If this is the rainy season, then the dry season must be very dry. It hasn't rained since I've been here, even though the forecast from weather.com predicted scattered thunder-storms with a 60% chance of rain both yesterday and today. On closer inspection, one notices that scattered thunderstorms and a 60% chance of rain is the forecast for everyday this week and next. In fact, I seem to remember this same prediction every time I checked the weather these past few weeks as I was preparing for this big adventure. I wonder if they actually even bother to have meteorologists looking at satellite reports or if they just have two, seasonally changing forecasts they post. Not that I'm complaining that it's not raining. It rained enough in New Hampshire and Copenhagen to keep me satisfied for the moment. But I could use a good thunder-storm. And I hear they are good here.
Last night, T's colleague took us for a drive to the beach. We actually live very close to the beach; I think one could probably walk there if one wasn't in a hurry, but the stretch closest to us isn't very nice and not the safest either. So we continued along the coast about 20 or 25 minutes down the road to a nicer/safer area. Now when I say that we drove for nearly half an hour to get to the "real" beach it might sound a long distance away. Not at all. It's just that the chickens in the road, the goats in the road, and - most of all - the potholes in the road mean that while the dirt path may be straight, you certainly aren't travelling in a straight line.
But I didn't mind. When there is so much to see along the way, it's not so bad to take one's time. I decided not to take any pictures during these first few journeys, as I'm not yet sure where it is and isn't a good idea to be flashing around one's new, shiny, expensive, and probably impossible-to-get-in-Benin digital camera. So please be patient with me. Photos will come. Eventually. And they'll be worth it.
The dirt road that runs parallel to the beach is lined with homes along each side. Small bars and dense, wide patches of cacti pop up here and there. A few large, grey, and probably once grandiose buildings loom a little further inland, behind the row of homes. This may be beach-front property, but the Big Bad Wolf wouldn't even have to huff 'n puff to blow these houses down. At best, the "homes" are made of crudely layed cement blocks. Many are mainly sheets of rippled metal and woven reeds. Some seem to be entirely constructed of reeds. Voodoo charms are nailed over the doors. Some are painted like shop windows with pictures of people holding dangling snakes and other charms; I'm guessing these are the home of voodoo priests. Our own talisman hangs from the rear-view mirror of our Peugeot- a little extra safety, courtesy of our driver.
Lizards cling to the side of buildings. Naked children chase each other in circles. Women walk along the road's edge with large baskets balanced on their heads. Young men sit under the shade of a lean-to, taking a break from the battle between their motorbikes and the potholes. People stare into our car as we pass and I wonder how tinted the windows are. Not really tinted at all, and it shows on their ever so slightly interested faces. I wonder what they think of us, white expats who drive straight through their lives to the nicest spot of beach. I am embarrassed. I wish I was walking like so many others. But I know that me walking would not make us any more alike. I think I am being silly and force the feeling to pass.
The sun is going down and we still have to pick up some food from the largest grocery store in Cotonou and see "the club" at Marina Hotel, so we never make it out of the car. On our way back I notice a dog lying curled up on the side of the road in front of what looks like a shop. It's a sandy-coloured reddish-brown and with long wiry hairs on the back of its neck. Fuzzy, teddy-bear ears poke up from a short, square face. Hyena? Some kind of cross? No idea.
19 June 2007
18 June 2007
We're Not in Kansas Anymore
I made it! I'm in Africa. Now how to describe this? Hmm...
Well, from the moment I stepped out of the airport last night, I've sort of felt like I've been meandering through a sound stage for a film. All the actors are in costume and giving Oscar-winning performances, even if most are only extras. It's all like a continuous movie that's constantly playing outside my bedroom window, or the car window, or the windows that are my eyes. Very real, but very surreal at the same time.
This is not to say that it's like Blood Diamond, or The Last King of Scotland - surprise, surprise - as I'm not smuggling diamonds or getting up-close and friendly with any crazy politicians. But the scenery and the people around me really do look like something out of a movie. I woke up this morning to the crowing of the rooster that lives in our street (no, not a typo. I do mean in our street, not on), and I opened my eyes to see the tops of palm trees silhouetted against the pink, dawn sky.
We live in the nicest neighbourhood in the city. And our flat is, by all accounts, nice. Not nice considering we're in Africa, but genuinely, truly, nice. I suppose if we we're living in Monaco we'd have reason to be disappointed, but this is far, far more than sufficient. And we'll probably eventually move into an even more "sufficient" house, because two bedrooms, a living room, balcony, kitchen, dinning room, full bath (with tub), half bath (with shower), additional toilet (I think this is supposed to be for the staff, aka our cook/housekeeper Elisabeth, who I feel the need to note is a very kind woman indeed), and an extra room (which is currently unused but will probably soon become famous as the place in which I wrote both my ground-breaking, brilliant thesis, and my moving and inspirational first novel) obviously isn't enough for two people. Yeah, right. #Please note sarcasm# Oh yes, and we have air conditioning throughout.
