Living Poor. . .

What matters. . .

The other day I went to the tailor to drop off some fabric and I had an argument with him, which resulted in my taking the fabric I had bought and finding another tailor. We were talking about the price, and he basically told me that because I am white, I should pay more. I’m used to this sort of treatment, but it’s usually not said so blatantly to my face. The quality of his work for me, he claimed, is better than his work for others – because I’m white.

I was there with Adrien, because we were getting our “même tissue” outfits made. I was outraged that he was willing to say in front of Adrien and other customers, that the quality of his work was better for me because I am white. I think what makes this especially painful at this point in my life here, is that I want to be treated like everyone else. I’ve been in village for a year now. I want the same prices and the same quality and the same treatment that artisans, shop owners, even banana sellers give to everyone else.

The truth is that the Peace Corps gives me just enough money to live how I want to live, but just enough. With the tailor we were debating over the equivalent of 2 dollars. Money I wouldn’t break a sweat over in the U.S., now means that I might not have enough money to get to the bank on pay day.

In discussing the events with Maman Naffi in my concession, I found myself getting more frustrated. She emphasized and thought that I had a right to be angry. I found myself telling her the same thing that I tell many people here – I make less money than professors, the school doesn’t pay me, I can’t work to make extra money, I’m a volunteer. A mixed bag of the truth and white lies. They don’t (can’t) really understand the concept that it’s a sacrifice to come here, because I still have a pretty nice house and a good amount of money compared to a lot of people.

“Even when I travel, the Peace Corps gives me money to travel. I really don’t have that much money,” I told her.

And then she said, “And the 1,000,000CFA to go home last summer?”

Touché. At some point last summer, she asked me how much a ticket home was, and I told her. I explained, as I had before, that it was my family who helped pay to bring me home, because they wanted to see me. “Their money is your money.”

Touché encore. I am a rich American. Not because I’m making big bucks in Africa, but rather because my future is bright and my circle of protection is big. I want to fit in, but I’m white. It really is fair for them to assume that because I am white, I am rich. Naturally, since they are much poorer, I ought to pay more for their goods and services. I ought to give a little too. I do so much for the community in little ways, but I don’t give like they are used to white people giving. I know my students appreciate the unique experience of having an American English teacher, and the various opportunities to go alongside with that, but in the end will my legacy be weak compared to the Italians that built the orphanage or the Swiss that built the school building? Probably.

Volunteering can be selfish too. I came here because I wanted to learn about life in Africa. I wanted to speak another language well. I wanted more stories to tell. I’ve achieved all of these things, so I can’t really complain. On top of that, in the end I will have helped 400+ students to speak English a little better, not to mention to realize that there is a world out there bigger than Benin. I suppose that’s a legacy.

I want the people in my village to think that I’m poor like them. That’s just not real. Even if I am honestly trying to live on a similar budget, every time I hop on the air conditioned bus to Cotonou and every time I take money out from home to travel, they know it’s not true. As my time here rushes to its end, I’m starting to realize that as well integrated as I am, I’ll always be the American. I’ll never be really comfortable. The people will never be really comfortable with me. I might never be seen as the equal that I want to be.

The tailor was a special case. Because of his quick temper, I had a window into what people are thinking but don’t usually say. Either way, we took the fabric to another tailor and saved a dollar after discussing the price. At least now I can get to the bank.

Thanksgiving. . . 2

Thankfully American Thanksgiving coincides with the harvest season in Benin. This means that many delicious things are is in season, from sweet potatoes to watermelon. In a city like Parakou (the closest to my village), you really can have an authentic Thanksgiving Day Dinner. Even in my village I was able to pull off a few dishes.

I went back and forth about whether to invite anyone to my personal Thanksgiving Day dinner, or just share it with Adrien. The problem, of course, is money. When one person hears about it, everyone else is offended they haven’t been invited. In the end I decided to invite three teachers to share the small feast with me.

