Poo Plog

So, after the last post I thought I’d write something a bit….lighter. In this post we’re going to talk about not what goes into your body, but more of what comes out and the culture that surrounds it here in Benin and the Peace Corps.

Before coming to Benin I knew that I would probably come down with dysentery at least once, if not a few times. If you don’t know what dysentery is, google it. It’s not the best thing, and if not taken care of you can get seriously dehydrated and end up in the hospital. I also knew that I would be exposed to different kinds of foods that would, well, interact with my body differently than food did in the States. You know, sometimes you eat something and then your gas or poo kind of smells like what you ate, spaghetti with sausage being the worst for me. (This post is going to get really personal, so if you’re not interested you can skip this one.) So, I was fully prepared for some interesting bowel movements and a bit of sickness.

The Peace Corps, as I think I’ve stated in previous blogs, does a good job at preparing future volunteers, stagaires as we’re known during training, for most things medical. We have sessions on cleaning food, what diseases are most prevalent, how to do a MIF kit (you poop in a container so the Peace Corps can analyze it to see if you have parasites); all of this really builds an environment where talking about poop and your bowel movements feels comfortable, it’s really just a part of this massive experience. During “stage,” which is the first few months of training we all receive in Porto Novo, stagaires are being introduced to new foods and, to be quite honest, new bacteria. These new bacteria are often tolerable for Americans to handle and other times are quite the opposite. I thankfully while in Porto Novo didn’t have many problems. I actually have quite the tank for a stomach and don’t throw up or get diarrhea that often. (I guess that’s what five years of eating/drinking God-only-knows-what at Penn State can do for ya.) Others though were not so lucky.

I had a friend, whom we’ll not name, who said he didn’t have solid stool for the entire two months he was in stage. He would recount incidences where he would be in his outdoor latrine at his host family’s house getting sick (vomit and diarrhea) and his host family would be around the latrine yelling “doucement,” and almost praying for his recovery. (Doucement means slowly, or watch would, or easy does it, or pay attention in Beninese French.) After the first month his host family thought that his lower gastrointestinal tract was possessed by evil spirits and his host father would sleep outside of his door on a mat on the floor so as to protect him from said spirits. This sounds a bit loony. I mean, I’ve heard of some evil gas and I’m sure people have wanted to pray for me after smelling what I’ve done to the bathroom. But, having a family LITERALLY pray for your bowels is a bit different. So, as an added protection for my friends rectal haunting, his host father posted himself outside of my friend’s room and slept on the floor. Again, loony. I’m sure we’ve all had poopy issues before, so we all know that having problems with our lower gastrointestinal tract means that at any moment, day or night, we may have to rush off to the bathroom to evacuate ourselves. Well, my friend being the nice guy that he is didn’t want to wake up with overly protective sleeping father posted on the other side of his bedroom door and proceeded to “relieve himself” one fateful evening in the only ting he could find in his room at that hour: a peanut butter jar. So, imagine a man, he is a burly man, fishing around in his bedroom more than likely only wearing a headlamp for something into which to have diarrhea. Now, imagine finding a small jar of peanut butter, mainly empty, and deciding that you’re going to do THIS. If you know me, you know I love peanut butter, so I imagine couldn’t sully my longtime friend like that. But, my friend, not having any other options and being too nice to wake his host father to run to the outdoor latrine continued with the only option he found at three in the morning. He removed the lid to his peanut butter jar, placed in onto the floor, hopefully away from his clothing and bed, took down his pants, squatted over the jar, carefully took aim so as to not have an “accident” onto the floor, pray, crossed his fingers, and let go. He apparently had become quite the “sharksman” (shit and marksman combined) and managed to get it all into the jar. But, to be quite honest if you missed would you tell anyone? He said he then closed up the jar, set it by the door, and retired back to bed waiting until the morning to dispose of his…Jiffy Jar. I love that he chose to scar himself forever and poop in a jar rather than disturb his host father. But, without his amazing conscience I would have the pleasure of sharing this remarkable story.

