Happy in Haie Vive

Last week in Northern Benin was amazing, but after a week of cold showers, bread containing more sand than flour, nights without electricity, and the almost patronizing intensity of Beninese hospitality, I'm so happy to be home. I have a whole new appreciation for our very Western neighbourhood of Haie Vive. It's good to be home.

But before I get into the stories of the North, I've got to finish with the South, and there's so much to tell! I've begun by updating my last post and if you're interested in a little bit of Voodoo magic, it just might be entertaining ;)

Trees of a Sacred Forest

I promised pictures, and unfortunately that's all I've got. I had written out a nice, lengthy blog but somehow it didn't get saved properly on blogger. In about five minutes I'm leaving for the bus station for a week in the North so I can't write now, but when I get back there will be explanations for these photos and many more to add. For now, let's just say that tree is a king, I got to see a Voodoo ceremony and meet a King in human form crowned with a lampshade topped with a plastic ducky :)

Update: Here are those explanations!

Once upon a time in West Africa, there was a small kingdom of people called the Xweda. Unfortunately for the Xweda, their neighbours were the ruthless people of Dahomey, whose king followed a strict policy of expansionism and employed Amazons as his personal bodyguards. So, naturally, when the Xweda got wind that the Dahomey were marching their way, their king, King Kpasse, did what all sensible leaders would do in such a situation; he ran into the forest and turned himself into a tree. Sensible indeed. The Dahomey were fooled by his disguise, though I doubt this helped the rest of the Xweda, and King Kpasse still stands in the sacred forest that bears his name. That's him above, standing in the middle of the ruins of his home in the sacred forest. He could have fooled me.

But the sacred forest is home to more than just leafy, old kings. Statues of Voodoo deities loom everywhere. Meet the god of smallpox, to the right. I guess you appeal to him if you've got enemies. Voodoo does have its component of evil after all and it's not difficult to see where Hollywood got its inspiration for the fictional Voodoo doll. The only dolls here are carried by those who have lost a twin (there are lots of twins born here) representing their dead sibling. They must carry these dolls until they die and when they do it is said that they have gone to the sacred forest to look for their lost twins.

After meeting a number of deities, including our guide's personal protector, the god of thunder, we found a comfy bench and waited for the afternoon's Voodoo celebrations to begin. Luckily for us, we happened to be in Ouidah on a very special day in its history, July 14th. Again, a tree was involved.





























The story goes, one night a man from Ouidah had a dream in which two leopards told him that he was meant to be king. And he believed them. Unfortunately, the current king of Ouidah did not. On July 14th, 1985 they were arguing for the throne in the Sacred Forest of Kpasse when a storm blew in suddenly and unexpectedly. It was so strong that the giant tree next to the temple was torn from its roots and fell over, postponing their bickering.

Exactly one month later, on July 14th, 1985, the men returned to the forest to pick up where they left off. Another, even greater storm, interrupted them yet again and this time the winds and rain were so violent they were forced to lie on the ground. When the strange weather had passed, they stood up to find the tree by the temple had righted itself as though nothing had ever happened. It was clearly a sign from the gods and so the lamp-shade crown, complete with plastic birdy, was passed on to King Kpassenon, sitting on his throne in front of the temple in the photo above. Kind of reminds me of that story about the emperor's new clothes...

And so we waited for the celebrations of the King's coronation to begin. And we waited. And we waited some more. Even the children had run out of games to entertain themselves with. But finally, all the metal folding chairs were in place and a line of women came dancing in, literally.
Most of the real action involved mixing crushed seeds and gin in little bowls, a bit of singing, and a whole lot of kneeling in front of the king. The real stuff was happening inside the temple so we couldn't see much, but there definitely weren't any animal sacrifices or people in trance. Not sure whether I'm more disappointed or relieved about that. And as you can see from the photo above, we weren't the only one's eager to get a peek at the action, though we were all surprised at how relaxed the ceremony was.