I’m proud to say everything I made for my personal thanksgiving was found in village. The boutique where I buy most of my food actually has frozen turkey wings, so I bought enough for the five of us. I really didn’t know what I was doing with it. I brined it, than boiled it, than fried it, than baked it. Sorry cooking gods. I made mashed sweet potatoes with sugar, cinnamon, and milk. I then made a stuffing with dried bread and a broth I made from my turkey water with a little help from Maggi cubes (bouillon). Naturally, gravy was included as well. In the end, I was glad to have shared Thanksgiving with a few others. Cultural sharing is a Peace Corps goal!

On Saturday most of my TEFL group gathered to celebrate Thanksgiving together. Since we don’t get to take off American holidays, we had to transfer the feast to the weekend. Last year, we were all together for Thanksgiving. It fell during a week long training we had in Parakou. In a lot of ways, it was when we really melded together as a group. So, it was especially pleasant to gather the second year to keep the tradition running.

We divided up, much as we did last year, to make the meal. Claire and I were on stuffing duty, and also obliged ourselves to make green bean hotdish. Someone had to do it, and being from the upper midwest, it seemed appropriate that we step up to the task.

Task 1. Figure out how to produce cream of mushroom soup. This really wasn’t that hard to do. Every time I realize how easy some processed foods are to make from scratch, I feel guilty about how much money and laziness has been involved in making such products back in the states. We sautéed onions and garlic in a good amount of oil. Then we mixed in flour, to start a gravy. After that, we added milk, a can of mushrooms, and soon enough we had our cream of mushroom soup.

Task 2. Cook vegetables and find something crunchy to place on the top before baking. We found pringles. And task complete!

Stuffing would be easier we thought. It was actually going quite well. We had a nice broth built up with veggies and seasoning. Not enough salt though. We had a giant salt shaker full of salt. I added a little. Tasted. It still needed more. I shook the salt shaker, and the lid fell off, causing a good half pound of salt to fall into our broth. At first I couldn’t stop laughing. Oh my. Then once we regained ourselves, we asked Angelina, one of our food snobs, to come and taste our broth. I think she almost threw up. She was not amused. Anyway, we strained all the vegetables and started over again.

The food, in the end was all fantastic. The truth is that the “dinner of all dinners,” isn’t really about the food. The food is great, don’t get me wrong, but the fulfilling part of the feast is being with people you love. The TEFL girls (remember, 13 girls and me!) have really become my family here. They all contribute so uniquely to our group. When one is missing, we know it (there were 3 missing!). Last year, we talked a lot about our past. Where and what we’ve come from.

This year, it was about our future. The question we’ve all been asking ourselves. Where will we be a year from now? Unfortunately, I think I’ll have many more Thanksgiving away from my family and home. I can only hope that I’ll always be so lucky – to have such wonderful people around me, no matter where I am.

Centre de Sante. . .

Over the last weekend Adrien had a series of really high fevers. When they kept coming back, we assumed in was malaria. Malaria is very common here – sort of like the flu – and it’s not nearly as dangerous for the average African as it is for the American, because their bodies have adapted after hundreds of years of fighting the disease. When he didn’t over come the malady on his own, I decided he ought to go to the health center.

“Ok, let’s go,” he said. I was a bit confused. I figured he would go alone, but it turned out that he wanted my company. So we went there as a family – it’s not too far from my house. Sarah even followed us and patiently waited in front of the building the whole time.

A few (3) words about health center etiquette in Benin: There is none. Really. All the things that I would expect to be normal in such a place were absent. The aid sat Adrien down in a chair in one of the main rooms. She put a thermometer in his armpit and then promptly left us. During this time, five or ten people passed us. Each one asked Adrien what was wrong and wished him “bonne guerisson!”

The people passing by were filing in an out of the room next to us where they were watching two Fulani who had just had an accident. It turns out they were on their motorcycle and hit a cow. Those of you who know Fulani, might understand how appropriate this particular accident is for their culture. Even Adrien peaked in to see what was up. I didn’t look, but it turns out they were pretty scratched up.

