It's Saturday evening and I've just returned home from the horse club. I still smell like a barn animal, but I've decided to write a little before I take a long, well-earned bath. I need to tell you about the horses. For those uninterested in these, the most beautiful animals in the world, don't waste your time reading any further.
The stable is, essentially, right on the beach. A 5 minute ride and you've got your hooves in waves. Last Tuesday I had a more formal lesson and we stayed within the boundaries of the makeshift, beach football field near the stable. Today, we rode along the shore. A game was on.
It was beautiful and strange. The section of beach just in front of the stable is, coincidently, also just in front of a hotel and therefore clean and clear of debris. Ride a little further in either direction and the same cannot be said. Plastic bottles, tiny pieces of plastic bottles, syringes, flip-flops, and trash, trash, trash litter the sand. Some areas are more polluted than others, but it was a disturbing sight nevertheless as I thought about our horses' unshod feet kicking up sand and whatever happened to be in it. Near one particularly dirty area, we had to turn back and change direction because a man up ahead was burning a pile of trash. Horses don't like flames, and I got to see how skill full my fellow riders are. Impressive. Yet, somehow, it was all still beautiful. Truth be told, much of the beach is mostly clean and undisturbed.
I've never really ridden in a straight line before. I'm sure this seems very silly to those who don't ride horses, but those that do, or have, will probably understand what I mean by this. Let me explain: a large part of the riding done in the equestrian world is confined to circular or oval shaped arenas where horse and rider go around, and around, and around. There are those lucky enough to ride trails regularly or go on "hunts". For the most part, I didn't fall into this second category, and even when I did, the narrow and windy dirt roads/trails that run through New England forests don't provide great opportunities for long, hard gallops.
But today, there was just sand and water. And a non-stop gallop along the shore. I'm hooked.
30 June 2007
28 June 2007
Q: When Does 3 + 0 = 0?
A: When you've got the following scenario: 3 days + 0 internet = 0 new posts.
Don't we just love the rainy season? No, I didn't forget or get lazy; I got frustrated instead. Due to large volumes of water falling from the sky over the past few days, Cotonou went temporarily wireless. But not the good kind of wireless, like what you find in pricey cafés, but quite the bad kind of wireless, as in, absolutely no internet connection at all. This also meant absolutely no new blogging at all. For this I am very sorry.
For those worried about the lack of communication (aka my parents), don't distress. All is well. Wet maybe, but well. Actually, it's not even that wet. This certainly hasn't been the kind of rain that would knock out power and internet capabilities in many other places I've lived. Nor is it of an intensity that would be foreign to those places either. I guess it's just testament to the fragility of an infrastructure about as flimsy as the woven-reed homes along the beach. Come to think about it, I wonder if they withstood the rain?
Now, normally a few hours without the internet makes me about as happy as a claustrophobe in the metro at rush hour, but I've got so many things that have to be done I hardly had time to notice. With a thesis to write, a language to learn and a city to explore, I some how managed.
Truthfully, I more than managed. Let me just say the pool at the Marina Hotel is a worthy place to swim laps in the morning. And C's been more than helpful in getting me settled by connecting me with a German friend who's involved in a local equestrian club. And now, so am I.
I want to post this message now, just in case this is only the "eye" of the poor-internet-connection storm. If the forces that be keep me connected through the night, expect details soon. Do you think there's a voodoo spirit for telecommunications? Where can I find a talisman?
Don't we just love the rainy season? No, I didn't forget or get lazy; I got frustrated instead. Due to large volumes of water falling from the sky over the past few days, Cotonou went temporarily wireless. But not the good kind of wireless, like what you find in pricey cafés, but quite the bad kind of wireless, as in, absolutely no internet connection at all. This also meant absolutely no new blogging at all. For this I am very sorry.
For those worried about the lack of communication (aka my parents), don't distress. All is well. Wet maybe, but well. Actually, it's not even that wet. This certainly hasn't been the kind of rain that would knock out power and internet capabilities in many other places I've lived. Nor is it of an intensity that would be foreign to those places either. I guess it's just testament to the fragility of an infrastructure about as flimsy as the woven-reed homes along the beach. Come to think about it, I wonder if they withstood the rain?
Now, normally a few hours without the internet makes me about as happy as a claustrophobe in the metro at rush hour, but I've got so many things that have to be done I hardly had time to notice. With a thesis to write, a language to learn and a city to explore, I some how managed.
