only half the story

As it turns out, all that business about mould and termites was only half the story. The real disappointment, the thing that launched the weekend straight past plain bad and into the realm of the absolutely miserable, was what didn't manage to make it onto the container: the keys - the only set of keys - to the motorbike.

It is difficult to capture the intense despair this final assault cast down upon us, particularly T. While the movers continued to bring in more boxes and I tried to comprehend the true breadth of the mould proliferation, T, all alone in the back room, frantically tore open boxes in search of the second half of the only thing he'd really been waiting for the last few months: the motorbike and, of course, its key. But alas, with each box he unpacked it became less and less likely that he would find it. Every few minutes I would hear a crash and a thud as another box was dumped onto the floor and then thrown against the wall. As time wore on, a corresponding groan joined each chorus. Partly to escape the sight of mould, I eventually retreated to the back room to join T in his search. Within moments I knew it was hopeless. Everything worth looking through was already unpacked. Still, to appear helpful and hopeful, I began sifting through the wreckage.

"I've already looked through all of that," he snapped with an irritation not meant for me.

"Well, I packed that box before I left. The key's not inside," I lashed back with an irritation not meant for him.

He looked about the room for another box and settled on the only one still taped up.

"I packed that one too. Don't bother."

"Yes, but maybe..."

"No. You used the bike after I left and I packed these before I left. It can't be in there."

"Fine." He stomped off to the next room, to the last of the unopened boxes.

"That's the printer," I said dryly from the doorway. Crouched motionless over the box, T stared at the photograph of a printer covering its side as though it were mocking him. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned to me, stood up, and slid his hands down the sides of an anguished face, his mouth dropped in a silent cry of despair and disgust.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. The movers trudged back and forth through heaps of mouldy cardboard. I fluttered about, dizzy and overwhelmed. T sat in the corner of the living room, next to the termite infested lion couch and the mouldy TV stand, stupefied by the horror of it all. And then, suddenly, the movers and their cardboard were gone and we were alone.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it will turn up. Once I start cleaning and going through everything I'll find it," I found myself saying, stupidly.

But we both knew it was hopeless. Our only chance was to try to have a new set of keys made, a task so daunting, T didn't even believe it possible. If you've ever tried to have anything fixed in this region of the world you know that any attempt to find a skilled craftsman generally ends in an unbearable test of patience and the irreversible maiming of your property. Needless to say, we were none-too-pleased at the thought of unleashing a Guinean locksmith on the bike, but without a choice we called Ousmane, T's driver, to help us find one.

I'm still astonished to report that the locksmith Ousmane found was alarmingly good at his work. He arrived with a blank key and a set of files and managed to pry open the lock to the fuel tank in less than five minutes. This was impressively convenient at the time, if not a tad disconcerting upon later reflection. (When asked how he'd done it, the locksmith merely grinned and shook his head.)

At any rate, the original key had worked on both the fuel tank and the ignition so our prospects were looking hopeful. We returned to the locksmith's humble workshop with the cap to the fuel tank in tow so that he could disassemble the locking mechanism and make a proper key for us. Just as we were beginning to think that the price we had agreed to pay was far too much for an half hour of work, it became clear that the finer details of key making were slightly more complicated and time consuming than the magic we'd witnessed with the blank key. We spent the better part of the afternoon loitering about the down-town street the locksmith called home, trying our best not to draw attention from the street vendors and beggars, the most persistent of whom was a man who, at his best, stood no higher than my belly button and was surely accustomed to a warmer reception from tourists than the one he was presently getting from us, seasoned residents and frequent recipients of shameless demands for un cadeau.

Finally, the key was finished. Reassembling the locking mechanism, however, proved too complicated for the man who had hours ago disassembled it. More than three quarters of an hour must have passed while the locksmith fiddled with this task. T had long ago slipped back into the morning's stupor and hadn't seemed to notice. I, on the other hand, had noticed and was just nearing the end of my wits when the locksmith finally gave up in the hope that we wouldn't discover the fuel cap's deficiencies until it was too late. Panicked, I roused T from his meditative cocoon so that he could intervene. Within minutes the cap was functioning properly and we were returning to the bike to try the key in the ignition. The key was so close to working that it was dangerous to the nerves. With the application of an unreasonable degree of violence it almost worked. Almost, but not quite. Another key would have to be fashioned. The ignition switch would have to be removed from the bike. A mechanic, a term used so loosely here we might as well ask for a professional clown, would have to be called in.