After a long wait, all with thermometer in armpit, the nurse came in to consult. Nurses function as doctors here. First Adrien was chastised for not always sleeping under his mosquito net. He had him lay down on an examination table, which looked more like a morgue table to me. It was hard and metal and I’m not sure it was up to hospital cleanliness standards. The nurse poked at Adrien’s stomach and then diagnosed him with parasites after he cringed a little.

In the end the nurse scribbled a prescription on a piece of paper. Here in Benin, you don’t need a prescription to buy medicine, but if you want it at cheap, American-subsidized prices, you buy it at the health center. In the end we were given coartem, the standard, best malaria treatment, some drugs for parasites, and a record book that Adrien is supposed to bring with him every time he goes to the health center. All that and the consultation for 850 francs (2 dollars)! Seriously, thanks first world subsidies!

Sure enough we went to the pharmacy right at 8:00pm. Sure enough, the medical secretary had already left. After spending an hour plus waiting for the diagnosis we expected, Adrien couldn’t even get the medicine he wanted. The next morning he managed to get them, and a few days later, he was back to normal.

The view from up here. . .

The seasons are slowly changing. The bright sun is now covered by a golden haze in the morning, slowing the heating of the earth throughout the days. In the mornings I cover myself with a sheet and remember the good old days when I slept under a comforter no matter what the season was. I love the four seasons back home. Here I’ve had to adjust to enjoy the change of the seasons.

It’s strange how a year ago I was sitting around, waiting for the seasons to pass, and this year I’m not sure if I’ll even have time to check my most recent quiz. Relationships built over the last year are finally flourishing, and for the first time in my Peace Corps experience, I have just enough to do.

My school year started out innocently enough. I was excited to teach again. The students I followed to this year kept me energized from the start. The new students kept me challenged. By the time I gave my first test, I felt like we were finally in sync. Everyone understood my expectations, and a lot of them worked towards them, finding pretty spectacular scores in the end. Just like last year, many students aren’t on the “English learning” boat. I try not to leave them behind, while at the same time, I try not to stall the class because of them. It’s hard keeping that balance when you have 50-60 kids in a class.

Then I was elected chair of the English department. Shamelessly, I suppose, I nominated myself. After last year, a year full of useless meetings, I talked to a few other teachers about becoming the “Animateur Pedagogique,” and they all seemed excited about the idea. So, I ran and I won. That vote of confidence made me happy. The teachers weren’t happy with the “status quo.” They showed that they wanted more from our meetings. A higher quality English experience at my college.

Thinking of something to do at every meeting can be a headache. So far we’ve had sessions about reading, test writing, class discipline, and American Music. The test correcting and writing is the hardest part. Every teacher is supposed to propose a “devoir,” for each grade level that he teaches. I correct them, and choose one to give to all the students of that grade level, a sort of standardized test within the school. When there are 10 classes and 4 teachers of one grade level, it can be a bit of nightmare to synchronize their learning.

For the last year, my colleagues had been talking about starting an English club. Finally my homologue and I sat down and made a plan. It was almost impossible to find a time when several classes were available, and in the end we chose 5:00pm on Wednesdays. I was sure no one would come. Of the 6 classes that were available, who wouldn’t want to go home after hours of school? Wrong. The first session, 90 students showed up. The second was about the same. Finally the third week, only about 70 students came. We’re hoping that numbers will slowly diminish so we can actually do fun, hands on activities without being overwhelmed.

Our sessions have been interesting. Our club involves sharing a lot of English lexicon while speaking in a lot of French. Last week, I brought in nine strange kitchen utensils. We put one at each group of tables and asked the students to guess what the crazy white teacher did with it in the kitchen. These involved: a garlic press, a meat grinder, a measuring cup, a bottle cleaning sponge, a potato peeler, and more. I think the students were more than amused by the strange things we Americans do in the kitchen.