Continuing with the Poo Plog I want to revisit the fact that we’re all dealing with lower intestinal adventures and while in stage we spend most of the day/life with our new friends talking about the things we’re experiencing and really founding lasting relationships. Anyone who knows that relationships rely on trust and really opening yourself up realize that this means you have to make yourself vulnerable. I want to tell you that opening yourself up about your bizarre bowel movements is SURELY making yourself vulnerable. And, it’s not just our fellow stagaires who are talking about their bowel movements, the current volunteers are telling us about the digestive fun they’ve been having for the past two years. I would like to pass along a few of those stories.

As I said before, during stage we having medical training that teaches about health related issues we’ll face during stage and our service. During this we learn how to poop in a container to send along to the Peace Corps medical office while at post; not to be confused with pooping in a peanut butter jar so as to not wake up your host father. These containers help the medical office identify illnesses and assign the proper treatment. We’ll, if you’re a volunteer like me and you’re posted in the middle of nowhere, getting to Cotonou is literally a two-day journey. Cotonou is where the medical office is located in the main Peace Corps office. So, to make sure his “sample” got to its appropriate destination, one volunteer paid a taxi going to Cotonou from his post, rather close to me, actually, to take his little turd to the medical office. Yes, that’s right, his number “two” got a “one-way” ticket to the medical office in the sky. I can just imagine the little poopy getting its own little seat next to all the other Beninese people, putting on its seat belt and listening to its iPod rocking out to Miley Cirus (of course it’s going to listen to shitty music, tee hee) as it traveled all the way from the northern part of the country to the southern part. Oh, the crap we have to deal with in the Peace Corps. J

Continuing with our volunteer-submitted stories about poop. Being a teacher means you have to be punctual, come to class, and, to be quite honest, you always have to be there. There are a few exceptions like when you’re so sick you can’t move. It happens. But, a little bit of loose stool is not something to keep a dedicated Peace Corps volunteer away from his or her job. Much to the detriment of this next volunteer. As you’re all probably well aware when you have a case of the runs when you have to go YOU HAVE TO GO. It’s like, “I’m going to shit RIGHT NOW.” That being said, when you’re in front of a class of 70 students and they’re actually paying attention to you you kind of want to remain doing what you’re doing and hopefully get to an activity where you’ll have time to leave the class for a moment and “take care of business.” So, when nature calls you want to ask it to hold on just one or two more minutes. Well, that’s what this volunteer did. He thought that he could just squeeze out a little fart and gain a few minutes to get through his lesson and then run off, literally run off, to the latrine and relieve himself. Well, he gambled… and, he lost. He tried to squeeze out a little fart and squeeze out a lot of shart. According to the one who told me this story it was enough that it came out of the bottom of his pants and he had to leave school at that moment. Can you imagine the students looking up at the teach while he’s trying to give a lesson on irregular verbs and lifts his legs just a little while he’s talking and then makes an irregular face and abruptly stops as you hear something irregular hit the floor. That something was his less-than-solid stool and, I PROMISE YOU, his dignity. Well, whatever is left of it. I have taken note of this and know better than to gamble in a situation where I have crappy odds. Tee hee.

I actually, have quite the opposite problem. When living in America I ate enough fruits and vegetables that I went to the bathroom quite regularly. To be honest it was numerous times a day. I ate lots of fruits and vegetables. Here, especially in Kerou, I don’t eat that much fruit. To be quite honest, I’ve been here 3 weeks and I’ve only had two oranges and two bananas, that’s it. It’s really rather desolate up here. I eat tomatoes and some chili peppers and a few onions, but that’s about it. Because of this I might poop once or twice every three or four days and it’s more likely that I have gas. I sit down and nothing happens. I just fart into the bowl. This is rather alarming for me. I used to poop ALL THE TIME. Now, I feel like Neil: lucky if I take the Browns to the Super Bowl once or twice a week. And, to be honest, I want this stuff out of me. I don’t want it in there. Poop is supposed to come out. It’s like I’m constipated, and, if you know me, you know I generally have trouble keeping things in, regardless of what it is.