I'm ashamed to say that at this point I could handle no more. That was it, I was done. No more motorbike madness for me. Back to my mould I went, leaving T to face the imminent destruction of his bike alone. I spent the next few hours scrubbing mould off the furniture, wondering what atrocities I had narrowly escaped witnessing.

T came home that night looking defeated and deflated, like a helium birthday balloon two weeks past the festivities, limply hovering inches from the floor. The key was not finished. Another long day awaited him. Another day of incompetence, of mechanics without tools, of pointed fingers and harsh words, of narrow escapes. In short, another day of horrors.

like a poisoned apple

The container carrying all of our stuff arrived last Friday, full of promise. After two months of the extreme minimalist lifestyle, we welcomed the arrival of our possessions with glee. Unfortunately the joy was short-lived. Once we started opening the boxes and tearing the cardboard off the furniture it became clear that we had got more than we'd bargained for.

What we got was MOULD. Everywhere mould. Growing on the furniture, the clothes, the pots, pans and dishes, the pillows, the bedsheets, the mossie net, the computer, the books... the list goes on and on. The damn stuff followed us from Benin. After four days of solid scrubbing, there's still mould left to contend with. I HATE mould.

In a fit of determination to see the bright side of things, we turned our attention to the famed lion couch, which I had not yet seen fully materialised (for those who have no idea what I'm talking about, it's an over-the-top piece of custom furniture we had commissioned - but there'll be more on that in a future post, surely). Lo and behold, TERMITES! No kidding. Luckily there isn't too much visible damage, just a couple of small holes in an inconspicuous place. Hopefully we can find someone here who can deal with them.

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.

in mourning

I'm sure that all avid news readers, and I hesitate to include myself here as I mainly read headlines as a means of procrastination, are aware of the recent penguin calamity off the shores of Brazil. For interested parties not yet in-the-know, I suggest this article if you want the whole story, and this one for those with short attention spans. The basic gist is that hordes of baby penguins are washing up dead on the beaches of Brazil.

My first reaction was deep sadness. For some reason I've always had a soft spot for these silly birds - even before Morgan Freeman narrated their struggles for the silver screen (which, by the way, is worth the $5 Blockbuster rental). It think it's because of their extreme sense of perseverance. I mean, just look at them try to walk! Is that not the perfect manifestation of determination? I suppose that's why the idea of them succumbing to the perils of today's stronger, icier, more polluted ocean inflicts such heartache.

My second reaction was to remember that I haven't blogged about South Africa - at all. This is highly embarrassing. So I'm going to start right now, and with my favourite part of the trip which, coincidently, involves the little, tuxedo-clad creatures.

Very nearly our last stop on our two-week trek across the Western Cape, Boulder's Beach near Simons Town was well worth the visit. This beach is a breeding-ground for the African Penguin and you can walk along a wooden deck that leads you through their nesting area. If you're willing to pay a small admission fee, you can even swim with them (though they seem more interested in sunning themselves on the rocks than swimming). T and I were near the end of our funds, so we skipped the swimming and snuck down to some nearby rocks for a peek instead. It was amazing how close they let us get!

Ghosts and Robbers

There haven't been many blogs lately because my life hasn't been too exciting. I've either had my nose in a book or my fingers on the keyboard in an attempt to see my silly little thesis finished. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way I've gotten rather attached to it. It's gone from a silly little thesis to something much greater in my meagre intellectual consciousness, as though it's taken on a life of its own and I want to see it grow up big and strong. Now, I haven't reached the point of total anthropomorphism by naming my thesis as kimananda did and I hope I never will - I don't have her gift for schedule and balance and would end up a total hermit - but I do feel invested in a way that I wasn't expecting. A curious development indeed.

But even more curious is that the old interest in academic inquiry, particularly philosophical inquiry, is stirring its head. There I was thinking that I was done with all those useless intellectual pursuits only to find myself being drawn to the old staples again. A sudden desire to re-read Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Kant, Wittgenstein, Zizek - all the old favourites - has caught me off-guard. And then I've continued to shock myself by seeking out the classics that slipped through the cracks of my past education. I've even browsed through Amazon's catalogue for new works of interest. My Amazon wish-list would fill a small, but respectable, library.

What has happened to me? I look back at the last few years and realize that I've been saying one thing and yet doing another. I said I was tired of theory; I wanted more focus on practice. I was tired of academics; education was over-rated and out of touch. But what have I done? I've created a monster of a thesis topic steeped in theory. And not just any theory. The theories I thought I'd put away for good, the ghosts of my past. I realize now that no matter what I say, or how far I run from academic institutions where we first met, my ghosts will always follow me, forever faithful friends, as dependable as one's shadow. And I've come to accept that no matter what I may say by day, when night begins to fall I will always leave the light on for them.