Truthfully, I more than managed. Let me just say the pool at the Marina Hotel is a worthy place to swim laps in the morning. And C's been more than helpful in getting me settled by connecting me with a German friend who's involved in a local equestrian club. And now, so am I.
I want to post this message now, just in case this is only the "eye" of the poor-internet-connection storm. If the forces that be keep me connected through the night, expect details soon. Do you think there's a voodoo spirit for telecommunications? Where can I find a talisman?
23 June 2007
Keeping Busy
C's been keeping me pretty busy. Last night we went to a restaurant down on the beach for a drink. It was a German place with the long beer list you'd expect from such a place. Too bad the beers only exist on the menu. But the atmosphere couldn't have been much better. A Friday night, but far from crowded, we sat on the edge of the patio for an unobstructed view of the waves. Big waves. Much larger than I am used to seeing. As the sun began to set a live band took the stage behind us. We didn't stay long after that, but I made a mental note to remember the place.
Today we went with another expat here to a local carpenter to commission a dining room table. You can have beautiful hardwood furniture custom made. It's not super cheap, but something of equivalent, hand-made quality would go for a good penny more in Europe, and it wouldn't be custom built exactly the way you want it.
The workshop was located on a run-down dirt street and was spread out in a number of small buildings constructed in the typical rotting wood and flimsy metal manner. On closer inspection, the large bar expertly crafted from afzelia standing in the road gave the place away, as did the beautiful teak and afzelia doors leading to a crowded showroom. The master carpenter showed us beautiful chairs, coffee tables, cabinets, and shelves, explaining the techniques they use to ensure that the furniture will not warp or crack in drier climates and displaying the high-quality hardware they make sure to use. Apparently using cheap hinges and wet wood are common mistakes made by many local carpenters.
After seeing the workroom, where a staff of about 10 people were busy sawing, sanding and polishing, our friend handed the carpenter a set of drawings she had made and explained her hopes for a new dining room table. In 6 months she will have a beautiful wood and glass table. If she didn't have to worry about drying the wood really well first to take the table back to Europe she could have had it in 2 to 3. I made sure to get this man's card before we left. T had mentioned something about being interested in finding some nice furniture here.
Today we went with another expat here to a local carpenter to commission a dining room table. You can have beautiful hardwood furniture custom made. It's not super cheap, but something of equivalent, hand-made quality would go for a good penny more in Europe, and it wouldn't be custom built exactly the way you want it.
The workshop was located on a run-down dirt street and was spread out in a number of small buildings constructed in the typical rotting wood and flimsy metal manner. On closer inspection, the large bar expertly crafted from afzelia standing in the road gave the place away, as did the beautiful teak and afzelia doors leading to a crowded showroom. The master carpenter showed us beautiful chairs, coffee tables, cabinets, and shelves, explaining the techniques they use to ensure that the furniture will not warp or crack in drier climates and displaying the high-quality hardware they make sure to use. Apparently using cheap hinges and wet wood are common mistakes made by many local carpenters.
After seeing the workroom, where a staff of about 10 people were busy sawing, sanding and polishing, our friend handed the carpenter a set of drawings she had made and explained her hopes for a new dining room table. In 6 months she will have a beautiful wood and glass table. If she didn't have to worry about drying the wood really well first to take the table back to Europe she could have had it in 2 to 3. I made sure to get this man's card before we left. T had mentioned something about being interested in finding some nice furniture here.
22 June 2007
Sweet Dreams
Just had the wind knocked out of me by a lizard. Had heard stories about how they run around inside others' houses and how they used to be in our flat before the last time it was routinely sprayed for insects. Apparently there were quite a lot of them always running across the walls. Looks like they've returned.
