The street people are gone. They packed up and left. Gone. Just like that.
The dirt road in front of our house is empty - empty but for a few heaps of trash still burning, the only evidence they left behind. Foul-smelling smoke permeates the neighbourhood and forces our windows shut. Even then I can still smell it.
I might not have noticed at all if it wasn't for the smoke. I don't usually walk that way and they moved so quickly. It must have been less than a week before they had disessembled their shabby homes, burned everything, and disappeared. Where did they go? And why? Did the children get to bring their toys? The tires the boys raced, where are they? Burned? Or rolling down another street, someone else's street?
But for that matter, where did they come from? Who were these street people? I never really knew. There is so little I know about this place - this country - its people. They were my reminder of all that I didn't and still don't know. Now their absence is my reminder. I miss them already.
20 August 2007
17 August 2007
On your mark, get set, go!
T and I have a little race going. The big question: who will get malaria first? A morbid game, I know, but in our situation it isn't a question of if we'll get malaria; it's a question of when.
"Wait, what?" you ask. Well, in case you were unaware, Benin is a hotbed for the little parasites that cause malaria and the mosquitoes that spread them. To top it off, we stopped taking the anti-malarial pills we were using a few weeks ago. We're on our own now, without any form of protection. So why did we stop taking the drugs? Simple, the one we were taking costs around $5 a pill and isn't recommended for use beyond three months. There are other pills, sure, but they also aren't meant for long term use and come with a heavy list of possible side effects. And not just an upset stomach. Well, there's that too, but also central nervous system damage, vivid dreams and - get this - suicide. Yeah, so no thanks. I'd rather have malaria.
And so we've accepted our fate and made a game out of it. Unfortunately, we haven't got all the rules sorted out just yet. For example, who wins? The person who gets malaria first, or the one who stays healthy the longest? Of course the first person who reaches the finish line first wins, right? But do we really want to encourage ourselves to get malaria? Hmm.... Getting malaria first does come with serious bragging rights, but then again, you've got malaria. So should the prize go to the one who needs comforting in their time of illness? Or should it go to the one who managed to stay healthy and now has to put up with all the "I don't feel good" whining? Tough questions.
But in the meantime the race continues. T takes the lead for sheer anticipation, but then again, I woke up the other day with three bites to the face. Three direct hits, courtesy of a mosquito that found its way past the bed-net. I don't know, folks. This is going to be a close one.
"Wait, what?" you ask. Well, in case you were unaware, Benin is a hotbed for the little parasites that cause malaria and the mosquitoes that spread them. To top it off, we stopped taking the anti-malarial pills we were using a few weeks ago. We're on our own now, without any form of protection. So why did we stop taking the drugs? Simple, the one we were taking costs around $5 a pill and isn't recommended for use beyond three months. There are other pills, sure, but they also aren't meant for long term use and come with a heavy list of possible side effects. And not just an upset stomach. Well, there's that too, but also central nervous system damage, vivid dreams and - get this - suicide. Yeah, so no thanks. I'd rather have malaria.
And so we've accepted our fate and made a game out of it. Unfortunately, we haven't got all the rules sorted out just yet. For example, who wins? The person who gets malaria first, or the one who stays healthy the longest? Of course the first person who reaches the finish line first wins, right? But do we really want to encourage ourselves to get malaria? Hmm.... Getting malaria first does come with serious bragging rights, but then again, you've got malaria. So should the prize go to the one who needs comforting in their time of illness? Or should it go to the one who managed to stay healthy and now has to put up with all the "I don't feel good" whining? Tough questions.
But in the meantime the race continues. T takes the lead for sheer anticipation, but then again, I woke up the other day with three bites to the face. Three direct hits, courtesy of a mosquito that found its way past the bed-net. I don't know, folks. This is going to be a close one.
07 August 2007
In Wonderland
It's been more than a month and a half now since we arrived in Africa and I realise that I've lost a surprising amount of any sense of "normality" I once had.
This life - the one in which I look different from everyone else; in which even 5-year-olds are capable of pounding out complicated rhythms on drums and dancing in ways that would make church ladies uncomfortable; in which I regularly stop the car to let goats and chickens cross the street; in which I instinctively hold my breath as mopeds spewing blue exhaust whiz past me on my morning run; in which old men and young boys walk down the street wielding machetes; in which I look through the bars of the livg room window to watch little boys race tires through puddles with sticks; in which voodoo is regarded as fact; in which nothing is quite as it first appears- this life, has become normal. And as a result, I'm finding it more and more difficult to describe Africa.
I've never been able to keep a journal - in part because my sisters could sniff one out and pick the lock in minutes, and in part because I could never bring myself to scribble nonsense in the blank pages of a beautiful book. It's the same with this blog. Nothing seems worthy of broadcasting to the world. It's all too mundane and typical, even if I know it's not.
