Introduction to the World

In a few days T and I will be going to South Africa for two weeks of what is officially known in the expat community here as "rest and recreation". Planning these two weeks has been anything but restful. I'm knee-deep in travel guides and pamphlets. I have 4 different maps, not one of them sufficient, and the number of hotels, wineries, and nature reserves to consider is dizzying. In short, I'm overwhelmed at the thought of having so many exciting things available to do, see and visit. West Africa is, for the most part, dull. But dullness can be a kind of comfort. You always know what to expect and you're never, ever, overwhelmed with choices, which for half a moment got me wondering why we were going to so much effort to leave. And then I remembered...

Once, long, long ago, my mother planned the family vacation to trump all family vacations. (Never mind that the absolute best and greatest family vacation there ever was or ever will be actually turned out, I am told, to be a lovely little trip to Montreal to which I was not invited - nay, even informed of until after the fact - but we'll let that pass. I guess that's what I get for skipping off to Europe.) Anyway, my parents got it into their heads that they wanted to go back to Colorado, back to the region that held 10 years of happy memories for them.

Thus weeks of pouring over brochures and maps, making reservations, booking this and booking that, and trying to squeeze every last penny out of the holiday budget commenced - tasks that, to the best of my knowledge, were completed by my mother and my mother alone. Of course we girls noticed none of this. Only vaguely aware that there were big plans looming on the horizon, we continued to lumber through our summer holidays making our own plans and dreaming our own dreams until we were told to pack our bags. When it came time to leave my mother, for all her efforts, met with outright rebellion.

I cannot remember a time of greater tension and stress among my family than that vacation. Somewhere, in the depths of a forgotten family photo album, is a snapshot of me and my two sisters sitting on a bench at a dock, strapped into life-jackets, and wearing scowls that were surely intended to shoot laser-beams from our eyes. We had been shaken out of the comfortable dullness of our usual existence and we didn't like it - and my mother was the one who'd done the shaking. It makes me smile to think that she had the humour and presence of mind, even then, to take that photograph.

To date, this is still the only major trip beyond the East Coast I have ever taken in the U.S. I would know nothing, as opposed to next to nothing, about my country if it weren't for my mother's determination to take us on that great, mythical family vacation. For the first time I was pushed into the realization that it's a big world and I'd only seen a small part.

Thank you, Mom, for pushing us. Thank you for putting up with us. Thank you for all the nights you sat up at the kitchen table, mapping out our introduction to the world.

Most Over-due Post

Wow. I had completely abandoned you all. I'm sorry. I knew it had been a long time, but I surprised even myself; it's been so long since my last post, I had to look up my username and password to edit the site because I could no longer remember it. So what has happened in this nearly half-year?

Well, I managed to finish my thesis, turn it in on time (thanks to Kristian), defend it (which involved a lovely, but far too stressful and far too short trip back to Europe for which I thank Gondul and Annemarie for nearly all the lovely bits), and get my degree. Finally. I am officially no longer a student, in spite of the fact that I continue to declare myself as one on every visa/entry form I come across which is, in fact, a very frequent occurrence if you have any inclination to move about West Africa at all. I suppose I'm still a "student of life". Anyway, it's better than leaving the "occupation" space blank.

So how does a person with no occupation occupy themselves? Damned if I know. I'm too busy to keep track of these things. If you're not well-connected to the grape-vine, I'll fill you in. I'm trying to start my own little business. Okay, take a minute and get it all out now before you continue reading. Violent laughter has been known to cause stomach cramps so it's best to get it under control now while you still can. Yes, my own little business. The idea is to export West African handicrafts to retail shops in Europe and the U.S. in an unique and exciting way. I'll say no more about it other than that if I manage to pull this off I will be delighted and not just a little amazed with myself (and everyone who is helping me). In the downtime, I'm trying to get another blog up and running, though of a different nature than this one. It won't be so personal and probably won't interest you so, again, I'll say no more about it.

Probably more interesting to you is the news that T and I are moving. Yes, after nearly a year in Benin we will be saying our farewells to this strange little country. But never-fear! We're moving to another strange, little, Francophone country in West Africa: Guinea (Conakry). Oh the joy. I can hardly contain myself. But really, while I could probably think of more pleasant and exciting places to spend the next two years, I'm happy we're staying in Africa. Neither of us are ready to leave yet (though I expect after two more years we certainly will be).

