl Scout cookies (shout out thank you to Uncle Tom for the care package!!!) and sat outside with my concession family until midnight, when everyone cheered with Beninoise (beer) and Sodabi (local moonshine), yelling “Alleluia! 2013!” We turned on Beninese music videos, most of them about Jesus, and Maman and Tannyi (aunt) prayed passionately for health and prosperity and many other things I didn’t understand, as usual. But I was glad to be included.

In Benin, the grand celebrations take place on New Year’s Day. I woke up early, ready to witness some partying, but the village was quiet and empty… Finally, I was told everyone was busy preparing a feast, and I too should be cooking my meal to share! My close-mate (volunteer who lives closest), Zoe, came over and we scraped together some mac and cheese (my go-to when people expect me to share American food with them) and curried couscous with lentils… In the afternoon, we came together with our international feast in front of us. New Years day is like Halloween for adults, as neighbors circulate to taste each other’s food and share drinks. We agreed to start with the Americans’ contributions, and Zoe and I were entertained by my Beninese friends and neighbors, chatting curiously amongst themselves and straining to finish their plates of bizarre-tasting food. When it was time for the Beninese portion of the meal, however, it became clear that it was no easier for us: I was teary-eyed and sniffling from the spicy sauce, and Zoe was picking out pieces of fish from her pâte... We all laughed about it and congratulated each other on the meal. Culture exchange: success. Afterward, I followed tradition and made the rounds to visit my farm friends and host family, sharing in the Beninese cuisine and drinks.

New Years Day with the concession family

But the fête didn’t stop there! January 2 is meant for resting, finishing leftovers, visiting the people you didn’t quite get to, and one final evening dance party, which was my favorite part to see! Most of Houeda gathered in the public space outside my concession to watch men with tam-tams and cowbells. At the beginning of the ceremony, prayers were chanted, and the instruments and money jar were doused with sodabi and gin, as per tradition. Children were then allowed to come in the circle and show their dance moves. Adults later got in on the fun, and respected men danced with bull tails in hand, apparently a practice started by ancient kings of Benin. When a dancer performs well, it is custom to put coins on their forehead, which they then contribute to the musicians’ money jar. The party continued until midnight, and guns were fired to officially end the fête. People kept feting on and off until January 10, vodun day, a national day to recognize traditional religions - blog post on that coming up! The next party season is Easter, and I hear Pentecost is wild, so stay tuned.

Now it’s back to work for the village and me… Though the first “meeting” of the secondary school science teachers was actually an extension of the fête. Several of them are helping me get my environmental club started, so they invited me to dine and drink with them. I was the only woman among 15 men – Benin needs more women in science! Good thing my girls’ club officially started this week (over 100 girls signed up!), and planning for the girls’ camp is underway.

In other news, Harmattan is here. This means it is the dry, windy season. The afternoons are scorching, but it can actually get down to about 70 degrees F in the morning and evening with a nice breeze that rolls through, which is ideal for Michigan blood, but the Beninese are freezing their butts off. I’m still romping around in my sandals and t-shirts, while they’ve busted out the second hand ski jackets and wrapped themselves in multiple layers of tissue (fabric), and I’ve even seen socks! But I’ve been taking advantage of the cool mornings to train for the marathon (less than a month to go!) and expand my garden, since eating that which I’ve grown has been so rewarding. I’m thrilled I get to eat a few salads a week now, and my neighbors are even starting to take an interest in crop diversification and nutrition when they see what see what sort of fresh goodies I bring home from the farm! Also this week, I was able to hop on and host a bike tour of volunteers who are crossing the country (http://bikebenin.blogspot.com/) – great idea and super fun, so I’m looking into setting up a tour of my own, later on this year. More pictures are finally up here! 

I made  grew this. Yum.