All this is set back from the road by a white fence - a white wall, actually - that is lined by little cacti on the street-side. To get in, you have to be let in by the security guards. Yes, the guards. There are many guards in this neighbourhood, which is probably why I've been told that it's safe to walk around here at all hours of the day and night. They don't seem very busy to me. In fact, I thought I saw a few sleeping.
We're not far from the airport; you can hear the planes land. We're also not far from T's office, the beach, or Marina hotel (where the health club, pool and many expats are located), though I haven't been to these places yet, so I can't say much more about them. Another place nearby is Livingstone - Benin expats' favourite watering-hole. Had a pizza there last night with T and a couple people from his office. I'm sure that this is a place I will grow to know well.
Our neighbours include several embassies, probably most of the rich local people, what I assume is the majority of the Westerners living in Benin, some shack like buildings, many palm trees, a large plot that seems to be used to grow vegetables, and - of course - the rooster and his groupies (aka, the chickens). I'd say more but I haven't gotten a key to our flat yet, so I haven't been able to do much exploring as I'm stuck inside because I'd get locked out if I left alone and T is at the office with one of his colleagues who's staying with us and helping us adjust.
But I'm not alone. Elisabeth has been here most of the day, and while we didn't see each other much this morning (I was unpacking - not a small task - and she was cleaning), she took me with her to the "markets" to buy the food she needed to prepare lunch. I should probably mention that she speaks English, a fact that will make my first few weeks here infinitely easier. "Our" company-issued driver picked up Elisabeth and me in "our" car to take us there. The roads here are unpaved except for a small handful and there are potholes like you've never seen. Puddles you could swim in. How our driver managed to maneuver through these and simultaneously avoid the masses of mopeds and motorbikes whizzing in front, behind and alongside us is a mystery, though I think the secret to his magic is frequent use of the car horn.
First, we stopped at a fish shop, a small, rather typically run-down building in which we bought frozen fish by selecting our catch from a small wooden crate holding a variety of fishes. Around the corner behind the counter where the man showed us the crate and weighed our choice, there must have been a large walk-in freezer containing more fish because another man wearing a thermal suit and a hat kept disappearing and reappearing from that mysterious place. I kept looking at the small crate holding probably 10 fishes in front of us and wondering how many more were back there, out of sight, and how long the frozen little faces peering up at me with glazed eyes had been frozen.
Then we left our purchase with a tiny woman in a dirty, but brightly-coloured sarong/dress thing so that she could clean them while we did the rest of the shopping. We turned a corner and drove a little further on to the market. This is hard to describe. Imagine lots of people in bright fabrics. Lots of mopeds on a busy and wide road. People following you around trying to sell you kitchen knives, pens, sticks of gum. You turn into one of the street-side vendors and make your way down a narrow alley. On both sides, piles of vegetables and fruits guarded by women of all ages. Stacks of toilet paper rolls and sponges. Chickens crowed into Hershey-Kiss-shaped wooden/wicker cages. You feel something grabbing at your arm and you turn your head to see a baby strapped to his mother's back, reaching out to touch your strange skin. This is the market. Apparently not even the big market. That will be an experience for another day. At this point I am very happy to have Elisabeth. I'm generally very much against the whole concept of having hired help. Wash your own dirty socks, thank you. But I am so thankful for her. I could not do this alone.
We returned to the car with mangos, potatoes, limes, cabbage, parsley. We went back for the fish, then stopped at a grocery store. Okay, a grocery store. Now this I can handle. This I could maybe do on my own. Another experience for another day.
Lunch was fabulous.
Well, from the moment I stepped out of the airport last night, I've sort of felt like I've been meandering through a sound stage for a film. All the actors are in costume and giving Oscar-winning performances, even if most are only extras. It's all like a continuous movie that's constantly playing outside my bedroom window, or the car window, or the windows that are my eyes. Very real, but very surreal at the same time.
This is not to say that it's like Blood Diamond, or The Last King of Scotland - surprise, surprise - as I'm not smuggling diamonds or getting up-close and friendly with any crazy politicians. But the scenery and the people around me really do look like something out of a movie. I woke up this morning to the crowing of the rooster that lives in our street (no, not a typo. I do mean in our street, not on), and I opened my eyes to see the tops of palm trees silhouetted against the pink, dawn sky.