So the story is that you can expect me to start posting again and you can expect those posts to be pretty much the same only the word Benin will be replaced with the word Guinea. Maybe there will be less about voodoo and more about drums and dancing and (because I know you're going to Google) strikes, riots, and ailing dictators. (Relax, you won't read anything I don't already know.)

So there you go. I'm still alive after all :)

Soul Stealing from the Back of a Motorbike - My New Weekend Pastime

Last weekend was like something out of a dream: I was on the back of a motorbike, on a dirt road, driving along the coast of West Africa. Unbelievable. Even more unbelievable is that fact that I actually took some photos! I know, I know. Very hard to believe, but I did. And I attribute this strange occurrence to the motorbike. Yes, things are getting very strange indeed. First, I was on a motorbike (remember, this is conservative me we're talking about), and now, I'm saying it was fantastic and is the sole reason for the photos you're about to see. Let me explain.

Benin is not an easy place to take photos. People are everywhere, all the time. Don't get me wrong, I love photos with people in them and you'd be hard-pressed to find a more photogenic people than the Beninese (especially the kids!), but let's not forget, this is voodoo country. You take someone's photo, you've stolen their sole. Luckily, most Beninese people will happily sell their camera-loving soul for a few francs; however, you do run the risk of running into the few who would rather throw a temper-tantrum and shout at you in Fon (local language here) than squeeze you for your pocket change. I guess their souls are worth more to them. Just the sight of your camera sends some people off; you don't even have time to ask them for permission. So needless to say, I'm not too keen on whipping out the camera.

Also, this means that you have to ask everyone in the general vicinity before you take a photo which draws additional attention to yourself and makes it virtually impossible to get those precious candid shots. The whole thing adds up to a less than ideal photo taking experience. You aren't going to be walking the streets of Benin with your fanny pack and your camera hanging around your neck.

I've tried taking photos from inside the car, but it's hard to get a nice picture through a dirty window. To top it off, the crowded, poorly maintained streets combined with the car's large size rule out any stealthy get-aways if someone decides to pull a crazy. Actually, you'd probably be better off on foot. At least then you could run for it.

So this weekend on the motorbike was a real treat. I could pull out T's camera phone (already much easier to disguise than my Sony Cyber-shot) and steal a photo (or a soul) on the run. And I did. And at the risk of being excessive, I've posted most of my shots here, not because I'm proud of them as photos, but because I'm proud that I finally managed to take them.

Let's start with the beach. Can you believe I actually live here? 20 minutes on a motorbike and I'm swimming in this ocean? No, neither can I.

But here's my proof :-) Obviously, I can't take credit for taking this photo.

See, T was there too, looking naturally contemplative in a sort of James Dean kind of way...

And this is how we got there, and why I am able to post these photos here... Can you tell I love the motorbike? Who would have ever thought! I think I might have to get my own now :-) That green and yellow jalopy behind it is a taxi cab. I think we've got the better ride, don't you?

This is the road that takes you to the beach. Yeah, I know it's boring, but that's what people do. They take pictures and then make other people look at them. I'm sorry. I can't be expected to break tradition.

And these are some of the things that got in our way and slowed us down... First, cows complete with herder. (Ah! There's the beef, Gondul!)

And then fishermen carting a giant net.

I wonder if this is their boat?

It could be anybody's boat really. There are lots of little communities of people living all along the coast, though they may be sparse communities compared to the hustle and bustle of Cotonou.

So sparse that this old restaurant/bar looks very out-of-business indeed. But I guess it was probably meant for Yovos anyway.

That's it folks. Slide show is over. You are free. Thanks for watching. Come again.

Motorbike Madness: Mr. T's New Toy

Look what T brought home last night!

Meet the Suzuki DR 650, or, as I call it, the new toy. As you can tell, we're still waiting on a snappy, personalised name; T says he can't name it until he "first knows it's personality..."

And that's the plan for the weekend - to get to know it's personality. I think the idea is to first go to the beach, then maybe head on to Ouidah, but I wouldn't be surprised if we made it all the way to Grand Popo. If only we had the visas, we'd probably go to Lomé (in neighbouring Togo, in case you were wondering).

Anyway, it's official now: we're the coolest cats in town.

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.