I was on my way to bed (mind you, I'm alone in this place now) and as I was closing the bedroom door, a lizard about the size of a large salamander made a mad dash across the wall from near the door hinges. I nearly screamed. Thought it was a spider. Talk about a sigh of relief when I realized it wasn't. Just a cute little pale yellow lizard instead, probably just a baby. Not sure where he is now, or I would have taken a picture of him. But he's got to be somewhere in the bedroom with me as I've shut the door. I like him. He'll keep me company when I'm alone. I hope he brings friends. We'll have our own little party. Besides, lizards eat mosquitoes... and I like to think spiders as well :)
I was on my way to bed (mind you, I'm alone in this place now) and as I was closing the bedroom door, a lizard about the size of a large salamander made a mad dash across the wall from near the door hinges. I nearly screamed. Thought it was a spider. Talk about a sigh of relief when I realized it wasn't. Just a cute little pale yellow lizard instead, probably just a baby. Not sure where he is now, or I would have taken a picture of him. But he's got to be somewhere in the bedroom with me as I've shut the door. I like him. He'll keep me company when I'm alone. I hope he brings friends. We'll have our own little party. Besides, lizards eat mosquitoes... and I like to think spiders as well :)
21 June 2007
On My Own... Well, Almost
T and his colleague left for a trip through Niger this morning. They'll be gone until Sunday evening, so I thought I'd be on my own for the next few days, something I felt both sad and a little relieved about. Now I'd be able to really focus on learning French without the mandatory 2 hour lunch break from 13.00 to 15.00 when the guys come home, a relic from Benin's communist past. And I'd have the flat totally to myself in the evenings, a welcomed opportunity to get comfortable here and start feeling at home by sprawling out on the living room couch and watching chick flicks.
But it turns out that this isn't exactly the case. Instead, I spent the day with the wife of another man at the office, C. Actually, she works there too but has taken the next few days as holiday. C and her husband ate dinner with us last night (we had the Danish-style roast pork Elisabeth makes and that we've been hearing so much about), and she invited me to spend today with her. First we took a walk around the neighbourhood. After having lunch at her place we went for a drive around the city and she took me to two of the best stores in town for getting general household items. I got myself a pillow. This was the triumph of the day. The pillows we've been using are overstuffed so that they are at least twice as full as they should be and as dense and hard as a sack of pebbles. And C knows a man who makes shoes. Custom. She's clearly a good person to know ;)
Elisabeth is also still here. She is wonderful. It's very, very strange having someone wait on you and clean the house while you're still there. I don't like it at all. But I'm doing my best to get used to it and we're working out a good friendship/business balance in our relationship. And I know at least one French lady who will be very happy to know that she's helping me learn French. As soon as I have enough of the basics down (hopefully about 2 weeks from now) she will speak only French to me as often as we can afford to not totally understand one another. She helped the man who lived here before us in this way and is very enthusiastic about it. And she's given me some educational materials and has offered to help read them to me so that I get the pronunciation down. If I manage to pull off a life down here, it will be in large part due to her.
I've been plugging away at the few Pimsleur tapes I bought and I know enough now to say hello, thank you, goodbye and tell people that I can't understand them. Hardly enough to really even get by, but I've just found another good resource, free FSI French developed by the U.S. government from http://www.fsi-language-courses.com/French.aspx. They also have courses for a whole bunch of other languages if you're interested and I've heard they are really effective, if a little dry. I plan to finish the Pimsleur introduction and then combine the FSI course and the free online Rosetta Stone course offered by the Keene Public Library for my self study. Four to six hours of that every day combined with practising with Elisabeth and maybe two hours of private lessons a week with a qualified teacher here and I ought to be able to do this. I will do this.
But it turns out that this isn't exactly the case. Instead, I spent the day with the wife of another man at the office, C. Actually, she works there too but has taken the next few days as holiday. C and her husband ate dinner with us last night (we had the Danish-style roast pork Elisabeth makes and that we've been hearing so much about), and she invited me to spend today with her. First we took a walk around the neighbourhood. After having lunch at her place we went for a drive around the city and she took me to two of the best stores in town for getting general household items. I got myself a pillow. This was the triumph of the day. The pillows we've been using are overstuffed so that they are at least twice as full as they should be and as dense and hard as a sack of pebbles. And C knows a man who makes shoes. Custom. She's clearly a good person to know ;)
Elisabeth is also still here. She is wonderful. It's very, very strange having someone wait on you and clean the house while you're still there. I don't like it at all. But I'm doing my best to get used to it and we're working out a good friendship/business balance in our relationship. And I know at least one French lady who will be very happy to know that she's helping me learn French. As soon as I have enough of the basics down (hopefully about 2 weeks from now) she will speak only French to me as often as we can afford to not totally understand one another. She helped the man who lived here before us in this way and is very enthusiastic about it. And she's given me some educational materials and has offered to help read them to me so that I get the pronunciation down. If I manage to pull off a life down here, it will be in large part due to her.