It was so relaxed in fact that the three of us westerners weren't sure when the festivities had officially begun and officially ended. Throughout the entire affair, those in the audience chatted to their friends, ate snacks, and even got up to purchase snacks from little stands set up in the forest especially for the event. The last 45 minutes or so lingered on as a man from the national television news interviewed the king and nearly every priest (there's a priest for every deity) on the stage. And after he interviewed us! My lack of any significant French language abilities saved me, but one of the other girls had to tell the nation what she thought of their traditions and beliefs. Talk about being in a tight spot.

Small-town Africa Here I Come, Ouidah, Ouidah

I'm very excited; I finally get to see some countryside. This afternoon I'll be leaving for a small city about 40 km west of Cotonou called Ouidah. A few American interns I've met here have arranged it. I'll tell you all about the Python Temple and the Gate of No Return tomorrow night, when I get back. And I'll be sure to take my camera :)

*to the tune of Camptown Races

Hoi've got a lo-ve-ly bunch o' coconuts

...There they are a-standin' in a row. Big ones, small ones, some as big as yer 'ead! *



Two green coconuts, and a dry - for those who, like me, also didn't know the difference. When you shake the dry ones, you can hear the water inside, but for some reason this doesn't work with the soft, green coconuts. Another mystery.

*http://www.metrolyrics.com/lyrics/49977/Monty_Python/I've_Got_A_Lovely_Bunch_Of_Coconuts/ for full lyrics

GUARD #1: You've got two empty halves of coconut and you're bangin' 'em together. ARTHUR: So?

Yesterday I made what will probably be one of my last big weekly trips to the market with Elisabeth. When we go to Ganhi, the smaller of the city's two big markets, every street vendor carrying sunglasses, flip-flops, desk lamps, kittens, etc. comes running for us. This makes my presence a real burden when we already have to buy a week's worth of food in the crowded stalls. And I have a tendency to inflate prices. Elisabeth is put in the awkward position of negotiating for the best deal with a "rich" person beside her. Plus I feel absolutely awful about haggling in the first place.

In fact, sometimes there's no deal at all. Take, for example, the pineapples. Elisabeth had warned me that the pineapple lady might not want to sell the pineapples to us if she saw me (she's actually a pineapple wholesaler so she sells at a lower price than in the market and she's rather particular about who she sells to). So I tried to duck down in the back seat of the car as we drove up to the stand. It didn't work. Elisabeth had to call the lady's younger sister (I guess they are friends and that is why Elisabeth can buy wholesale pineapples in the first place) and come back by herself today to get them.

For these reasons I've been kindly asked to stay home on market day. I'll still make it out to the markets, just not to do the weekly food stocking. And then there's all the things that we get at the regular supermarkets that I can still buy myself. Cornflakes, milk and that sort of thing. There are a number of small supermarkets in the neighbourhood and everywhere else for that matter. The selection isn't like Whole Foods or Hannaford (USA), or even Bilka or Føtex (DK), but I will say that it's better than your average American "Mom & Pop" grocer, or Netto or Aldi in Denmark. All in all, finding things in Cotonou has been much easier than finding things in Copenhagen. Very counter-intuitive. Oh, another funny thing: yesterday when we were at a rather nice supermarket, we had to wait a little extra longer at the cheese counter. The reason: we were in line behind the Beninese President's wife, and no one rushes her. My first brush with celebrity in Africa.

But we got everything we needed and now we have a nice pile of pineapples to top it off - as you can see above. Now every morning we can rotate between freshly squeezed orange juice and pineapple juice. We also picked up a "green" coconut on the way home so that T and I could try the milk. Very tasty. I wonder about the fat content of that beverage though. Isn't coconut milk supposed to be very fatty and bad for you? Or is that just the milk of the "dry" coconuts? I just learned the difference between the two yesterday so I obviously don't know much, but Elisabeth told me that the milk is supposed to be very good for your stomach. Well, as long as you don't combine it with yoghurt that is. A few minutes after finishing my glass, she came running back to me to say that she forgot to warn me about it's interaction with yoghurt. Apparently the combination leads to frequent and inescapable trips to the loo. So now I'm trying to figure out if we should put coconut milk into our morning rotation (but not on mornings we eat yoghurt!), or avoid it like a heart attack. Are there any health-nuts out there who can help clear up all these coconut rumours and provide some scientifically-based advice? For all I know, the people I'm listening to could be suggesting that coconuts migrate ;) Well, we do have African swallows here...

