Je Te Manque, U.S. de A.

Me at the first annual "National Agriculture Day." The office of the minister of agriculture sponsored a contest for groups which conduct transformations of Beninese produce. We work with soy so we set up a booth demonstrating the processes of making everything from clothing dye to food to soap. Our project manager presented to representatives from the minister of agriculture and my NGO won first place, the equivalent of about $300 (or, like, $5, from what I hear of the US economy right now).
Not our main booth, but this one shows the transformation of raw foods into useable products. Palm nuts (vitamin A extravaganza) into palm oil, eg, and the pulp left over from making peanut oil rolled into doughy strips and - what else? - fried.
We just kind of threw out a cornucopia (sp? also, def?) of visual aids belonging to various projects ranging from family planning to nutritional recuperation. On the right is a makeshift scale and some moringa, on the table are bowls of soy in various stages of processing, and on the ground are pineapples, which are make into juice in Game.
The "halftime show," for lack of a better word. A troupe performed traditional dances with agricultural themes: fishing, planting, harvestring etc.
The moon outside my house one night. It was so close you could smell its moon-fumes.

I have not proof-read this blog. Pardon me, please.

There are maybe five gas stations in the country. Really- they are few and far between, and even where “stations” do exist, they consist only of a sleepy man in a rickety wooden chair sitting beside a free-standing pump. That is to say, you can’t go inside and use a flush toilet while deciding between combos and corn nuts (mmm… corn nuts) because there isn’t a building. There were a couple of Texaco stations in Cotonou which have since been closed and probably looted, they weren’t even slightly reminiscent of the gas stations that come to mind upon mention in the states.

The solution to this predicament, as probably one in ten people owns a motorbike here, is to “import” (tap a line and smuggle) gas in from Nigeria in large glass bottles and plastic five-gallon jugs strapped to the backs of still more motos. (I was originally supposed to be placed in Game, the site of my NGO’s headquarters, but my APCD [Associate Peace Corps Director] changed her mind upon noting that the headquarters [which consist of an orphanage and health center/maternity ward] were located right on the main road in from Nigeria. For some reason she didn’t think it safe to live a few yards from rusty 1970’s mopeds strapped down with dozens of containers of sloshing gasoline and balancing precariously on partially deflated tires as they hurtle over dusty, rutted roads plagued by potholes and boulders. And she’s right. I’m much safer here in Djigbe living a block from a Zangbeto which, if it sees me out alone at night, will kill me [traditionally; in reality, not so much]). It is thusly distributed throughout the country, becoming more expensive as one moves away from the border.

To buy gasoline in Benin, one need only stop at one of the small wooden tables which reside every few hundred yards along the roadside. Upon the table sit old coke bottles and medicine jars full of gas. Behind each table sits a maman or a papan selling it by the litre, usually for about 275 CFA (about 60 cents). This is the only practical way to buy gasoline in Benin, but it’s illegal, so any time a “cop” (used extremely loosely here and as another example of my newfound love of the USA) wants to harass (extort money from) a gas peddler, he can. And yeah, I used “he” intentionally there.

So the economy, which is based largely on personal transportation, forces people to either buy and sell gasoline illegally or stay home. And although staying home seems to suit most people just fine, it’s hard to see how a nation can develop when even its most basic needs are hindered by the corrupt system of law enforcement that should be serving it. I know, I know. Corruption in a third world country: shocking, right? It’s not news, but this particular example is new to me, and I find the lack of logic laughable: everybody rides or drives, therefore everyone’s a criminal. America’s War on Drugs, anyone?

The Beninese culture is an extremely aggressive, confrontational and violent one. Sometimes I think I would have been much better suited here at age sixteen than I am now. The emotional atmosphere is certainly that of the land of teens. I see adults throwing fits, throwing shoes, throwing down. Shameless displays of foot stomping, scowling and arm-flailing often accompany price discussions. If a child or animal is annoying you, you’re perfectly in line if you beat it with your fists as hard as you physically can. Not only in public, but all the more if you have an audience; there’s a highly theatrical element to the abuse here (it isn’t surprising then that the children and animals play their roles as victims quite well).