I’ve also “team-taught,” a little bit. This is one of Peace Corps’s clever ideas for transferring skills to local teachers. We plan and teach a lesson together. My homologue and I have been working together in 3eme, which is the superior class in the first cycle of the French system. Working with these students inspires me, because there are some who have worked very diligently to get to this point. They are really dedicated to learning the material. At the same time, there are some clowns that by some stroke of luck, or by repeating previous grade levels many times, finally made it to 3eme. Balancing the two in one class can be a bit of a challenge. I think earlier level English class is by far harder. They have lots of vocabulary, grammar, verb tense to memorize. In 3eme, you can assume they know all that, hopefully.

On top of all of this, I’ve also made a few class visits to have “Q&A” session with History-Geography students. I told my teacher friend that I was available to talk about my life, culture, and country at any time. To my surprise he took me up on it! In one class, we spent two hours talking. They asked very interesting questions for their level (5eme, about 8th grade), about industries, climate, pollution, and even the color of my skin.

I’ve been trying to make myself more available to students. One afternoon a week, I’ve been coming to school to help those who want to come (10-15 students) with homework and review. I feel bad for students in classes of 50-60 students. I know Adrien often doesn’t understand his work until he goes directly to a professor to ask for help. The students are starting to see that I am here for them. That makes me happy.

Last week, I was literally at school every morning and every afternoon. I’m happy when I’m busy. I feel successful when I have something to do. So far the start of my second year has been fantastic. Now my mind is racing. What can I do in the coming months?

A midwife's perspective. . .

My sister, Ann, has been fighting the internal battle of self-expression verses self-absorbtion, and self-expression has finally won out! I'm really excited, because she's a great writer and has some really interesting perspectives on life, midwifing, wifing, and mothering. Check out her new block Heart and Hands. . .

And while you're at it, I might as well give a shout out to Maria, my other sister. She's been blogging for a while about her life as a theologian and mother, and how the two compliment each other. It's pretty catholicky. Check it out TheologianMom

As for my brother, Jeremy. Well, we're waiting.

Dear Class

I just thought I'd share this letter that I wrote to a class in Independence, MO through WorldWideExchange. I'm happy to conduct this kind of correspondence with other classes too, so just send me an e-mail if you're interested!

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Dear Class,

Thank you for writing me last spring. I’ve had a very busy summer. In June, I took four girls from my village to a camp. Girls have a very hard time learning here, so I was really excited to work at this camp which taught the girls all kinds of useful things and gave them a chance to shadow a working woman in the city. Overall I think it really encouraged them to persue college and university. I was quite pleased.

In July, I went home! I spent three weeks in the US, traveling from New York City, to Wisconsin, to Minnesota, to Iowa, and back to Benin! In August, I helped to train the new volunteers. Every year about 50-60 volunteers come to Benin, and I was responsible for teaching the new group of teachers (about 12 volunteers) how we teach in Benin.

I hope that your school year has already gotten off to a great start. Mine certainly has! We started in the beginning of October. For the first few days there weren’t any classes. Instead, all the students were required to cut grass with machetes and dig up weeds with hoes! The second week, classes started for real, but my classrooms weren’t full until the third week. Many students have to finish working in the fields in order to have the $20 the need for tuition.

Anyway, I’m teaching four classes this year. The classes meet for two hours two times a week. I’m teaching “Sixième,” which is sort of like 7th grade, and “Cinquième,” which is like 8th grade. Each class has more than 50 students. Once a week I have a faculty meeting with all the English teachers, where we discuss what we’re doing in the classroom and ask questions about the language. This year I'm also the head of the English faculty, so I get to plan the meetings and choose people to present on English teaching.

At the end of last year, you posed a few very interesting questions. I’ll try to answer them best I can.

How is discipline handled?
Each student receives a conduct grade that is equal to the grades of their other classes. If they do something bad, a teacher can give them “hours,” which will take away points from their conduct. Some teachers also punish students with labor (ie, hoeing or cutting grass) and beatings (sad, but true! I never do this, of course.). It’s very difficult to manage a class of 50 students! School is as an open campus here, so when students don't have class, they are free to go home.