Now that's a metaphorical light, that is, because I don't sleep with the light on. I'm not afraid of the dark and I never have been. I'm afraid of the night. Because it's night when the robbers, murderers, and general evil-doers go creeping around your house. And I should know, I watched enough episodes of Unsolved Mysterious as a kid to be an expert in the matter. Boy, did I love that show. And if that wasn't enough I had Rescue 911 to drive home the gore.

The result of all this television violence - the original reality TV - was that I used to sleep with my windows shut and locked, laying so that I faced the door (also shut and locked), with three or four blankets pulled up over my shoulders for protection, even in the dead heat and humidity of mid-summer. And I didn't want the fan running because then I wouldn't be able to hear the footsteps sneaking up on me. There were never monsters under my bed, only robbers and serial killers outside my window and - you guessed it - spiders crawling on my ceiling (some things never change...).

But the point of all this, actually the point of this entire post, was to relate a little story about what was, for me, a terrifying occurrence last weekend. It happened late Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, depending on how you look at it. I was all alone in the flat because T was in Paris for the weekend taking a psychology exam so that he can add a B.A. in psychology to his already long list of degrees and become the single most over-educated person I know.

So I was all alone when I woke up around 6.00 in the morning to a chorus of footsteps, muffled voices and squeaking doors. It was still very dark outside, but the hard rain and strong winds that had beat against the window only hours before had ceased. After such a storm, the most intense storm I have seen here yet, the stillness and silence outside was eerie. And it was even eerier when contrasted to the very human noises echoing through the room. Yes, echoing. We have almost nothing on any of our walls; all the floors are cold tile; furniture is sparse; we live in an echo-box. So I couldn't tell where the sound was coming from. Was it from our new neighbours, just moved in above us? Or was it coming from inside the flat? - our flat, the flat I was currently occupying all alone...

As I sat there, still as stone, listening for every step, bump and creek, I thought about the stubborn lock on the balcony door and the guards that were quite positively asleep outside. And I thought about a story I'd recently heard. A story about some people sleeping in a house in our neighbourhood, just a couple of weeks ago, who were beaten up by startled burglars. The rumour goes that they were still in their bed when the robber's bat came down upon them. So I was scared, really scared.

I summoned up some courage, from where, I have no idea . But I was going to get out of bed, take the flash-light from the night-stand, and investigate. No sooner had I pulled the mosquito net back than I went straight from scared to literally petrified.

Something liquid had splashed on me - on my t-shirt, on my arm, on my face. Liquid, an unidentified liquid of unidentified origin, was in my bedroom, in my bed, on me. Instantly, I thought of blood. A severed horse's head, dripping above me or an injured robber gushing blood from a wound as he readied to pounce. Then I noticed the net was soaked, dripping wet... dripping with blood! And I saw the same severed horse's head only now placed under the bed instead of above, the same robber but now crawling my direction on hands and knees through a puddle of blood. Or maybe it was a corpse - a neighbour? - chopped to pieces on the floor.

It is astonishing how many thoughts one can hold in one's head in a single terrified moment. Somehow, part of my brain must have been working on convincing myself to turn on the light, because, as I thought these things, I reached over and flicked on the light hardly realizing what I was doing.

It was nothing but water. The hard rain had been too much for the bedroom window. Water had leaked through a gape in the frame, leaving the shadow of a large stream on the wall and a miniture lake on the floor as evidence.

My subsequent stealthy dash through the apartment was based on equally fantastic fears. The noise was only our neighbours above who must have invited the whole safari home from the clubs instead of just the usual mere herd of elephants. Boy did I feel ridiculous. Clearly a classic case of too much Unsolved Mysteries as a child, and perhaps a recent viewing of The Godfather had an influence as well...

So that's it. That's the most exciting thing that's happened to me in awhile. There you have it: theoretical ghosts and phantom robbers.

Okay, I take it back. I take it all back!

Forget everything I said about the insecticide spray. It's lovely. It's wonderful. It's the best thing since sliced bread. It's a lean, mean killing machine and it saved me from the most hideous, monstrous, gigantic spider I have seen in a very, very long time. And for that I am forever grateful. Oh, and by the way... Yes T, spiders CAN jump. If only you had been here to see it in action, then it would have been you it jumped at and not me!