*Monty Python and the Holy Grail

If I Could Turn Back Time

... I would study French in high school instead of Spanish. Amazing how much I'm realizing I actually do remember. Amazing and unhelpful.

Beach Bums

Again, you'll have to forgive my inability to blog regularly. Random, prolonged internet-access failure is unavoidable. And it won't be a one time occurrence, but rather a regular fact of life in this new landscape. I've come to terms with this; I hope that you, my readers, will do the same and not abandon me.
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So what did I do during my time "away"? Besides the usual struggle to learn French, stay awake reading Castells, and put words on paper, I went to the beach. Wow. Words - at least my words - are simply inadequate to describe such an experience. I think the only words I did come up with were, "Why is my camera at home? Next week. No. Tomorrow. Can we come back tomorrow?"
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I thought I had it good living in Copenhagen with my 15 minute bicycle ride to the "beach" but I had no idea. Notice the quotes. There's a reason for that. Amager strand (aka the city's beach) is a very new pile of sand, rocky sand at that, dumped on the shore by sun-deprived Scandinavians. And I can't blame them. The Danish coast - and there's lots of it - boasts some nice patches of sand but none very close to the capital. Mind you I mean close in Danish terms, where family members that live 3 hours away might as well be in, say, Africa. Oh how New Hampshire of me to be measuring distance in hours, I know.
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Anyway, my point was that up until now I was pretty happy to have once lived 15 minutes from Amager strand, even if Gondul's photos of her Queensland home town's coastline did inspire more than a little jealousy. But this was before I lived in Cotonou. After a mere 20 minutes of bumps and bounces that would have greatly impressed my old school bus buddies, you're far away from all the hustle, bustle, and pollution of the city. Your new surroundings ooze R&R: fine sand, big waves, coconut trees, cushioned lounge chairs.
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But don't expect a little pink umbrella in your drink. In fact, don't expect a drink at all. Life's easier without expectations. For example, maybe you'll get a waiter's attention, maybe you won't. Maybe they'll have what you ordered, maybe they won't. Maybe the waiter will remember to tell you that they don't have any more of what you ordered, and maybe he won't. And if you're really lucky, maybe the waiter will remember that you once upon a time ordered something at all, and then again maybe he won't. You get the idea. At least you don't have to pay upfront.
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It's not that these places are crowded - though I'm sure that sometimes they are - it's just that everything already moves at "African pace" (I think the heat has something to do with this) and that, coupled with the R&R atmosphere inherent to the beach, means there's never, ever any hurry. Personally, I don't find this so irritating, but I can understand how years of such service can make even the most patient expats here a little frustrated. A well-run beach side restaurant providing lounge chairs with adequate shade would be a goldmine.
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Because we made our little trip on Sunday we haven't had time to return, so no pictures yet. But don't worry, I'll definitely be going back. If you're impatient, you can check out the website of the restaurant/resort we went to at http://jardin-helvetia.com/. They have a few pictures online, though none really of the beach itself.

Cosy with Castells

It's been nearly a week since the guys left and I think it's justified for me to start feeling a little lonely now. A text message this morning from T saying he'd be home tomorrow made me so giddy I'm still embarrassed for myself. Must remember not to jump on him in the doorway when he arrives. The poor man hasn't had a moment for himself since we got here.

Loneliness is not the same as boredom, even if many people let one lead to the other. I am not bored. Creating a list of things to do has never been a problem for me. The challenge is checking things off that list. For some reason I feel like this entire week was robbed from me. I didn't seem to get anything I planned to do done.