Desensitization. Acclimation. Habituation. Assimilation. Pick a word: the more time I spend here, the less shocked I am. Maybe it’s critical to my work that I begin to think of these actions as normal and necessary. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’d have to do were I to cling to my American values, including the one of defending one’s values at all costs. Maybe it’s pointless to wonder because now that I have a workable level of French, I understand that it’s futile because most mothers haven’t been to school and the thought of starting over with (desperately tonal) Goun horrifies me. Seriously, what am I supposed to do at a baby weighing when I see a woman punching her child off in the weeds and the only other French speakers are the animatrices, who are busy and who for all I know have no moral qualms with child-punching? If I speak up, my moral objection becomes an issue, everyone belly-laughs like they’re at a (pre-Elf) Will Ferrell movie and I’m left there with my silly American sentimentality like a fool in the rain or a PCV in Benin.

I decide to go the work route. Some Good Will Come of This is my mantra. “Your child is very malnourished:” I point to the plot of her child’s weight for age: almost in the red zone. They know what the growth charts mean. They keep them in their home between weighings and are familiar with the colors and range of severity. “Aphoun gploke gbapodo badeya,” the woman translating for me says in Goun. At least, it sounded like it. I didn’t understand a word and she carried on for what seemed like an impossibly long time for translating such a short sentence. Both of the women ended up in laughter, apparently joking about something other than the possible death of her child. The mother is eating rice and beans she bought from a wandering vendor and as she eats her daughter reaches for the food to be met with a swift swat on the arm and a shout of “AHWAWANOPONOUGON!” which I’m assuming means “Stay the hell away from my food you little brat!” but I’m embellishing a little bit because I feel frustrated right now.

My point is this: it’s very, very hard to get through to people who don’t already see a problem that needs solving. Sometimes I turn it around in my mind, which isn’t easy but it’s interesting. Do it with me. You’re sitting there at Starbuck’s or at work or just on your porch. Some very, very dark-skinned African woman approaches you and begins to lecture you on the contents of your egg sandwich or cup of coffee. She greets you: “Good morning,“ in a holy-cow-she’s-not-from-around-here accent and waves awkwardly. She tries to be culturally sensitive, albeit rather transparently, as she provides you with unsolicited advice on what you should and shouldn’t eat, explaining politely that although your scientific upbringing was nifty and/or your religious beliefs quaint and nostalgic, there’s also this thing called gris-gris (gree-gree) and your neighbor, who knows exactly how many times your dog pooed on his lawn last week, has most certainly cursed your food so that if you eat it, your dog will die.

What do you do? This is so out of context that you are in a bit of a state of shock, but to humor her and because you aren’t sure exactly why she’s here or what she wants from you, you set down the sandwich and finish the conversation as politely and quickly as possible so that when she leaves you can finish your freaking sandwich. It’s like that here. One conversation isn’t going to change behavior. The babies will just be force-fed out of my earshot and people will have conversations about the hilarious yovo, who has never had a baby, giving advice to the pros on how it’s done. But maybe after two years of this, ashift will happen. Best case scenario: I start with anatomy 101. Food groups. Esophageal tract not the same as windpipe but both connected to mouth. Body temperature (baby doesn’t need hat when it’s 40 Celsius). If mothers know how the bodies work they will be better equipped to care for them. I don’t know. I have ideas every day but can’t communicate them and I curse Peace Corps every day for teaching me French instead of Goun. And even then, it’s only an easy target. Worst case scenario: in two years, the babies might be able to run away when mom lurches forward with a tepid bowl of bouille.

The bus ride to Cotonou Sunday was interesting, as they usually are. The bus was at least 75 years old and was like a mixed-media contemporary art piece: sheet metal, wood, rubber hosing and chains dangled and clashed in what could scarcely be called a vehicle but for purposes of this story will be referred to as a “bus.” Comfort not being a top priority of the operators of these torture-mobiles, the bus suffered a debilitating lack of shock absorbers- it was like riding in a sleigh made of bricks. This fact wouldn’t be so bad (or unusual) except that there were more than the average 650 people jimmied into the space designed for twelve, as it was Sunday, and that the road to Cotonou from Porto-Novo is riddled with potholes and speed-bumps. It makes for inadvertent intimacy with one’s neighbors, but we’ll get to that.