What holidays are celebrated in Benin?
The “Premiere Janvier,” New Years Day, is the most commonly celebrated holiday here. There is also a “Voodoo Festival,” that celebrates traditional religions. I live in an area with a lot of Muslims. Every fall they have a month of fasting, called Ramadan, where they don’t eat between sunup and sundown. At the end of this, there is a big festival and everyone eats a lot! Then two months later there is a big holiday called Tabaski. I’ve yet to figure out what that’s all about, but I enjoy the festive atmosphere in my village.

What food do you eat in your village?
Right now I’m eating “soy cheese,” a sort of heavy fried cake made of soy beans. The most commonly eaten food here is yam pilet or pounded yams (see fufu). It’s made with a huge African yam (Amy, google search and show them, they’re huge!), that weigh up for 10-20 pounds. They taste and cook like potatoes. They boil the yams first, and then they put them in a giant mortar and pedestal and beat them into a paste that is a bit thicker than mashed potatoes. When yams aren’t in season, they eat a lot of pâte. This is made with corn flour and water. Usually with their starch they eat a tomato sauce with peanuts or sesame seeds ground into it. In Benin, any meat is fair game. They not only eat beef, chicken, and pork here, but also snake, rat, and sometimes dog! Because there are 40+ ethnic groups here, the foods vary a lot by region.

The hardest part about eating the food here is using my hands! They don’t use silverware with typical meals. They take a chunk of pounded yam and dip it in the sauce to eat it, sort of like a nacho. Also, I’m left handed, and in Muslim areas, it’s forbidden to eat with your left hand!

Study hard this year and do great things! Getting to know your world is a great start! I look forward to your next round of questions!

Best,
Peace Corps Volunteer
Benin, West Africa

Pieces of Life. . .

Here are a few unrelated pieces of recent life in my village. . . .

Apparently three robbers were apprehended in my village recently. They were stealing livestock and putting it in a taxi and hauling it off to Parakou in the middle of the night. They were all killed by my village “hunters.” Supposedly they had permission from the police to kill them. I’m not sure how that works. Details are vague because apparently when a “hunter” kills a thief their bodies disappear unless the “hunter” wants the body to reappear.
A few months ago I contracted a taxi driver named Zacherie to drive my girls to Camp GLOW. Ever since then, he has treated me like I am his best friend – his token American. Recently he asked me if we could get our photo taken together. I obliged. After missing each other and going back and forth, we finally made it happen.
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Zacherie came to my house while I was cooking, so he sat around waiting for me to finish and even ate some of my food, pretending not to hate it. Another teacher was there too, so we were switching rapidly from English to French. I was feeling well integrated having such a mix of company. Anyway, as soon as I finished eating I changed into my Sunday best and we walked hand-in-hand (literally) to the photographer.

Getting your portrait done is an interesting process here. First you find a photographer. Photographers are of a varying quality here. Qualifications for becoming a photographer include 1. having a 35mm camera and 2. having 35mm film and 3. if you’re lucky, having cheesy backdrops. Voila! So we went to the photographer’s studio. We had two pictures taken. One was in front of a gaudy curtain and a fake plant. The second was in front of a Chinese made poster of a house by an orchard. The pose is always the hardest part, because people don’t smile in pictures. At the same time, I don’t want to look angry. I try to find a happy balance. A look on my face that says, “I’m having my picture taken. I’m happy about that.”

A few days later you get the photo back. Usually those of a fairer complexion are flushed out by some haphazard light-filling to make black people not look so black. Another oddity.
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Every Monday morning, we have a Flag Ceremony where the flag is raised and one of the classes sings the national anthem. In addition to this, other information and announcements are offered. This week, a very old man came – an envoi of the king of my village. He announced that a student and cut bark from the a Fetish Tree. He reported that the King says that if he does come forward to confess his wrongdoings, he would die within a week.