I've been plugging away at the few Pimsleur tapes I bought and I know enough now to say hello, thank you, goodbye and tell people that I can't understand them. Hardly enough to really even get by, but I've just found another good resource, free FSI French developed by the U.S. government from http://www.fsi-language-courses.com/French.aspx. They also have courses for a whole bunch of other languages if you're interested and I've heard they are really effective, if a little dry. I plan to finish the Pimsleur introduction and then combine the FSI course and the free online Rosetta Stone course offered by the Keene Public Library for my self study. Four to six hours of that every day combined with practising with Elisabeth and maybe two hours of private lessons a week with a qualified teacher here and I ought to be able to do this. I will do this.
19 June 2007
Day 2
If this is the rainy season, then the dry season must be very dry. It hasn't rained since I've been here, even though the forecast from weather.com predicted scattered thunder-storms with a 60% chance of rain both yesterday and today. On closer inspection, one notices that scattered thunderstorms and a 60% chance of rain is the forecast for everyday this week and next. In fact, I seem to remember this same prediction every time I checked the weather these past few weeks as I was preparing for this big adventure. I wonder if they actually even bother to have meteorologists looking at satellite reports or if they just have two, seasonally changing forecasts they post. Not that I'm complaining that it's not raining. It rained enough in New Hampshire and Copenhagen to keep me satisfied for the moment. But I could use a good thunder-storm. And I hear they are good here.
Last night, T's colleague took us for a drive to the beach. We actually live very close to the beach; I think one could probably walk there if one wasn't in a hurry, but the stretch closest to us isn't very nice and not the safest either. So we continued along the coast about 20 or 25 minutes down the road to a nicer/safer area. Now when I say that we drove for nearly half an hour to get to the "real" beach it might sound a long distance away. Not at all. It's just that the chickens in the road, the goats in the road, and - most of all - the potholes in the road mean that while the dirt path may be straight, you certainly aren't travelling in a straight line.
But I didn't mind. When there is so much to see along the way, it's not so bad to take one's time. I decided not to take any pictures during these first few journeys, as I'm not yet sure where it is and isn't a good idea to be flashing around one's new, shiny, expensive, and probably impossible-to-get-in-Benin digital camera. So please be patient with me. Photos will come. Eventually. And they'll be worth it.
The dirt road that runs parallel to the beach is lined with homes along each side. Small bars and dense, wide patches of cacti pop up here and there. A few large, grey, and probably once grandiose buildings loom a little further inland, behind the row of homes. This may be beach-front property, but the Big Bad Wolf wouldn't even have to huff 'n puff to blow these houses down. At best, the "homes" are made of crudely layed cement blocks. Many are mainly sheets of rippled metal and woven reeds. Some seem to be entirely constructed of reeds. Voodoo charms are nailed over the doors. Some are painted like shop windows with pictures of people holding dangling snakes and other charms; I'm guessing these are the home of voodoo priests. Our own talisman hangs from the rear-view mirror of our Peugeot- a little extra safety, courtesy of our driver.
Lizards cling to the side of buildings. Naked children chase each other in circles. Women walk along the road's edge with large baskets balanced on their heads. Young men sit under the shade of a lean-to, taking a break from the battle between their motorbikes and the potholes. People stare into our car as we pass and I wonder how tinted the windows are. Not really tinted at all, and it shows on their ever so slightly interested faces. I wonder what they think of us, white expats who drive straight through their lives to the nicest spot of beach. I am embarrassed. I wish I was walking like so many others. But I know that me walking would not make us any more alike. I think I am being silly and force the feeling to pass.
The sun is going down and we still have to pick up some food from the largest grocery store in Cotonou and see "the club" at Marina Hotel, so we never make it out of the car. On our way back I notice a dog lying curled up on the side of the road in front of what looks like a shop. It's a sandy-coloured reddish-brown and with long wiry hairs on the back of its neck. Fuzzy, teddy-bear ears poke up from a short, square face. Hyena? Some kind of cross? No idea.
Last night, T's colleague took us for a drive to the beach. We actually live very close to the beach; I think one could probably walk there if one wasn't in a hurry, but the stretch closest to us isn't very nice and not the safest either. So we continued along the coast about 20 or 25 minutes down the road to a nicer/safer area. Now when I say that we drove for nearly half an hour to get to the "real" beach it might sound a long distance away. Not at all. It's just that the chickens in the road, the goats in the road, and - most of all - the potholes in the road mean that while the dirt path may be straight, you certainly aren't travelling in a straight line.
But I didn't mind. When there is so much to see along the way, it's not so bad to take one's time. I decided not to take any pictures during these first few journeys, as I'm not yet sure where it is and isn't a good idea to be flashing around one's new, shiny, expensive, and probably impossible-to-get-in-Benin digital camera. So please be patient with me. Photos will come. Eventually. And they'll be worth it.
