My host papa, sister's friend, me, and sister Carole
The woman who taught me French for the first four weeks, Leonie. An inspiration.
Wooo! Volunteers!!!
Atop Hotel Dona in Porto-Novo. Kim, Me, Erika, Miranda, Sarah and Tracie
All of us singers singing the Swearin-In song during the ceremony
View of the sunset from atop a hotel in Porto Novo where we partied a few nights ago
Four of us from RCH, sitting together before swearing in. It's customary for everyone in a given sector to wear the same tissue.
View of Porto-Novo from the same rooftop
And another one. Was going a little crazy from the awesome vantage point.
Top of hotel Dona.
All of us after getting messy playing football. This is the soccer field at the school where TEFL and SED trained.
Being silly at a bar near Songhai. I think the American flag on my helmet says it all here...
My host parents. This is the picture I took of them and framed as a parting gift.
Four of us from RCH, sitting together before swearing in. It's customary for everyone in a given sector to wear the same tissue.
View of Porto-Novo from the same rooftop
And another one. Was going a little crazy from the awesome vantage point.
Top of hotel Dona.
All of us after getting messy playing football. This is the soccer field at the school where TEFL and SED trained.
Being silly at a bar near Songhai. I think the American flag on my helmet says it all here...
My host parents. This is the picture I took of them and framed as a parting gift.
9/27/09
It’s been a week of parties and goodbyes, with everyone feeling like we’ve known each other for years and no one wanting to face the impending separation. It has loomed over us like a storm cloud (after reading Tom Robbins I’m too ashamed to even attempt a simile more creative than this) and us without umbrellas. The goodbyes are awkward, because although we know they are temporary, in the relative spectrum of the emotional life of a volunteer, they are permanent; two months has felt like a lifetime, and the next three will mimic eternity. The nature of the coming move to post remains a source of great mystery and expectation. Change and assimilation thereto have become the norms but we’ve braved them together; this is the first time in my life, however, that I will make such a major move alone. For self assurance, /I continue to remind myself that not only do I get to actively choose my reaction to novel cultural stimuli (I’ve decided to enjoy moving to village instead of fearing it), but THIS HAS BEEN DONE BEFORE and this experience, while on a micro level is new to me, on a macro level is completed thousands of times a year by volunteers in dozens of countries. I’m also comforted by the fact that there is no shortage of work to be done here; dormancy is a huge concern for many volunteers but my NGO has about a billion projects going right now so upon continuation of my French studies, I will become involved by increasing degrees. I can’t wait!
Last night we all met at Java Promo to eat, drink and say goodbye. There were hugs, someone cried, and we all headed home for our second-to or last night’s stay at our host families’. I gave presents to my family and thanked them for their hospitality. For maman and papa I had a picture of them, which I had taken before a huge fete when they were dressed to the nines, printed and put it in a frame which I had, because I haven’t seen a place yet to buy them here so figured they were kind of a novelty. Everyone seemed quite pleased, myself included, and we stayed up past midnight talking.
When I entered my room and got settled into bed, no sooner did I close my eyes then the miniature tick, click, squeak-chirp-tick of a Tiny Thing living in my room unsettled me. Going straight to the source of the sound (I have become exceptionally skilled at zeroing in on things using only their ticks and clicks), I unveiled behind my large lockbox what appeared to be a bat in the inadequate lighting. I ran back to the living room to call papa in to help-- he hesitated, it being entirely inappropriate for him to be in my room, especially with me in there too, but I believe the urgency in my request sufficiently prompted him. “Oh, il y a un cafard,” he grumbled upon discerning that the Thing was not a bat but in fact the granddaddy of all cockroaches. Together, voices low and adrenaline high, we pursued Grandpa Roach around the room, over and under furniture and ending on the wall by my bed with a resounding smack rendered by papa with my flipflop. “Qu’est-ce que tu va faire au village quand il y a un cafard?” he asked me, laughing, and truth, I didn’t know what I planned to do during such an encounter with a roach at my new home. I could have sarcastically responded that I planned on not leaving food out on the counters all night long, but sarcasm and biting criticisms are not part of the Beninese dialect or my manners so I shrugged. Back in my room, a baby cockroach scampered out from under a suitcase and realizing that this was my opportunity to start small, I took it. I triumphantly paraded into the living room with my flipflop and beaming, showed papa, who nodded his approval. Thus, it begins. Actually, there is a pretty big one wriggling on its back under my couch right now, and my anti-suffering ethic is torn between the struggling roach and my foundering will to kill it. If I sound cruel, it’s because I live in Benin; I must write for the anti-cafard audience or write nothing at all.
The conatant cries of “yovo” on the street have taken on a life of their own in my mind. Originally, missionaries taught the children the song: “Yovo yovo, bonsoir! Ca va bien? Merci!” in order to foster communication and to encourage the children to use manners; however, it has evolved into something of a taunt, and the word “yovo” which can mean “stranger” or “white” has become the subject of almost every song I ever knew. For example, “yovo yovo yovo, I made you out of clay, yovo yovo yovo, with yovo I shall play” and “happy yovo to you, happy yovo to youuuuu, happy yovo dear yovooo…” and so on. It’s taking over my mind. At least in village I’ll see the same people all the time and I can teach them my name or at least to call me madame instead.