And so it begins to feel like a chore - keeping this blog up to date - , but a chore for which I am most thankful. Without it, I wouldn't be forced to reflect, I wouldn't be forced to remember. I am Alice, and this is my Wonderland.
This life - the one in which I look different from everyone else; in which even 5-year-olds are capable of pounding out complicated rhythms on drums and dancing in ways that would make church ladies uncomfortable; in which I regularly stop the car to let goats and chickens cross the street; in which I instinctively hold my breath as mopeds spewing blue exhaust whiz past me on my morning run; in which old men and young boys walk down the street wielding machetes; in which I look through the bars of the livg room window to watch little boys race tires through puddles with sticks; in which voodoo is regarded as fact; in which nothing is quite as it first appears- this life, has become normal. And as a result, I'm finding it more and more difficult to describe Africa.
I've never been able to keep a journal - in part because my sisters could sniff one out and pick the lock in minutes, and in part because I could never bring myself to scribble nonsense in the blank pages of a beautiful book. It's the same with this blog. Nothing seems worthy of broadcasting to the world. It's all too mundane and typical, even if I know it's not.
And so it begins to feel like a chore - keeping this blog up to date - , but a chore for which I am most thankful. Without it, I wouldn't be forced to reflect, I wouldn't be forced to remember. I am Alice, and this is my Wonderland.
06 August 2007
Free as a Bird... with a Broken Wing.
Until very recently, I've had the worst time creating a mental map of Cotonou. This is particularly painful when you consider that city maps are hard to come by - so hard to come by we haven't managed to get one yet- and that there aren't any street names posted on the roads. As a result, I might have been to a particular shop or restaurant 3 or 4 times and still be unable to find it again. There was no point in trying to give me directions because I couldn't get to the landmarks you were naming. And when it came to remembering those names later, I was hopeless as I couldn't even repeat the French when I was hearing it at the time. Until I've navigated a city on my own - by foot, bicycle, car, etc. - I never get the hang of it.
Totally relying on other expats to either drive me around or give directions to the company driver, I wasn't feeling very independent or free. But the prospect of hopping into the company car and driving off into a city of outrageous traffic when I hadn't been driving regularly for over two years was too daunting. And the fact that I hadn't driven stick shift in nearly four years didn't help either, especially after watching T struggle with the car's bad clutch to get it out of our tiny garage full of strange angles. I feel the need to add here that T is a very, very good driver.
But you reach a point where enough is enough and you realise that today's as good a day to dent your boyfriend's company car as ever there will be. I had T get me out of the garage and from there I took it on my own. (I also feel the need to point out that even though T had never seen me drive, he let me, in a twisted knot of nerves, take off on my own with his company-issued car. You be the judge.)
There are some things you never forget. Apparently, driving is one of them. Behind the wheel again, I felt at home in Cotonou like I never expected. Since that night I've been zipping around the city - including in and out of our garage - on my own quite a bit. The other afternoon I went for a drive around some of the busiest parts of the city and encountered some of the worst traffic I have seen here yet. Traffic jams and road construction forced me to take alternative routes, but my mental map of the city must be finally taking shape because I never felt lost or concerned that I wouldn't make it back.
And in Cotonou traffic, you don't have time to be too worried about where you're going. The roads are full of obstacles to avoid: giant potholes and puddles, trash, beggars, people selling odds and ends, old tires, and stray cement blocks. Thousands of mopeds crowd the streets, dashing in and out and around you all the time, often with whole families - including infant babies - piled onto one bike. And of course no one wears a helmet. Zems, or moped taxis, are the craziest. The only thing worse than driving a car surrounded by zems, is being on the back of one.
But all in all, driving in Benin becomes much easier once you completely accept that the only rule of the road here is that there are no rules. If someone were to ask me on which side of the road the Beninese drive I would have to reply, "Well, it depends on the situation." Technically, people are supposed to drive to the right, but this doesn't appear to be as mandatory as it is most elsewhere. Traffic lights are few and far between, and more than half of the existing ones aren't functioning. So intersections operate on the only rule I've been able to identify: the rule of bigger. As in, "I'm bigger than you, so it's in your interest to avoid crashing into me." It seems to work most of the time, though it makes me wish we had a bigger car.