The dirt road that runs parallel to the beach is lined with homes along each side. Small bars and dense, wide patches of cacti pop up here and there. A few large, grey, and probably once grandiose buildings loom a little further inland, behind the row of homes. This may be beach-front property, but the Big Bad Wolf wouldn't even have to huff 'n puff to blow these houses down. At best, the "homes" are made of crudely layed cement blocks. Many are mainly sheets of rippled metal and woven reeds. Some seem to be entirely constructed of reeds. Voodoo charms are nailed over the doors. Some are painted like shop windows with pictures of people holding dangling snakes and other charms; I'm guessing these are the home of voodoo priests. Our own talisman hangs from the rear-view mirror of our Peugeot- a little extra safety, courtesy of our driver.
Lizards cling to the side of buildings. Naked children chase each other in circles. Women walk along the road's edge with large baskets balanced on their heads. Young men sit under the shade of a lean-to, taking a break from the battle between their motorbikes and the potholes. People stare into our car as we pass and I wonder how tinted the windows are. Not really tinted at all, and it shows on their ever so slightly interested faces. I wonder what they think of us, white expats who drive straight through their lives to the nicest spot of beach. I am embarrassed. I wish I was walking like so many others. But I know that me walking would not make us any more alike. I think I am being silly and force the feeling to pass.
The sun is going down and we still have to pick up some food from the largest grocery store in Cotonou and see "the club" at Marina Hotel, so we never make it out of the car. On our way back I notice a dog lying curled up on the side of the road in front of what looks like a shop. It's a sandy-coloured reddish-brown and with long wiry hairs on the back of its neck. Fuzzy, teddy-bear ears poke up from a short, square face. Hyena? Some kind of cross? No idea.
18 June 2007
We're Not in Kansas Anymore
I made it! I'm in Africa. Now how to describe this? Hmm...
Well, from the moment I stepped out of the airport last night, I've sort of felt like I've been meandering through a sound stage for a film. All the actors are in costume and giving Oscar-winning performances, even if most are only extras. It's all like a continuous movie that's constantly playing outside my bedroom window, or the car window, or the windows that are my eyes. Very real, but very surreal at the same time.
This is not to say that it's like Blood Diamond, or The Last King of Scotland - surprise, surprise - as I'm not smuggling diamonds or getting up-close and friendly with any crazy politicians. But the scenery and the people around me really do look like something out of a movie. I woke up this morning to the crowing of the rooster that lives in our street (no, not a typo. I do mean in our street, not on), and I opened my eyes to see the tops of palm trees silhouetted against the pink, dawn sky.
We live in the nicest neighbourhood in the city. And our flat is, by all accounts, nice. Not nice considering we're in Africa, but genuinely, truly, nice. I suppose if we we're living in Monaco we'd have reason to be disappointed, but this is far, far more than sufficient. And we'll probably eventually move into an even more "sufficient" house, because two bedrooms, a living room, balcony, kitchen, dinning room, full bath (with tub), half bath (with shower), additional toilet (I think this is supposed to be for the staff, aka our cook/housekeeper Elisabeth, who I feel the need to note is a very kind woman indeed), and an extra room (which is currently unused but will probably soon become famous as the place in which I wrote both my ground-breaking, brilliant thesis, and my moving and inspirational first novel) obviously isn't enough for two people. Yeah, right. #Please note sarcasm# Oh yes, and we have air conditioning throughout.
All this is set back from the road by a white fence - a white wall, actually - that is lined by little cacti on the street-side. To get in, you have to be let in by the security guards. Yes, the guards. There are many guards in this neighbourhood, which is probably why I've been told that it's safe to walk around here at all hours of the day and night. They don't seem very busy to me. In fact, I thought I saw a few sleeping.
We're not far from the airport; you can hear the planes land. We're also not far from T's office, the beach, or Marina hotel (where the health club, pool and many expats are located), though I haven't been to these places yet, so I can't say much more about them. Another place nearby is Livingstone - Benin expats' favourite watering-hole. Had a pizza there last night with T and a couple people from his office. I'm sure that this is a place I will grow to know well.
Our neighbours include several embassies, probably most of the rich local people, what I assume is the majority of the Westerners living in Benin, some shack like buildings, many palm trees, a large plot that seems to be used to grow vegetables, and - of course - the rooster and his groupies (aka, the chickens). I'd say more but I haven't gotten a key to our flat yet, so I haven't been able to do much exploring as I'm stuck inside because I'd get locked out if I left alone and T is at the office with one of his colleagues who's staying with us and helping us adjust.