Tomorrow morning, I will go pick my up keys from the AFAP office in Porto-Novo, then move into my new home in a taxi rented by Peace Corps (though AFAP offered to move me in their truck, which I regretfully had to decline). I have a mattress, two gas cans and stove, two suitcases, two backpacks and a few plastic grocery sacks full of couscous, flour, vitamins, spices and stale granola bars. Plus two snickers bars I bought at the supermarche. I’m saving them in case of a meltdown. It is actually very comforting to be moving without all the usual hoopla, and I know that whatever I need here, I will be able to find. Not whatever I want, but that which I need, I will have. This is one of the reasons I joined Peace Corps: it’s the little things here that make one’s world go round. For example, I bought a fan yesterday!!! It is mighty, metallic and majestic. I slept with it aimed at my legs last night and temporarily forgot the stale, slimy, stagnant air I have been swimming through in my sleep for the past nine weeks. I can’t believe what a difference the fan has made in my motivation, my happiness, my outlook on life. I even styled my hair with it this morning, and though the humidity sapped it as soon as I stepped into the sun, it was a wonderful five minutes during which I felt like the American me who had some control over her appearance. The little things are HUGE here.
Next post will have pics of my house. Stay tuned! Knowing that I have a family who cares enough to read this is keeping me going here, so thank you for your support and warm energy-- I can feel it all the way over here (or it could be the equator under my feet) and I love you!
Last night we all met at Java Promo to eat, drink and say goodbye. There were hugs, someone cried, and we all headed home for our second-to or last night’s stay at our host families’. I gave presents to my family and thanked them for their hospitality. For maman and papa I had a picture of them, which I had taken before a huge fete when they were dressed to the nines, printed and put it in a frame which I had, because I haven’t seen a place yet to buy them here so figured they were kind of a novelty. Everyone seemed quite pleased, myself included, and we stayed up past midnight talking.
When I entered my room and got settled into bed, no sooner did I close my eyes then the miniature tick, click, squeak-chirp-tick of a Tiny Thing living in my room unsettled me. Going straight to the source of the sound (I have become exceptionally skilled at zeroing in on things using only their ticks and clicks), I unveiled behind my large lockbox what appeared to be a bat in the inadequate lighting. I ran back to the living room to call papa in to help-- he hesitated, it being entirely inappropriate for him to be in my room, especially with me in there too, but I believe the urgency in my request sufficiently prompted him. “Oh, il y a un cafard,” he grumbled upon discerning that the Thing was not a bat but in fact the granddaddy of all cockroaches. Together, voices low and adrenaline high, we pursued Grandpa Roach around the room, over and under furniture and ending on the wall by my bed with a resounding smack rendered by papa with my flipflop. “Qu’est-ce que tu va faire au village quand il y a un cafard?” he asked me, laughing, and truth, I didn’t know what I planned to do during such an encounter with a roach at my new home. I could have sarcastically responded that I planned on not leaving food out on the counters all night long, but sarcasm and biting criticisms are not part of the Beninese dialect or my manners so I shrugged. Back in my room, a baby cockroach scampered out from under a suitcase and realizing that this was my opportunity to start small, I took it. I triumphantly paraded into the living room with my flipflop and beaming, showed papa, who nodded his approval. Thus, it begins. Actually, there is a pretty big one wriggling on its back under my couch right now, and my anti-suffering ethic is torn between the struggling roach and my foundering will to kill it. If I sound cruel, it’s because I live in Benin; I must write for the anti-cafard audience or write nothing at all.
The conatant cries of “yovo” on the street have taken on a life of their own in my mind. Originally, missionaries taught the children the song: “Yovo yovo, bonsoir! Ca va bien? Merci!” in order to foster communication and to encourage the children to use manners; however, it has evolved into something of a taunt, and the word “yovo” which can mean “stranger” or “white” has become the subject of almost every song I ever knew. For example, “yovo yovo yovo, I made you out of clay, yovo yovo yovo, with yovo I shall play” and “happy yovo to you, happy yovo to youuuuu, happy yovo dear yovooo…” and so on. It’s taking over my mind. At least in village I’ll see the same people all the time and I can teach them my name or at least to call me madame instead.
Tomorrow morning, I will go pick my up keys from the AFAP office in Porto-Novo, then move into my new home in a taxi rented by Peace Corps (though AFAP offered to move me in their truck, which I regretfully had to decline). I have a mattress, two gas cans and stove, two suitcases, two backpacks and a few plastic grocery sacks full of couscous, flour, vitamins, spices and stale granola bars. Plus two snickers bars I bought at the supermarche. I’m saving them in case of a meltdown. It is actually very comforting to be moving without all the usual hoopla, and I know that whatever I need here, I will be able to find. Not whatever I want, but that which I need, I will have. This is one of the reasons I joined Peace Corps: it’s the little things here that make one’s world go round. For example, I bought a fan yesterday!!! It is mighty, metallic and majestic. I slept with it aimed at my legs last night and temporarily forgot the stale, slimy, stagnant air I have been swimming through in my sleep for the past nine weeks. I can’t believe what a difference the fan has made in my motivation, my happiness, my outlook on life. I even styled my hair with it this morning, and though the humidity sapped it as soon as I stepped into the sun, it was a wonderful five minutes during which I felt like the American me who had some control over her appearance. The little things are HUGE here.
Next post will have pics of my house. Stay tuned! Knowing that I have a family who cares enough to read this is keeping me going here, so thank you for your support and warm energy-- I can feel it all the way over here (or it could be the equator under my feet) and I love you!
No comments:
Post a Comment