Will It Never End?

I just opened my laptop for the first time in months (I usually use T's) to get some old files I needed and it is covered in mold! Mold, everywhere, mold! How am I supposed to clean this! Will it never end?

This Is War!

We've been attacked!... by mold. There is mold everywhere - inside the kitchen cabinets, in the closets, on our shoes, growing on our clothes. Yuk! This whole place has smelled musty from day one, particularly the kitchen, but it's easy to ignore such things when you know that closer inspection will only bring unwelcomed news. So the mold made a major mistake when it decided to make an open attack on our clothes. There was a problem and we couldn't deny it any more. I had no choice but to declare war immediately.

The wardrobe was the first casualty. It is now a wardrobe skeleton, with no back panel or doors. All the clothes went straight into the wash and the closets and cupboards were doused with bleach. But this is going to be a on-going battle. Cotonou is extremely humid and consistently warm. It's paradise for mold. Even with the air conditioners running it's always damp and I'm finding mold in new places. Just yesterday I opened the night-stand to discover that the outside of my passport was fuzzy. My passport! I can't exactly soak that in bleach!

But it's not just mold that plagues our Cotonou residence. There are the ants. Tiny little reddish-brown ants by the thousands that go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah! On Monday the apartment was fumigated with insecticide to kill all the bugs hoping to infest our home. By that evening, the ants were back, marching in their little single file lines across the kitchen counter. I think the only living thing that suffered from the fumes was me.

Next, we have the rain. Apparently the late summer dry season lasts less than a month because we're back into the rain again (which probably isn't helping us with the mold situation). Whenever it rains the patio around our building becomes completely flooded and we have to use cinder blocks as stepping stones to get in and out of the front gate. We've got it pretty easy though. Many homes are under water and I've meet at least two Beninese who have had to move because of the flooding. If you've been paying attention to the world news you've probably noticed that massive flooding is widespread in Africa at the moment, especially for our neighbours in Togo and Ghana. Niger and Burkina Faso have also been hit hard. Benin is swamped and has been all summer but according to the BBC news maps of worst affected areas, Benin is one of the only West African countries not in (or almost in) a state of emergency. I can only imagine what it must be like for those around us. A Sunday afternoon drive around the Beninese countryside makes our flooded patio seem like a blessing. Next time I'll bring my camera and try to get some photos.

And then, of course, there are the mosquitoes, which all this standing water isn't helping with either. But we have our defences...

First, there's the trusty mosquito net. This usually works, though sometimes we wake up to find a mosquito in the net. Oh, how irritating! The net is supposed to keep them out, not trap them inside. I think it would would probably work better if we were able to tuck the edges of the net underneath the mattress, but T is too big! His feet stick out over the end of the bed! At least this makes it easier to get in and out of bed in the middle of the night. When you've got to go, you've got to go and trust me, you don't want to be stuck in a net.

Next, there are the bug sprays. I brought my deep-woods-New Hampshire knowledge to this one. We've got Avon Skin So Soft for the low-mosquito evenings when we don't feel like coating ourselves in DEET and showering when we get home. And then there's the high-DEET super spray for the long haul nights outside.

For a long time T was a fan of this insecticide spray. I think he liked that he could chase a mosquito down with the can and watch it meet its end. There was a huge stock of this in the apartment when we moved in. I hate this stuff. It gives me a massive headache. Luckily, we don't need to use it much any more because we've found something better...

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The plug-in, electronic mosquito destroyer. Plug it in at night with a fresh insecticide tablet and you've got up to 12 mosquito free hours. It even smells nice. And the best part, no headaches.

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And last, but certainly not least, is my personal favourite, the POWER RECHARGEABLE MOSQUITO-HITTINGRACKET! All I have to say is Thank you China! A curse upon all those that say you can't innovate, that you only produce cheap knock-off's and total junk. They have clearly never encountered the glory that is the power rechargeable mosquito-hittingracket.

This beauty plugs directly into the wall (with an American prong no less) to charge its internal battery. The instructions indicate that the battery can be recharged over 200 times. It's been two months and we've only charged it once and it's still going strong! Why does it need to be charged? Because the metal strings of the racket are electrified. Yes, you electrocute mosquitoes. You dance around your house swinging and swatting your beautiful racket, sending the little buggers to their the doom with a little spark and a satisfying crackle. This is my new, all-time favourite pastime here in Africa - mosquito hunting. I'm thinking of sending one to everybody for Christmas.

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.

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.