But I'm not alone. Elisabeth has been here most of the day, and while we didn't see each other much this morning (I was unpacking - not a small task - and she was cleaning), she took me with her to the "markets" to buy the food she needed to prepare lunch. I should probably mention that she speaks English, a fact that will make my first few weeks here infinitely easier. "Our" company-issued driver picked up Elisabeth and me in "our" car to take us there. The roads here are unpaved except for a small handful and there are potholes like you've never seen. Puddles you could swim in. How our driver managed to maneuver through these and simultaneously avoid the masses of mopeds and motorbikes whizzing in front, behind and alongside us is a mystery, though I think the secret to his magic is frequent use of the car horn.
First, we stopped at a fish shop, a small, rather typically run-down building in which we bought frozen fish by selecting our catch from a small wooden crate holding a variety of fishes. Around the corner behind the counter where the man showed us the crate and weighed our choice, there must have been a large walk-in freezer containing more fish because another man wearing a thermal suit and a hat kept disappearing and reappearing from that mysterious place. I kept looking at the small crate holding probably 10 fishes in front of us and wondering how many more were back there, out of sight, and how long the frozen little faces peering up at me with glazed eyes had been frozen.
Then we left our purchase with a tiny woman in a dirty, but brightly-coloured sarong/dress thing so that she could clean them while we did the rest of the shopping. We turned a corner and drove a little further on to the market. This is hard to describe. Imagine lots of people in bright fabrics. Lots of mopeds on a busy and wide road. People following you around trying to sell you kitchen knives, pens, sticks of gum. You turn into one of the street-side vendors and make your way down a narrow alley. On both sides, piles of vegetables and fruits guarded by women of all ages. Stacks of toilet paper rolls and sponges. Chickens crowed into Hershey-Kiss-shaped wooden/wicker cages. You feel something grabbing at your arm and you turn your head to see a baby strapped to his mother's back, reaching out to touch your strange skin. This is the market. Apparently not even the big market. That will be an experience for another day. At this point I am very happy to have Elisabeth. I'm generally very much against the whole concept of having hired help. Wash your own dirty socks, thank you. But I am so thankful for her. I could not do this alone.
We returned to the car with mangos, potatoes, limes, cabbage, parsley. We went back for the fish, then stopped at a grocery store. Okay, a grocery store. Now this I can handle. This I could maybe do on my own. Another experience for another day.
Lunch was fabulous.
Well, from the moment I stepped out of the airport last night, I've sort of felt like I've been meandering through a sound stage for a film. All the actors are in costume and giving Oscar-winning performances, even if most are only extras. It's all like a continuous movie that's constantly playing outside my bedroom window, or the car window, or the windows that are my eyes. Very real, but very surreal at the same time.
This is not to say that it's like Blood Diamond, or The Last King of Scotland - surprise, surprise - as I'm not smuggling diamonds or getting up-close and friendly with any crazy politicians. But the scenery and the people around me really do look like something out of a movie. I woke up this morning to the crowing of the rooster that lives in our street (no, not a typo. I do mean in our street, not on), and I opened my eyes to see the tops of palm trees silhouetted against the pink, dawn sky.
We live in the nicest neighbourhood in the city. And our flat is, by all accounts, nice. Not nice considering we're in Africa, but genuinely, truly, nice. I suppose if we we're living in Monaco we'd have reason to be disappointed, but this is far, far more than sufficient. And we'll probably eventually move into an even more "sufficient" house, because two bedrooms, a living room, balcony, kitchen, dinning room, full bath (with tub), half bath (with shower), additional toilet (I think this is supposed to be for the staff, aka our cook/housekeeper Elisabeth, who I feel the need to note is a very kind woman indeed), and an extra room (which is currently unused but will probably soon become famous as the place in which I wrote both my ground-breaking, brilliant thesis, and my moving and inspirational first novel) obviously isn't enough for two people. Yeah, right. #Please note sarcasm# Oh yes, and we have air conditioning throughout.
All this is set back from the road by a white fence - a white wall, actually - that is lined by little cacti on the street-side. To get in, you have to be let in by the security guards. Yes, the guards. There are many guards in this neighbourhood, which is probably why I've been told that it's safe to walk around here at all hours of the day and night. They don't seem very busy to me. In fact, I thought I saw a few sleeping.