Moving right along, I don’t really think about what other animals poop looks like. I just don’t. I have a million other things to think about. But, you kind of have an assumption as to what the animal’s poop should look like in relation to their bodies: kittens have little poops and elephant poop is large enough to sled on. Right? Well, here’s one for you, what does goat poop look like? I thought it would be a single turd, you know, normal, and be in relation to the size of its body. Which, the goats here are a bit smaller than goats elsewhere in the world so I thought his turds would be a bit smaller, golden retriever-sized turds, if you will. Well, just so you know, goat turds look like blackberries, or, raspberries. They’re like little rabbit turds all clumped together and they come out while the goat is walking along. I swear to you, it blew my mind. I was riding my bike trying to avoid this midget goat and, wait for it, REALITY SHIFTED. I was looking at the goat trying not to hit it and all these little blackberry-esque turds start trickling out of his little butt. I literally stopped my bike and was like, “really? bunny-like goat turds? Who knew?” Apparently I did not. You know I didn’t stop with this goat. I had to know if all the other goats pooped like this. It’s not like I was running around town chasing goats waiting for them to poop. I would actually just pay attention to them as they pooped. And, yeah, bunny-like turds all around. I’m a teacher and teaching you about bunny-like, blackberry-esque goat turds are my lesson for the day.

Now, I know I’ve talked about some funny things, but I want to cover some not so funny things, which might actually turn out to be a bit funny. Most, but not all, families have latrines. Latrines are really just little out houses with holes, hopefully deep enough, that when people poop and pee into them it’s deep enough to not come out over time. Then they seal the latrines over with concrete when they get full. The entire idea is gross to me, but I guess wastewater removal hasn’t made its way to Benin. I mean, you’re just leaving the poo and the pee in the ground and let nature sort it out. Well, sometimes these latrines are entirely too close to their wells. Which is where most of me neighbors get the water they drink, cook with, and use to clean themselves. Drinking dirty water, regardless of the dirt is a leading cause of preventable illness around here but I guess that information is just not passed along and/or received. Another note, I guess latrines are saved for the adults because little children just poop and pee right on the pathways we walk/drive/ride our bikes on. So, at any point in the day I’ll be riding my bike and some little kid will sit down and got potty. Notice I didn’t mention that he or she took off his or her pants, that’s because most of these little kids are naked as a jaybird. Naked as the day they came into this world in the middle of the street pooping and or peeing. You know the creepiest part is when they look up while they’re going potty and yell, “hello, white person, hello,” of course in their local language, with a huge smile on their faces waving their hands frantically. Totally creeps me out. Continuing with the pooping wherever, if you’re on a bus traveling for long distances and you have to go to the bathroom there aren’t rest stops like there are in America. The bus just pulls over and the guys, mainly, just walk to the side of the road and relieve themselves. Mainly it’s just pee, but a few fellow volunteers have recounted stories where they had to find a tree out of the way, lean against it, and let it all go. I wonder what they wiped with? Though this is kind of funny, it’s rather disturbing and sanitation in this country could go a long way with regard to maintaining over all health of the country and avoiding many avoidable illnesses.

I was listening to an NPR podcast a few days ago and they were talking about space-aged toilets in Japan. Apparently, they have toilets that play music, automatically put down the seat for you, and have sound machines to mask the sounds of your pooping/peeing/farting. Japan is like a magical place in comparison to Benin where kids pee in the street and Peace Corps volunteers poop into peanut butter jars.

I hope this reaches you well in the States. I miss you all immensely.

Adjusting to Kerou

All throughout the Peace Corps application process I knew my adjustment to my village would be difficult. I knew that I had become quite habituated to my technologically advanced life with my iPhone, then NUMEROUS Blackberrys, and my MacBook that was constantly connected to the Internet—as was I through my numerous communications devices—my large, flat screen television (Thanks Lajuan and Ian) which was recording television programs at my whim, and the fantastic public transportation system that helps the Washington Metro area thrive. I also had become quite comfortable living in an area where I could dine at restaurants featuring food from all corners of the planet from Thailand to Ethiopia to Mexico. I had a nimiety of friends from all sorts of different cultural backgrounds and who hailed from different parts of the country, not to mention the world. To be quite honest, I was living the dream. With that life came a lot of temptations, some of which I wasn’t able to cede. These temptations could have led me down a path into a life and a person I didn’t want. I knew that the Peace Corps would be a welcomed distraction from those temptations and would help me to NOT become the person I had seen in my future. Also, I knew I did well at Penn State, I was involved, I got good grades, I could get recommendations from my professors, and the Peace Corps would be another assurance to help me secure a position at a top university for a masters and potentially a doctorate. (That’s right, I might become a doctor. But, not one of those save-your-life doctors, just the kind that pontificate about things they’ve spent too many hours studying. The kind that suits my personality.) I have certain goals for my future and I want to know that I’ve done all that I can to assure that future. Life rarely goes according to plan, but there’s nothing wrong with having an idea of which route you want to take and making sure there’s enough fuel in the tank to get there.