Robbed I tell you, first by the movers who never came, then by the inertia of heat and humidity, then by a house that seems to require daily visits from the electrician and plumber, and finally - worst of all - by one Manuel Castells and his Network Society. T, come home quickly; I'm spending all my time with another man.

Ready? Drum Roll Please...

So finally, here they are: the promised photos, sure to disappoint, but posted nevertheless. The movers still haven't shown, but things are nearly in order now because I broke down and moved all the stuff they were supposed to pick up into what we charitably call the dining room. It's not as though we'll be eating there any time soon anyway; we have no table. Maybe, if we're lucky, we can snag one from someone who's leaving in September.

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But back to the stuff you really want to know. We'll start with the view from the balcony:

As you can see, we've got lots of palm trees. The thing about palm trees is that even when the wind is hardly blowing their tops swing back and forth outside your bedroom window with such ferocity that it gives you the impression that there's a hurricane in the making. I suspect this might just be my personal bias though, as most of the palm trees I've seen in my life, until now, have been on Weather Channel special news reports. Now, if you look closely you can make out a few of our neighbours in between the palm trees (click on the photos to get to larger versions).

This is the living room, followed by the bedroom and the study. Got to love the bars on the windows. If the wall surrounding the building (can be seen in views from balcony) complete with guards didn't already do it, this last finishing touch really drives home the prison analogy. The really funny thing though, is that none of those windows or the sliding door are ever locked. Ah, the appearance of safety. I also like how the bars reflect onto the framed lion photograph hanging above the bed to make it look like a zoo animal.

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As you can see, our place is a bit empty at the moment and would benefit greatly from some real artwork. Not that I don't love the lion (a leftover from the former tenant), I just think he's better suited for a game room or a bar than above my bed. I'm hoping that maybe I can convince my artist sister to send me some of her paintings. I'll have to do it fast though. Judging by the way her work is starting to sell I won't be able to afford it before long.

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Well, I should go now. The water isn't working so I've got to call the plombier. Too bad that's the only plumbing-related word of French I know. This should be interesting...

Happy 4th on the 3rd! and the Fine Art of Schmoozing

Just got back from a 4th of July celebration at the American Embassy. Do I need to explain the significance of the 4th of July for my non-American readers? American Independence Day. Usually involves BBQ, fireworks, loud music (preferably country-western if you can handle it), parades, and all things stereotypically American. In the words of a long-time family friend, "A great day to be an American".

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Yes, I am very aware that it's not the 4th today, but the 3rd of July. I guess the people at the embassy wanted the whole day off, and who can blame them. But I have to say no Independence Day celebration has ever crept up on me quite like this one did. Someone at T's office had mentioned it to me last week and said that he might be able to get me an invitation; I guess the event is rather limited in number. It didn't seem likely and when I didn't hear anything more about it I assumed that he wasn't able to work it out. But then, around quarter to six tonight I got a phone call informing me that someone would be by to pick me up at half past six to take me to the event. Oops.

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With no plans about what to wear, no running water, greasy hair, and a bad case of garlic breath, I was feeling rather short on time. Now, dressing for such an event is always a tricky business - unless you're male, naturally, in which case 1: you probably don't really care that much how you look, and 2: you can just throw on a suit and look acceptable for nearly all occasions. But dressing for such an event when you're female and you've just moved to Africa and left a fair deal of your clothes behind is particularly difficult. And to top it off, you're in Africa. Even if you had all of your clothes you still couldn't find anything resembling what most everyone else will be wearing. So, to recap: short on time and no idea what to wear. Solution: basic black dress. Too bad mine was freshly wrinkled, straight from the suitcase.

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Luckily, Elisabeth saved my rear by ironing the dress for me (I would do it myself but I have no idea where the ironing board is and I think she wants to keep it that way... ) and the water magically turned back on just in time for me to brush my teeth six times and take a quick shower. I swear I have an angel.