We've currently got a well-worn Peugeot 406 sedan that, in my non-expert opinion, probably needs a new clutch. At the very least I'm quite positive that it needs a new battery. Yesterday morning, I awoke to find that the car wouldn't start. Luckily, or maybe not, the driver was here anyway to clean the car. So he used another company car to jump start it and then he sent me on my way to the horse stables after a short protest from myself. As I hadn't left the lights on or anything like that the night before, and over the past few days I had noticed that the car was suspiciously lacking power in first gear (pedal to the metal and still hardly any movement), I was certain that a new battery was in order. But, as I was already late and I knew there'd be jumper cables in the back, I drove off without much fuss. Good thing I had those cables, because less than two hours later, on my way back from the stables, it wouldn't start again. It took two jump-starts and a friend in pick-up truck following me to get home, but I made it. Needless to say my plans to go to the neighbouring city of Porto-Novo with a friend that afternoon were cancelled.
And just like that, my new-found freedom was gone and I'm back to riding zems for awhile. Boy, do wish I had a helmet.
Totally relying on other expats to either drive me around or give directions to the company driver, I wasn't feeling very independent or free. But the prospect of hopping into the company car and driving off into a city of outrageous traffic when I hadn't been driving regularly for over two years was too daunting. And the fact that I hadn't driven stick shift in nearly four years didn't help either, especially after watching T struggle with the car's bad clutch to get it out of our tiny garage full of strange angles. I feel the need to add here that T is a very, very good driver.
But you reach a point where enough is enough and you realise that today's as good a day to dent your boyfriend's company car as ever there will be. I had T get me out of the garage and from there I took it on my own. (I also feel the need to point out that even though T had never seen me drive, he let me, in a twisted knot of nerves, take off on my own with his company-issued car. You be the judge.)
There are some things you never forget. Apparently, driving is one of them. Behind the wheel again, I felt at home in Cotonou like I never expected. Since that night I've been zipping around the city - including in and out of our garage - on my own quite a bit. The other afternoon I went for a drive around some of the busiest parts of the city and encountered some of the worst traffic I have seen here yet. Traffic jams and road construction forced me to take alternative routes, but my mental map of the city must be finally taking shape because I never felt lost or concerned that I wouldn't make it back.
And in Cotonou traffic, you don't have time to be too worried about where you're going. The roads are full of obstacles to avoid: giant potholes and puddles, trash, beggars, people selling odds and ends, old tires, and stray cement blocks. Thousands of mopeds crowd the streets, dashing in and out and around you all the time, often with whole families - including infant babies - piled onto one bike. And of course no one wears a helmet. Zems, or moped taxis, are the craziest. The only thing worse than driving a car surrounded by zems, is being on the back of one.
But all in all, driving in Benin becomes much easier once you completely accept that the only rule of the road here is that there are no rules. If someone were to ask me on which side of the road the Beninese drive I would have to reply, "Well, it depends on the situation." Technically, people are supposed to drive to the right, but this doesn't appear to be as mandatory as it is most elsewhere. Traffic lights are few and far between, and more than half of the existing ones aren't functioning. So intersections operate on the only rule I've been able to identify: the rule of bigger. As in, "I'm bigger than you, so it's in your interest to avoid crashing into me." It seems to work most of the time, though it makes me wish we had a bigger car.
We've currently got a well-worn Peugeot 406 sedan that, in my non-expert opinion, probably needs a new clutch. At the very least I'm quite positive that it needs a new battery. Yesterday morning, I awoke to find that the car wouldn't start. Luckily, or maybe not, the driver was here anyway to clean the car. So he used another company car to jump start it and then he sent me on my way to the horse stables after a short protest from myself. As I hadn't left the lights on or anything like that the night before, and over the past few days I had noticed that the car was suspiciously lacking power in first gear (pedal to the metal and still hardly any movement), I was certain that a new battery was in order. But, as I was already late and I knew there'd be jumper cables in the back, I drove off without much fuss. Good thing I had those cables, because less than two hours later, on my way back from the stables, it wouldn't start again. It took two jump-starts and a friend in pick-up truck following me to get home, but I made it. Needless to say my plans to go to the neighbouring city of Porto-Novo with a friend that afternoon were cancelled.
And just like that, my new-found freedom was gone and I'm back to riding zems for awhile. Boy, do wish I had a helmet.
First Day of School
Volunteering at the children's center was an experience. The children are great and the center itself is new and much nicer than I was expecting. But I won't be starting there any time too soon. I just don't have enough French for it yet. None of the staff there speaks any English, and I'm pathetically behind where I ought to be with my French considering I've been here for a month and a half now.
But all that's about to change as I've started lessons with a teacher today. She's great and her prices are too so I'm able to afford 6 hours of private lessons a week. Getting myself set up with a real teacher hasn't been an easy task and I feel lucky that I happened across her. Another two months down the road and I'll be well on my way. Then maybe I can start helping out with the children.