Thus, I’m in the Peace Corps in Africa; Benin, to be exact; Kerou, to be even more precise. Kerou is large enough that I have electricity, which is a lifesaver. I wouldn’t be writing this blog posting without it. It’s small enough that I don’t have paved roads, which are about two to four hours away, depending on which direction you go and the state of the vehicle you’re in. I also have to walk about two football fields to get to running water. Which, isn’t as bad as you think, I make the neighbor kids fetch my drinking water and the water I use to clean my dishes and wash my hands. I have a well just outside my door where I get my shower water and toilet-flushing water. (Side note: children in Africa are viewed a bit differently than they are in the States. They’re seen as a way to help the family prosper—as in do chores, around the house and serve the older members of the family. In America we seen them as our future, and it’s not that they aren’t seen that way here, there is just more importance placed on older members of the family to younger members. It may of something to do with the child mortality rate and or the importance placed on the paternal role in society.)

These few characteristics of Kerou should help shed some light on the difficulty I’m having adjusting to a Beninese style of living. While living in Porto Novo during training my new friends surrounded me, I had the Internet at my fingertips, there were numerous places to eat, and I could watch a television in the morning. I had markets I could go to everyday to get the things I needed, and, to be quite honest, though it was a change from my Logan Circle living (Logan Circle adjacent), it wasn’t something that made me change the way I lived dramatically. I was just a bit less “connected.”

Living in Kerou is completely different than living in the States. In the States it’s extremely easy to let your environment dictate your social development and generally happiness with your life. If you’re feeling lonely you can call up a friend, meet for some coffee or a beer, go to a movie, go bowling, sweet heaven, you can just walk down the street and find something to do. In Kerou, I have to make myself happy and actively go out and find things to occupy my time. I have to create everything on my own. As I said, American society gives you things to make you happy, here I have to find out what makes me happy and then make it happen. Essentially, I have to create my own happiness. I know it’s something we here about as we grow up, “look for what makes you happy and then do it,” but here you ACTUALLY have to do it, or you’ll go nuts, or read eight books in three months, as I have already. Taking this control of yourself and your own well-being might be the hardest and more important development for Peace Corps volunteers. I think it’s aspect that makes or breaks a Peace Corps volunteer and I hope I have the right attitude. I have realized this already and am doing what I can to address this.

Another serious adjustment is the pace of life. Life in Africa just moves at a slower pace; it moves at a slower pace because everything takes more time. It takes 20 minutes just to start cooking tomato sauce, as I have to soak the tomatoes in bleach water just to kill and parasites on the skin. Then, though it’s not hard or time consuming, I have to light the flame on my little gas stove with a match, which is far more advanced than any other stove in Kerou, I promise you. From that point, I just cook away to my hearts content. It’s the preparation that so time consuming. In DC I could go to one Whole Foods and find all the necessary ingredients, and, let’s be honest, some things I didn’t know I needed, in one place. In Kerou it’s a multi-hour adventure just to get the things I need to make dinner. I have to plan things out. I’m surprised I haven’t started making charts. (Anyone who has seen me at work knows that I make lists. I have lists for lists and lists on lists. It’s one of the tactics I’ve developed to help with my ADD. Which is non-existent here. There isn’t enough to distract me from what I’m doing to even HAVE an attention deficit disorder, though I still make lots of lists.)