We live in the nicest neighbourhood in the city. And our flat is, by all accounts, nice. Not nice considering we're in Africa, but genuinely, truly, nice. I suppose if we we're living in Monaco we'd have reason to be disappointed, but this is far, far more than sufficient. And we'll probably eventually move into an even more "sufficient" house, because two bedrooms, a living room, balcony, kitchen, dinning room, full bath (with tub), half bath (with shower), additional toilet (I think this is supposed to be for the staff, aka our cook/housekeeper Elisabeth, who I feel the need to note is a very kind woman indeed), and an extra room (which is currently unused but will probably soon become famous as the place in which I wrote both my ground-breaking, brilliant thesis, and my moving and inspirational first novel) obviously isn't enough for two people. Yeah, right. #Please note sarcasm# Oh yes, and we have air conditioning throughout.
All this is set back from the road by a white fence - a white wall, actually - that is lined by little cacti on the street-side. To get in, you have to be let in by the security guards. Yes, the guards. There are many guards in this neighbourhood, which is probably why I've been told that it's safe to walk around here at all hours of the day and night. They don't seem very busy to me. In fact, I thought I saw a few sleeping.
We're not far from the airport; you can hear the planes land. We're also not far from T's office, the beach, or Marina hotel (where the health club, pool and many expats are located), though I haven't been to these places yet, so I can't say much more about them. Another place nearby is Livingstone - Benin expats' favourite watering-hole. Had a pizza there last night with T and a couple people from his office. I'm sure that this is a place I will grow to know well.
Our neighbours include several embassies, probably most of the rich local people, what I assume is the majority of the Westerners living in Benin, some shack like buildings, many palm trees, a large plot that seems to be used to grow vegetables, and - of course - the rooster and his groupies (aka, the chickens). I'd say more but I haven't gotten a key to our flat yet, so I haven't been able to do much exploring as I'm stuck inside because I'd get locked out if I left alone and T is at the office with one of his colleagues who's staying with us and helping us adjust.
But I'm not alone. Elisabeth has been here most of the day, and while we didn't see each other much this morning (I was unpacking - not a small task - and she was cleaning), she took me with her to the "markets" to buy the food she needed to prepare lunch. I should probably mention that she speaks English, a fact that will make my first few weeks here infinitely easier. "Our" company-issued driver picked up Elisabeth and me in "our" car to take us there. The roads here are unpaved except for a small handful and there are potholes like you've never seen. Puddles you could swim in. How our driver managed to maneuver through these and simultaneously avoid the masses of mopeds and motorbikes whizzing in front, behind and alongside us is a mystery, though I think the secret to his magic is frequent use of the car horn.
First, we stopped at a fish shop, a small, rather typically run-down building in which we bought frozen fish by selecting our catch from a small wooden crate holding a variety of fishes. Around the corner behind the counter where the man showed us the crate and weighed our choice, there must have been a large walk-in freezer containing more fish because another man wearing a thermal suit and a hat kept disappearing and reappearing from that mysterious place. I kept looking at the small crate holding probably 10 fishes in front of us and wondering how many more were back there, out of sight, and how long the frozen little faces peering up at me with glazed eyes had been frozen.
Then we left our purchase with a tiny woman in a dirty, but brightly-coloured sarong/dress thing so that she could clean them while we did the rest of the shopping. We turned a corner and drove a little further on to the market. This is hard to describe. Imagine lots of people in bright fabrics. Lots of mopeds on a busy and wide road. People following you around trying to sell you kitchen knives, pens, sticks of gum. You turn into one of the street-side vendors and make your way down a narrow alley. On both sides, piles of vegetables and fruits guarded by women of all ages. Stacks of toilet paper rolls and sponges. Chickens crowed into Hershey-Kiss-shaped wooden/wicker cages. You feel something grabbing at your arm and you turn your head to see a baby strapped to his mother's back, reaching out to touch your strange skin. This is the market. Apparently not even the big market. That will be an experience for another day. At this point I am very happy to have Elisabeth. I'm generally very much against the whole concept of having hired help. Wash your own dirty socks, thank you. But I am so thankful for her. I could not do this alone.
We returned to the car with mangos, potatoes, limes, cabbage, parsley. We went back for the fish, then stopped at a grocery store. Okay, a grocery store. Now this I can handle. This I could maybe do on my own. Another experience for another day.
Lunch was fabulous.
16 June 2007
Goodbye Wonderful Copenhagen
It's my last day in Denmark and it's been raining all day. Wonderful, dreary, Copenhagen. But I'll miss it. And I'll definitely miss all the people I've met here. Most of them are moving on to new things (or will be within a year) so that makes it just a little easier to leave. I know that if I stayed it wouldn't be the same without them. And someday, when I move back to Copenhagen, it won't be the same then either, just like it wasn't the same the first time I returned. It will be a foreign city all over again. It's true, the people make the place.
The strange thing is that I know I am going to miss this place I've called home for the past two years and the friends I have made here, but I don't actually feel very sad about leaving. I guess "goodbye" gets easier every time you say it. Or maybe it's easier because in today's world of skype, cheap flights and email, goodbye really doesn't mean what it used to. At least, I like to think that's the case.