The center is a temporary stop for kids whose families, for one reason or another, just can't care for them at the moment. Many are refugees whose families are having difficulty getting settled. Some have lost their parents to disease. Others are victims of abuse, and a few were abandoned all together for reasons westerners might find difficult to understand. One boy at the center was expelled from his village because his top baby teeth came through before his lower ones, a very bad sign of misfortune.
Most of the children are between 3 and 10 years old, with a few younger and a few older. The daily schedule consists of two baths, lunch, nap time, afternoon snack, and down time in between. It's up to whoever is helping out that day to fill up all those empty spaces with activities. And that's precisely why I need more French. I'm great at swinging the little ones by their ankles, scooping rice and beans into bowls, painting faces and sculpting little animals from modelling clay (I practically filled Noah's ark with all the requests I got). But if I had to get a kid to follow directions and behave, or if I were left to lead a large activity - as I most certainly would be - I'd be up a creak without a paddle.
So it's back to the ABC's for me and then, when I'm ready, kindergarten.
But all that's about to change as I've started lessons with a teacher today. She's great and her prices are too so I'm able to afford 6 hours of private lessons a week. Getting myself set up with a real teacher hasn't been an easy task and I feel lucky that I happened across her. Another two months down the road and I'll be well on my way. Then maybe I can start helping out with the children.
The center is a temporary stop for kids whose families, for one reason or another, just can't care for them at the moment. Many are refugees whose families are having difficulty getting settled. Some have lost their parents to disease. Others are victims of abuse, and a few were abandoned all together for reasons westerners might find difficult to understand. One boy at the center was expelled from his village because his top baby teeth came through before his lower ones, a very bad sign of misfortune.
Most of the children are between 3 and 10 years old, with a few younger and a few older. The daily schedule consists of two baths, lunch, nap time, afternoon snack, and down time in between. It's up to whoever is helping out that day to fill up all those empty spaces with activities. And that's precisely why I need more French. I'm great at swinging the little ones by their ankles, scooping rice and beans into bowls, painting faces and sculpting little animals from modelling clay (I practically filled Noah's ark with all the requests I got). But if I had to get a kid to follow directions and behave, or if I were left to lead a large activity - as I most certainly would be - I'd be up a creak without a paddle.
So it's back to the ABC's for me and then, when I'm ready, kindergarten.
02 August 2007
Yovo! Yovo! Bonsoir, ca-va, ca-va bien merci!
Just looking at this photo I can almost hear them singing, "Yovo! Yovo! Bonsoir, ca-va, ca-va bien merci!"
Yovo means foreigner in Fon, the dominant local language in Southern Benin, and children giggle and shout to all the yovos they see, running up to touch the funny white people and be photographed. And their shrieks and laughter triple when you show them their image on the tiny screen of your digital camera.
This little song is still ringing in my ears from our trip to Ouidah weeks ago; after I volunteer at a children's center tomorrow, I'm sure it will be etched into my eardrums forever. One of the girls I've been travelling with volunteers at the center and, though she's leaving for home on Sunday, she's introducing me to the center so that I can get more involved here.
I can't wait. It will be a way into the culture and reality of this strange country, a contribution I can be proud of, a new network of friends and contacts, a place to practice my French in action, and not least of all, a welcome break from my thesis a couple of days each week.
Besides, Beninese children are about as cute as they come!
Yovo means foreigner in Fon, the dominant local language in Southern Benin, and children giggle and shout to all the yovos they see, running up to touch the funny white people and be photographed. And their shrieks and laughter triple when you show them their image on the tiny screen of your digital camera.
This little song is still ringing in my ears from our trip to Ouidah weeks ago; after I volunteer at a children's center tomorrow, I'm sure it will be etched into my eardrums forever. One of the girls I've been travelling with volunteers at the center and, though she's leaving for home on Sunday, she's introducing me to the center so that I can get more involved here.
I can't wait. It will be a way into the culture and reality of this strange country, a contribution I can be proud of, a new network of friends and contacts, a place to practice my French in action, and not least of all, a welcome break from my thesis a couple of days each week.
Besides, Beninese children are about as cute as they come!
If Only I Could Blame It on the Internet
Sure, the internet hasn't been incredibly stable this past week, but I'd be lying if I said that was the main reason I disappeared from wickedsure. Last week I tried to buckle down and get some work done, and that meant that distractions and luxuries, like blogging, got side-lined. Of course, I got hardly anything done except for inspiring a small handful of emails from concerned parties wondering what had happened to me. So, having tested and proven invalid the hypothesis that without blogging as a procrastination technique I would be far more productive, I can return to writing regularly with only a fraction of the guilt I felt before.
But before I pick up where I left off, I need a little nap. I guess I just need a little more procrastination from my procrastinating ;)
But before I pick up where I left off, I need a little nap. I guess I just need a little more procrastination from my procrastinating ;)
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