Being a technophile, it’s been a bit difficult. But, there are some saving points. The phones here are interesting. I love communications technologies and just seeing the different kinds of phones they have here entertains me. Because cell phone providers don’t cover all areas and it’s cheaper to call people on the same network, there are cell phones that have numerous slots for SIM cards. I’ve seen some phones with up to three slots. (And some people who don’t spend the money for a fancy phone with three phones, which I think they think is “baller.”) Which is kind of cool. Also, most phones here have flashlights on the top. Though they have electricity in my village, and 70 percent of the areas in Benin, the current cuts out frequently, usually when a lot of people turn on their lights and when there are storms, you know, when you need electricity the most, and thus have handy lights at their convenience.

I have also been able to keep abreast of what’s going on in the world as I have befriended some people who work at the local hotel bar, which is right down the “street” (dirt path where children pee and poo on a daily basis) from where I live. The bar has a television and I watch French news and the African Voice of America channel. (French news carries a lot of American news. Everyone wants to know what’s going on in America, whether they like it or not.) But, it’s not like having the Internet in front of you and constantly refreshing my google news and CNN.com homepage. I also can’t check my “buddies” GChat or facebook statuses ad nauseum.

Some parts that have been even more difficult: for some reason unbeknownst to me, I have sudden and almost overwhelming feelings of sadness. They’re fleeting, but nonetheless there. They were more frequent when I first arrived in Kerou, and as I have adjusted, they have become less frequent. I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t ACTUALLY realize what I was getting myself into and how much I loved my life in America, or some other reason. I can only speculate. They occur at random moments and, as I can tell, have no cause. When I start to feel this way I try to get out of my house and go for a bike ride, listen to music, or go read a book at my hotel and drink a beer. We were told all throughout training that there would be some serious ups and downs through your time in the Peace Corps. You don’t really know the severity of what they’re saying until you experience it on your own. Another difficult area has been social inclusion. In America if you can’t find a social group to relate to you’re not looking hard enough. Other than Karina, I’m the only American within 75 kilometers. And the Beninese are nice, it’s just a lot easier to sit down with your peers and talk about life when you don’t have cultural and linguistic barriers to overcome. Thankfully I do have a post mate. She is definitely going to make my experience in Kerou infinitely better. (Not to mention she’s rather attractive and buckets of fun. CORNY ALERT – she’s a little bit of sunshine in Kerou on an otherwise cloudy day.)

There are a lot of things that will take some time to adjust to. And, for that matter, be difficult to readjust from when I return to the States. Which will happen, fret not. I like what I’m doing and growing accustom to Keroise life, but nothing will make you love America more than living somewhere that doesn’t compare to it.

I know I this post has been a bit “down in the dumps,” but I want people to know what it’s really like in the Peace Corps. This blog is also serving as a journal for me to chronicle the “ups” and the “downs” and the “happenings” that will help me realize the progress I’ve made throughout my “sejour” here in Benin.

Fret not faithful followers, Brandoni will make it out of his Peace Corps experience a stronger man, both mentally and emotionally. This experience will teach me the benefits of a slower pace in life. It will show me the importance of creating worthwhile relationships with people who are different from me. I hope it’ll help me find some humility, but I doubt it. But, if nothing else, it’ll help me create the person I want to be instead of the person society dictates I should be.

The Birth of Mr. T.

We’re all aware that I’m here in Benin and I have no idea what I’m doing. Jokes. Actually, I’m a teacher. To be specific, I’ll be teaching English. We’re also well aware that I like being the center of attention. In my future, I would love to be a college professor and I feel that if I can teach kids in Benin to speak English I could probably teach some Americans. It might be a bit presumptuous of me, but… I like being presumptuous.

I’ve been in training since I arrived in Benin. I’ve been learning French, I’ve been learning how to live in Benin, I’ve been learning how to haggle in Beninese markets, I’ve also been learning the Beninese educational system and how to function properly in it. The Beninese classroom runs a bit differently than an American classroom. The most obvious difference is the lack of educational supplies. In America we have all of the luxuries associated with advanced and multifaceted learning. We have computers, flash cards, I think there’s something called a “magic board” which is like a chalk board but is magic, (I think it records what you’ve written on it and has the capability of emailing it to the students, or some other space-aged thing.) and numerous other educational tools to help students with all sorts of learning characteristics learn all the wonderful things that are out there to learn. Contrarily, there isn’t anything in a Beninese classroom but students, a teacher, and a blackboard. To be honest, they don’t even have books. What we kind of have are photocopies of books that the teachers get and then use as a guide to help teach. The students then copy whatever is on the board into their copybooks. Honestly, they’ll copy anything you write on the board in the exact same way that you write it. If you leave too much spacing between letters it’ll show as two different words in their copybooks.