We're not far from the airport; you can hear the planes land. We're also not far from T's office, the beach, or Marina hotel (where the health club, pool and many expats are located), though I haven't been to these places yet, so I can't say much more about them. Another place nearby is Livingstone - Benin expats' favourite watering-hole. Had a pizza there last night with T and a couple people from his office. I'm sure that this is a place I will grow to know well.
Our neighbours include several embassies, probably most of the rich local people, what I assume is the majority of the Westerners living in Benin, some shack like buildings, many palm trees, a large plot that seems to be used to grow vegetables, and - of course - the rooster and his groupies (aka, the chickens). I'd say more but I haven't gotten a key to our flat yet, so I haven't been able to do much exploring as I'm stuck inside because I'd get locked out if I left alone and T is at the office with one of his colleagues who's staying with us and helping us adjust.
But I'm not alone. Elisabeth has been here most of the day, and while we didn't see each other much this morning (I was unpacking - not a small task - and she was cleaning), she took me with her to the "markets" to buy the food she needed to prepare lunch. I should probably mention that she speaks English, a fact that will make my first few weeks here infinitely easier. "Our" company-issued driver picked up Elisabeth and me in "our" car to take us there. The roads here are unpaved except for a small handful and there are potholes like you've never seen. Puddles you could swim in. How our driver managed to maneuver through these and simultaneously avoid the masses of mopeds and motorbikes whizzing in front, behind and alongside us is a mystery, though I think the secret to his magic is frequent use of the car horn.
First, we stopped at a fish shop, a small, rather typically run-down building in which we bought frozen fish by selecting our catch from a small wooden crate holding a variety of fishes. Around the corner behind the counter where the man showed us the crate and weighed our choice, there must have been a large walk-in freezer containing more fish because another man wearing a thermal suit and a hat kept disappearing and reappearing from that mysterious place. I kept looking at the small crate holding probably 10 fishes in front of us and wondering how many more were back there, out of sight, and how long the frozen little faces peering up at me with glazed eyes had been frozen.
Then we left our purchase with a tiny woman in a dirty, but brightly-coloured sarong/dress thing so that she could clean them while we did the rest of the shopping. We turned a corner and drove a little further on to the market. This is hard to describe. Imagine lots of people in bright fabrics. Lots of mopeds on a busy and wide road. People following you around trying to sell you kitchen knives, pens, sticks of gum. You turn into one of the street-side vendors and make your way down a narrow alley. On both sides, piles of vegetables and fruits guarded by women of all ages. Stacks of toilet paper rolls and sponges. Chickens crowed into Hershey-Kiss-shaped wooden/wicker cages. You feel something grabbing at your arm and you turn your head to see a baby strapped to his mother's back, reaching out to touch your strange skin. This is the market. Apparently not even the big market. That will be an experience for another day. At this point I am very happy to have Elisabeth. I'm generally very much against the whole concept of having hired help. Wash your own dirty socks, thank you. But I am so thankful for her. I could not do this alone.
We returned to the car with mangos, potatoes, limes, cabbage, parsley. We went back for the fish, then stopped at a grocery store. Okay, a grocery store. Now this I can handle. This I could maybe do on my own. Another experience for another day.
Lunch was fabulous.
16 June 2007
Goodbye Wonderful Copenhagen
It's my last day in Denmark and it's been raining all day. Wonderful, dreary, Copenhagen. But I'll miss it. And I'll definitely miss all the people I've met here. Most of them are moving on to new things (or will be within a year) so that makes it just a little easier to leave. I know that if I stayed it wouldn't be the same without them. And someday, when I move back to Copenhagen, it won't be the same then either, just like it wasn't the same the first time I returned. It will be a foreign city all over again. It's true, the people make the place.
The strange thing is that I know I am going to miss this place I've called home for the past two years and the friends I have made here, but I don't actually feel very sad about leaving. I guess "goodbye" gets easier every time you say it. Or maybe it's easier because in today's world of skype, cheap flights and email, goodbye really doesn't mean what it used to. At least, I like to think that's the case.