In Benin, annoyance and disdain are expressed by a loud tooth-sucking smack, a sort of exaggerated version of the American “tsk.” As anyone who has ever hurtled over a large, jutting speed bump in a rickety death-trap knows, disdain and the expression thereof is the only available option to those at the mercy of the ruthless and vengeful driver. So every time our bus clanged and jangled its way through a pothole or wobbled and crashed over a speed bump, a wave of lip-smacking tsks would sweep over the heads of its chiropractically-distressed passengers. The tsks would start at the front of the bus and progress toward the back, going in stages as each section was consecutively subjected to the violent thud immediately preceding the bump. They furrowed their brows, rolled their eyes, rolled their heads and scowled in the direction of the driver and at each other as they experienced anew the disappointment that the shocks had not been mysteriously replaced since the last wave of extravagant .

Their continued hyperbolic smacking and apparent expectation that it would lead to immediate changes in the anatomy of the bus were what amused me most. In America, we learn early on that doing something which has no result is invariable not worth doing. These buses are anonymous: there are fifty million of them in Benin, most aren’t registered in any sort of way, and the drivers will suffer no consequences if his customers are displeased. Tsking at a bus driver here would be akin to chastising a New York City taxi driver for the gum stuck to the floor of his taxi. Not his problem. They will never see him again and therefore any expressed complaint is completely futile or simply self-serving. Either way, to hear the Beninese smacking after each spine-crushing blow you’d know the true power of an a capella percussion section, or at least feel like you were on hidden camera in the filming of an ad for chewing gum.

I took steps to avoid imminent laughter (how “culturally insensitive” would that be?) and took out a book that I keep handy for just such occasions. It was then that the Beninese English student two seats away noticed my book happened to be English as well, leaned over and began reading the back cover. I pretended not to notice and he eventually stopped. Thinking I was in the clear, I absorbed myself in the crescendo to the climax of the Tom Robbins book I’d been saving, leaving the bus entirely and basking in the delight of a Robbins lingual drum-solo when I was yanked violently from my literary haven by the loudly but brokenly spoken “I wish you nice read!” Okay, fine. I’m on it, dude, thanks. I gave the student a polite (if not slightly confused) smile, nodded thanks, and returned to my book. After twenty minutes or so, the man sitting between us got off, at which point the student (whose name, pronounced “monkeys,” is actually spelled Mounkiss) scooted over next to me and began reading over my shoulder.

Okay, I thought. He is learning English and although this would normally be invasive, given the fact that I’m on a bus which necessitates being physically entangled with and sitting on the laps of other passengers, anything I bust out is fair game, including this book. I managed to escape once again (Plucky Purcell had just gotten Jesus safely back to the roadside zoo) when I heard my neighbor whispering to me. “…the nation itself is wedded to their aggressive mediocrity…” Oh my god. He was reading aloud. In my ear. I laid the book in my lap, stared at him, then returned to reading with the book angled away from him and toward me, so that I was now facing him with the book positioned directly between our faces. Undeterred, he leaned in even closer, his face next to mine now and almost resting on my shoulder, and, completely forgetting the motive which drove him to whisper during our prior read-along session, began again in a normal speaking voice: “…it is upon their reaction to the discovery of Christ’s body that the future of Western civilization may well rest….”

Whether Mounkiss thought he was reading American history or an official religious document remains unclear, but rest assured that despite my own brand of tsking and eye rolling, he was failing utterly to acknowledge my despair and carried on in English, in my ear, as I held the book in my lap (facing him, now; I had given up) and stared out the window, defeated. After trying to justify allowing him to continue and finding it impossible as my blood had reached boiling point and I had no chocolate with which to cool it, I knew some action, any action, must be taken. Mounkiss smiled at me and wished me nice reading again. With a final, gavel-like smack of the lips I dog-eared the page, closed the book like a coffin and gently lowered it into my backpack. Benin wins again.

I cast a sickly sweet, wide-eyed grin at my neighbor. “So, you’re a student of English?”