feeling disconnected

It's funny which things remind one how cut off from the rest of the world one is when living in a place like Guinea. For me, right now, it's the Olympics. I admit, I haven't been glued to Olympics coverage since I was 9 years old and still dreamed of becoming a figure skater; yet, for some reason I feel like I'm really missing out this year. The fact is an Olympics hosted by China is more than just an international sports gathering; it's history. I'm twiddling my thumbs in Guinea and history's blowing right past me. *insert exasperated sigh here*

Thank goodness for the internet. At least I can read the news online, but too bad all the articles I'm reading are on things like how the Opening Ceremony fireworks were faked and so on. Well, I can honestly say that they didn't look particularly authentic or fake to me. But surely I can find some video coverage online? you ask. In theory, yes... if I want to wait two weeks for it to download. Don't even mention streaming video; our connection is far too sluggish. Just the other day T exclaimed, "Why is everything on the Internet a video!" Yes, why indeed. Oh, now I remember, because videos are fun... except for when they skip, stutter and stall every 3 seconds.

But then Russia invaded Georgia (or Georgia threatened Russians, depending on your perspective) and everyone forgot about the Olympics and felt just as disconnected from the 'truth' of things as me, and all was well again... or maybe not.

fire & ice

Happily, the wasps seem to have developed a better sense of direction.... but there's always something, isn't there? Now we are experiencing a minor rebellion from our kitchen cooling appliances.

Last week, our water cooler sprung a leak and nearly 18.9 litres (5 gallons) of water was on the floor one morning. The tap water here is treated, but still not clean enough to drink, so that was all of our drinking water. A few days - and one pathetic attempt to communicate in French - later, I learned that a worn-out seal inside the cooler was to blame. The seal was replaced and all was well... for a few days. This morning it was the same thing all over again. Dehydration, here I come.

As if being flooded out and thirsty wasn't enough, a mysterious and disconcerting smell began wafting out of the kitchen, a foul, bluish smoke reminiscent of burning plastic. Last night T discovered the cause. See for yourself: this is the plug to the refrigerator, and this is the voltage regulator box it was plugged into. Electrical fire, anyone?


What's next? The air conditioners? Please no!

this is africa. there are bugs

Every once in a while I am reminded of how much my perspective has, and hasn't, changed since moving to this continent. Not infrequently in the past few weeks have I found myself saying, "This is Africa. There are bugs," with shrugged shoulders. But still, there comes a point when enough is enough and you have to wonder if the domestic help you left behind (and possibly unemployed) in Benin isn't sending a voodoo plague after you.

Each day this week I've wasted at least 10 minutes herding giant wasps to open windows. They float about the house like hot air balloons thrown off course by phantom gusts of wind. Each night I brush a few ants off the sheets before I crawl into bed. What earthly business do ants have amongst fresh linens? I ask myself. Entering the kitchen after dark must be done with caution, and an open window might as well be an open invitation.

My only solace is that at least it isn't mould.

*Note: the photograph above was taken whilst walking through the corridor of a neighbouring building in Le Résidence, which, as you might infer, was not long ago painted green. Also for the record, I wear a size 37 (or US size 7) shoe, making this flip-flop a little too big for me. In true African-style, I wear it anyway. It was the smallest size the woman had in the basket on top of her head, and for the same reason, please excuse the putrid pink.

Expat Africa: At the Benin Marina Hotel

Sitting by the pool under a palm tree, on a cloudless day, cooled by the ocean breeze, you can't help but think, This is the life. And it is.

In a country where a person is lucky to earn more than $1000 a year, a $200 night stay at Cotonou's Benin Marina Hotel is, generally speaking, more than just a special weekend getaway; it's an impossibility - but for the expats living here the hotel is a weekend hot-spot.

For a surprisingly reasonable annual fee when compared to the room prices (though still much more than the average Beninese could afford), you get access to the most beautiful pool in the country, a small handful of tennis courts and a few other hotel facilities. In addition, circling the hotel is the most compact 9-hole golf course you could ever imagine, saved from it's size only by the fact that it's probably the lone golf course in the country.

Weekends are busy. As long as it's not raining, the kiddie pool is teeming with toddlers; the large, circular, adult pool is overrun by unruly pre-teens; and parents chase their children with bottles of sunscreen. When you arrive at the pool you flash your membership card and you're escorted to the umbrella of your choice (if there are any left to choose from) where you're given a fresh towel and a cushion for your chair. You can buy crêpes, ice cream and cocktails. You can even get a green coconut with a straw inserted for drinking the juice. Every Friday night the hotel hosts a themed buffet dinner by the pool for the outrageous sum of 14500 CFA (~ $30) per person.



For me, the Benin Marina is a great place to swim laps. The pool is round, but on weekday mornings it's deserted and you can swim along the buoy line that floats the diameter. I slather on sunscreen, put on my swimsuit, pack my beach bag, and trot down the "Marina road" to the pool. In less than 10 minutes, I'm in the water. On my way home, I give the same guards I passed earlier another round of hellos, this time with wet hair and goggle-marked, raccoon eyes.

On the weekends, the Marina stands in for the garden T and I don't have. When we're too lazy to drive all the way to the beach we walk to the Marina with our books and bottled water and precede to get sunburned. Once, I tried to write my thesis by the pool, but even under the shadiest umbrella the glare from the sun made it difficult to see the words on my laptop screen and I didn't end up working on much more than my tan.

As much as I'm thankful to have the Marina so close, I always feel as though I've sneaked into someplace I'm not supposed to be when I'm there - like it's a secret club and I'm only pretending to be a member. The excess of such surroundings, of the African expat life in general, is something I'll never quite get used to and somehow I feel thankful for that. A strange mix of awe and guilt sets in as you admire your surroundings and realize how lucky you are. Outside the Marina, construction workers toil in the heat, mixing cement and digging foundations to build government-funded housing units for politicians visiting Benin during an international African conference next year. A little further down the road, children walk through rows of vegetables with metal watering cans that are probably twice their weight. Polio victims hobble between parked cars at traffic lights, tapping on windows for a spare franc. As you float in that giant pool, you know there are people in the north dying from drinking dirty water.

Once, someone asked me if it wasn't hard to live with poverty right outside my door. To be honest, yes, it is. But the reality is that poverty has always been right there, it's just harder to ignore when you're in a place like Benin. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe everyone who's ever been lucky enough to float in a pool ought to be forced to witness real poverty first-hand. Maybe then at least we would finally realize just how fortunate we really are.

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 ;)

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

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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".

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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

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.

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.

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.