Then again, maybe I've just burned myself out on goodbyes. Take, for example, my recent visit home. My family dog is on her last leg (almost literally). She's 15 years old, or 105 in dog time, so I've been saying my last farewell to her every visit home I've made in the last 3 to 4 years. And my parents are planning to sell their house within the next year - the house my sisters and I grew up in. Now, my parents have been talking about selling the house for years and every time I used to think about it I felt a little bit of sadness and regret that I didn't take a proper look around before I left the last time I was home. But this time I made sure to clean out the things I had been storing at my parent's place these last few years, throwing away old mementos and bad photographs, and when I was bringing my bags out to the car and my mother reminded me to say goodbye to my childhood home I half-heartedly strolled through the rooms, surprised at my own indifference. I gave my dog a hug and told her that I loved her, but for the first time with totally dry eyes. It's not that I wasn't sad, it's just that I wasn't heart-broken by it any more.
And that seems to be how I am dealing with all my goodbyes right now - without the heartbreak. Is it because I've said goodbye so many times that I have no more whole pieces left to break? Am I shallow, cold and unfeeling? Or is it that all the goodbyes have taught me that the story doesn't end just because you've said goodbye, that I am a strong enough person to go through life without the heartbreak. At a goodbye-dinner last night, a good friend who has been to Africa before told me that I'm bound to see people in situations that would break your heart, and see them everyday. I know she's right. And then she told me that she thought I was strong enough to handle it. I hope she's right.
And now I'm off to say a few more goodbyes, so farewell.
The strange thing is that I know I am going to miss this place I've called home for the past two years and the friends I have made here, but I don't actually feel very sad about leaving. I guess "goodbye" gets easier every time you say it. Or maybe it's easier because in today's world of skype, cheap flights and email, goodbye really doesn't mean what it used to. At least, I like to think that's the case.
Then again, maybe I've just burned myself out on goodbyes. Take, for example, my recent visit home. My family dog is on her last leg (almost literally). She's 15 years old, or 105 in dog time, so I've been saying my last farewell to her every visit home I've made in the last 3 to 4 years. And my parents are planning to sell their house within the next year - the house my sisters and I grew up in. Now, my parents have been talking about selling the house for years and every time I used to think about it I felt a little bit of sadness and regret that I didn't take a proper look around before I left the last time I was home. But this time I made sure to clean out the things I had been storing at my parent's place these last few years, throwing away old mementos and bad photographs, and when I was bringing my bags out to the car and my mother reminded me to say goodbye to my childhood home I half-heartedly strolled through the rooms, surprised at my own indifference. I gave my dog a hug and told her that I loved her, but for the first time with totally dry eyes. It's not that I wasn't sad, it's just that I wasn't heart-broken by it any more.
And that seems to be how I am dealing with all my goodbyes right now - without the heartbreak. Is it because I've said goodbye so many times that I have no more whole pieces left to break? Am I shallow, cold and unfeeling? Or is it that all the goodbyes have taught me that the story doesn't end just because you've said goodbye, that I am a strong enough person to go through life without the heartbreak. At a goodbye-dinner last night, a good friend who has been to Africa before told me that I'm bound to see people in situations that would break your heart, and see them everyday. I know she's right. And then she told me that she thought I was strong enough to handle it. I hope she's right.
And now I'm off to say a few more goodbyes, so farewell.
06 June 2007
Oh So American
Since returning home I've: been overwhelmed by the monstrosity that is Walmart, stared in the general direction of televised Indycar (apparently Nascar was rained out) while eating pizza and drinking beer, spent a night on a SUNY college campus, listened to country music, spent at least 10 hours in a car, watched two presidential primary debates, and eaten more American junk food than I care to disclose. I'm home.
03 June 2007
There's No Place Like Home
I'm back home in Keene, NH for a quick visit before the big move. It's strange how after you've been away for such a long time things always seem just a tiny bit different; the same counter top you've made your sandwiches on for years appears just a little bit lower than you remember, the sunlight leaves a different hue on your bedroom wall, the doorbell sounds an unfamiliar ring. But after a few hours it all comes back together and it's almost like you never left and your life away was just a dream.
I'm so glad that I was able to get back, even if I did bring the foul weather with me. It's wonderful to see everyone and soak up a little bit of American culture again. Coming home makes you realise how much you've forgotten, and how much you'll never forget, making it both a disturbing and comforting experience. They say leaving home broadens your horizons and gives you a different perspective on the world. I say going home can do the very same thing.
I'm so glad that I was able to get back, even if I did bring the foul weather with me. It's wonderful to see everyone and soak up a little bit of American culture again. Coming home makes you realise how much you've forgotten, and how much you'll never forget, making it both a disturbing and comforting experience. They say leaving home broadens your horizons and gives you a different perspective on the world. I say going home can do the very same thing.
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