All of this training is to prepare me for my teaching life in Benin. Appropriately, we have a few weeks of model school, which takes place at the school where I’ve been receiving my training. Model school, which is supposed to mimic the teaching environment in which I’ll find myself in Kerou, was the first time I had had real teaching experience. In college I tutored and worked at a learning center, but never have I been the actual teacher. This was the first time I was the one in charge of the scholastic development of not one, but 30 to 40 students.

Thus the birth of Mr. T., not to be confused with the 1980’s television bad-ass known for his gold chains and Mohawk. That being said, I have had a faux hawk a few times. I don’t drive a van, and I surely don’t use the phrase, “I pity the fool.” I pity plenty of things, a fool isn’t one of them. Mr. T. is an easy name for students to say, and, according to how often it’s repeated throughout campus, quite easy to remember. As you can probably imagine, I’m a rather animated teacher, I move around a lot, I tend to speak a bit fast, which isn’t the best for comprehension, and I like making my students laugh. I act things out, such as vocabulary, and I want to teach my students some cleaned-up rap lyrics. (By the end of my stay in Kerou I promise you 5^th and 6^th graders all over that town will be singing Biggie Smalls. You mark my word.) Students tend to remember me and there have been cascading eruptions of students screaming Mr. T. as I cross the campus. In one class, the week after I had taught a 5^th grade class, another teacher was teaching the present continuous and one student stood up and was like, “Mr. T. is laughing.” As you can probably imagine, my fellow Volunteers got a kick out of it.

So far I’ve been having a lot of fun teaching. It really feeds into my personality traits, and is something I enjoy. I like having to think on the fly to figure out ways of presenting the information in an accessible way. And, it’s a lot of fun being in front of these students essentially doing whatever I’d like. It’s kind of like I’m my own boss.

Model school is now over and i'll be moving to Kerou in a few days. I won't have people shadowing my classes and giving me advice. I'll be making the decisions, (scary, i know) and i'll be our on my own. Staging really has been a rewarding experience but it's nothing like what my real Peace Corps experience will be. I'm about to make the giant leap into the real Peace Corps life. (Also scary, i know.)

I've always known that teaching would be something that i would like, it's nice to know that my presumptions were correct.

Getting Around - Beninese style

So, as of this blog I’ve merely written about my experience here in Benin and nothing of general observations. I’ve essentially chronicled my time here, not given an assessment of what I’ve seen. If you know me, and or my professional life, you know that I’m intimately involved with transportation, and more acutely, clean-energy technologies and automotive efficiency. I’ve worked with clean energy transportation for awhile: I was in a hybrid vehicle building competition, I worked with the Department of Energy’s Vehicle Technologies program, I’ve given presentations on the advancements of automotive technology, and I’ve hosted events on clean public transportation. In brief, I like clean energy, I like transportation, and I like technology. Here in Benin, which I realize is a third world nation, I don’t find much clean energy. To be quite honest, I don’t think they care too much about their environment. Benin is struggling to just have enough to help its self along, let alone think about the future. Benin is very much so an in-the-moment kind of thinker not really looking too far into the future.