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The reception was nice enough. Most of the people there were not American, though. In fact, the majority were local, which, I think, is a good thing, even if it did mean that my black dress was a little out of place in the sea of bright-coloured, wrap-around prints. There was a live band playing a rather odd selection of music, but decent nevertheless. No dancing, though. Red, white and blue everything, of course. Burgers, hot dogs, corn on the cob, baked beans, chicken wings and a flag cake. Oh, and ice cream. And mosquitoes. Lots of mosquitoes. In my rush to get out the door, bug-spray didn't factor in. Itch, scratch, itch, scratch. Good thing I'm still taking the malaria meds.

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In terms of networking, it was the place for me to be. I'm sure I would have met all these people at one point or another, but in this case sooner is better than later. Whether or not some form of interesting employment here is in my future remains to be seen, but at least my network of friends is sure to benefit from tonight's appearance. One thing is for certain, though. I need to work on my schmoozing skills.

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Schmoozing: v. int. To converse casually, especially in order to gain an advantage or make a social connection. Don't believe me? http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/schmooze. So now that we've cleared that up, any suggestions on how to improve my skills? How about significant schmoozing stories of your own? Anyone? Please? Desperately seeking help here.

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In other news, I haven't forgotten about the photos of the flat. It's still not put together because the movers never came. They were supposed to come on Friday afternoon. And then it was moved to sometime yesterday when they failed to show. And now another day has passed and I've given up hope. The rumour here is that if you need something done you need to know the people personally or it takes forever. Seems right so far.

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And sorry for all the "-"s between paragraphs. Something's up with the formatting on blogger. Can't get it to work right any other way.

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*Photo from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/barrypeterson/181644402/

P.S.

Mangos are delicious! Also, people really do carry things around on their heads. Anything, and all the time.

Dog Plays Dead in "Living" Room

So I had my camera out in preparation for finally taking some photos tonight - though it looks like it'll be tomorrow now... sorry - and I remembered that I had a few pictures that I took when I was State-side last that still needed to be uploaded. This was one of them. There is, indeed, a reason for posting this photo (other than the fact that I love my dog and can never have enough photos of her). It's a tribute to my Keene NH home, to which, I've just recently learned, my parents will - for sure now - be saying their farewells.

The above photo, taken just a few minutes before I left for the airport, was one of my last glances at what will no longer be my parents' living room. Next time I come "home" this is what I'll see instead (with a few additions, as in a house, I hope!):

Goodbye Keene; hello Westmoreland!

A Place for Everything, and Everything in Its Place

The guys left again last night, this time for a week in South Africa. T's colleague will be flying straight home to Denmark from there, so from now on it will be just us. It was, as always, a sad parting; Elisabeth was nearly in tears after saying her final goodbyes. For the record, tears make me uncomfortable. Tears from people I don't know very well yet make me very uncomfortable. But it was also a relief as now we're free to settle into our own, new routine. And I fully intend to do so.

And I fully intend to start by rearranging the flat. With T gone until Saturday, Elisabeth and I are more than keeping busy moving things from here to there, and then back, and then from here to over there, and so on. One of the first places to get the major overhaul is the kitchen. "Complete lack of storage space" pretty much sums up the situation in there. Actually, maybe if you added the phrase "ant infestation" to that it would be a more comprehensive description. We're going to have to buy some tight sealing Tupperware.

But getting this flat in order is going to be more than a one day project. In fact, it will probably be September before everything is in place. We have no dining table or chairs, no guest bed, nothing on the walls, no plants, etc. What we do have, and in abundance, is empty space. Photographs of said empty space will be posted tomorrow, when the junk heaps growing in every corner have been redistributed evenly across all rooms.

So why am I wasting my time blogging? you ask. Simple, at the moment we're knee-deep in a case of "we can't to this until that is done first". And, in this case, "that" means waiting for the movers to come and pick up T's colleague's stuff. But every once in a while the plumber shows up to give us a quote on fixing the kitchen sink, or some such thing, to break up the monotony.