Then again, maybe I've just burned myself out on goodbyes. Take, for example, my recent visit home. My family dog is on her last leg (almost literally). She's 15 years old, or 105 in dog time, so I've been saying my last farewell to her every visit home I've made in the last 3 to 4 years. And my parents are planning to sell their house within the next year - the house my sisters and I grew up in. Now, my parents have been talking about selling the house for years and every time I used to think about it I felt a little bit of sadness and regret that I didn't take a proper look around before I left the last time I was home. But this time I made sure to clean out the things I had been storing at my parent's place these last few years, throwing away old mementos and bad photographs, and when I was bringing my bags out to the car and my mother reminded me to say goodbye to my childhood home I half-heartedly strolled through the rooms, surprised at my own indifference. I gave my dog a hug and told her that I loved her, but for the first time with totally dry eyes. It's not that I wasn't sad, it's just that I wasn't heart-broken by it any more.
And that seems to be how I am dealing with all my goodbyes right now - without the heartbreak. Is it because I've said goodbye so many times that I have no more whole pieces left to break? Am I shallow, cold and unfeeling? Or is it that all the goodbyes have taught me that the story doesn't end just because you've said goodbye, that I am a strong enough person to go through life without the heartbreak. At a goodbye-dinner last night, a good friend who has been to Africa before told me that I'm bound to see people in situations that would break your heart, and see them everyday. I know she's right. And then she told me that she thought I was strong enough to handle it. I hope she's right.
And now I'm off to say a few more goodbyes, so farewell.
The strange thing is that I know I am going to miss this place I've called home for the past two years and the friends I have made here, but I don't actually feel very sad about leaving. I guess "goodbye" gets easier every time you say it. Or maybe it's easier because in today's world of skype, cheap flights and email, goodbye really doesn't mean what it used to. At least, I like to think that's the case.
Then again, maybe I've just burned myself out on goodbyes. Take, for example, my recent visit home. My family dog is on her last leg (almost literally). She's 15 years old, or 105 in dog time, so I've been saying my last farewell to her every visit home I've made in the last 3 to 4 years. And my parents are planning to sell their house within the next year - the house my sisters and I grew up in. Now, my parents have been talking about selling the house for years and every time I used to think about it I felt a little bit of sadness and regret that I didn't take a proper look around before I left the last time I was home. But this time I made sure to clean out the things I had been storing at my parent's place these last few years, throwing away old mementos and bad photographs, and when I was bringing my bags out to the car and my mother reminded me to say goodbye to my childhood home I half-heartedly strolled through the rooms, surprised at my own indifference. I gave my dog a hug and told her that I loved her, but for the first time with totally dry eyes. It's not that I wasn't sad, it's just that I wasn't heart-broken by it any more.
And that seems to be how I am dealing with all my goodbyes right now - without the heartbreak. Is it because I've said goodbye so many times that I have no more whole pieces left to break? Am I shallow, cold and unfeeling? Or is it that all the goodbyes have taught me that the story doesn't end just because you've said goodbye, that I am a strong enough person to go through life without the heartbreak. At a goodbye-dinner last night, a good friend who has been to Africa before told me that I'm bound to see people in situations that would break your heart, and see them everyday. I know she's right. And then she told me that she thought I was strong enough to handle it. I hope she's right.
And now I'm off to say a few more goodbyes, so farewell.
06 June 2007
Oh So American
Since returning home I've: been overwhelmed by the monstrosity that is Walmart, stared in the general direction of televised Indycar (apparently Nascar was rained out) while eating pizza and drinking beer, spent a night on a SUNY college campus, listened to country music, spent at least 10 hours in a car, watched two presidential primary debates, and eaten more American junk food than I care to disclose. I'm home.
03 June 2007
There's No Place Like Home
I'm back home in Keene, NH for a quick visit before the big move. It's strange how after you've been away for such a long time things always seem just a tiny bit different; the same counter top you've made your sandwiches on for years appears just a little bit lower than you remember, the sunlight leaves a different hue on your bedroom wall, the doorbell sounds an unfamiliar ring. But after a few hours it all comes back together and it's almost like you never left and your life away was just a dream.
I'm so glad that I was able to get back, even if I did bring the foul weather with me. It's wonderful to see everyone and soak up a little bit of American culture again. Coming home makes you realise how much you've forgotten, and how much you'll never forget, making it both a disturbing and comforting experience. They say leaving home broadens your horizons and gives you a different perspective on the world. I say going home can do the very same thing.
I'm so glad that I was able to get back, even if I did bring the foul weather with me. It's wonderful to see everyone and soak up a little bit of American culture again. Coming home makes you realise how much you've forgotten, and how much you'll never forget, making it both a disturbing and comforting experience. They say leaving home broadens your horizons and gives you a different perspective on the world. I say going home can do the very same thing.
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