Most vehicles in this country run on diesel, which, of all the fuels, is my favorite. (Diesel inherently is more efficient, 30% to 40% more efficient, due to the higher energy-per-volume content of the fuel and how it’s combusted in the engine.) That being said, diesel was progressing in a clean energy direction in the States (Ultra-Low Sulfur Diesel, advancements in diesel engine and exhaust technology), but as you can probably imagine that technology has yet to make it over to Benin. In the United States we have fuel standards. These standards are assigned and then checked and regimented all throughout the country. In Benin, fuel is sold out of coke bottles and old wine bottles on the side of the street, for the most part. (I have a photo of a small gas station on the side of the largest road in the country.) That essentially means that there are no standards, you can find numerous things mixed in with the fuel (i.e. water, soda, oil, urine, etc.) and standards don’t exist. Also, most vehicles in this country are scooters and motorcycles. Most of the scooters are of the two-stroke variety and have their oil and fuel mixed together. What this does is increase the particulate matter content of the exhaust, which is already super high with regard to diesel, thus injecting the air we breathe with yummy-delicious harmful toxins and carcinogens. (Side note: all this great and yummy air that I’m breathing, and, specifically, the particulate matter in the air will be stuck in my lungs for the rest of my life.) Most large trucks are left over from the 60s and 70s and therefore have no exhaust treatment to clean/neutralize the exhaust. I’m sure you can all imagine the thick, black smoke that used to come out of tractor-trailers, multiply that by about three; also, the exhaust pipe comes out of the bottom of the truck, not out of a stack that shoots upward. That means if you’re standing/driving/riding anywhere near the trucks as it passes you you’re in store for a delicious exhaust-filled treat, which I’m sure has the same effect as smoking 30 packs of cigarettes. A fellow Peace Corps volunteer was recounting a vacation of his in Egypt after I asked him why he smoked and his response I feel is quite applicable: “It’s better than breathing.”

I’ve already brought up the idea of gas stations, which are merely side-of-the road shanties with coke bottles, wine bottles, and really fat wine bottles filled with fuel, which I’m sure they’ve mixed themselves. To display the price they place a gas jug in front of the gas shanty with the price displayed on the front in chalk. (It’s around a dollar a litre.)

In Benin they have taxis, which are normally station wagons with orange license plates and far too many people shoved into them. To give you an example, my friend Catherine was in a taxi from Parakou to Kandi, both of which are fairly large cities, and she sat/was squished into her taxi with 13 other people. The mere physics of it defies all my preconceived notions of available space in a taxi, let alone how this encroaches on my idea of personal space. We like to think that back seats hold two MAYBE three people. No so much here in Benin. For the most part, they shove four people to a row, and sometimes five. Children sit on their parents laps, I’m not sure if they have to pay or not, and I’ve yet to see a taxi with air conditioning. So, as you can imagine the noxious odors coming from the diesel fuel, the exhaust, mixed with the lovely aroma of 12-14 people shoved into a station wagon with no air conditioning, not to mention the general lack of hygiene in Benin, can be a bit overwhelming. These taxis are mainly long distance taxis. You would only take a vehicle like this if you were traveling between cities. For traveling within a city, or from a larger city to a smaller village near by, you take a Zemijohn. A Zemijohn is a moto-taxi, or a dude on a motorcycle with a hat, generally. They are always men, I think I’ve heard of a female one time, they sometimes are crazy, and they always are trying to screw you out of money, well, in Porto Novo. Elsewhere in the country there are set prices for things. (I don’t know if I’ve covered this before, but, for the most part, you have to haggle every price in this country. Whether it’s a Zemijohn, or a woman at the market, you have to argue down prices and haggle to the best possible price available. This idea is a bit taxing, sometimes I just want to know what the price is an pay it while not feeling like I’ve been screwed over.) As I’ve stated before, most vehicles in this country are scooters and motorcycles and it might have something to do with the over abundance of Zemijohn drivers. They drive erratically, they speed, they cut corners, and sometimes they’re not sober. I have to take them from time to time, especially when I have to travel long distances through the city, but for the most part I enjoy riding my bike. It’s a tad safer. But, when you’re traveling away from your hometown you have to ride Zemijohns to get around. (Side note: Benin is the only Peace Corps country where volunteers are allowed to ride motos, per my staging director. And, that’s because it would be impossible to get around without riding on them. That being said, we HAVE to wear helmets or we’ll be sent home, no questions asked.)

I want to let everyone know something else about Benin. Everyone is horny. And, i mean this in the I-have-to-honk-my-horn-at-any-chance-I-get kind of way. It's as though a car/moto horn is how they exact their personal vendetta against placidity and calmness. I can't say this enough. People in this country honk their horn at every chance they get. They honk to let you know they're behind you, they honk to let you know they're in front of you, they honk to let people know they've arrived at an intersection, they honk to let you know that they've received your honk, Zemijohn drivers honk to let you know they see you, Zemijohn drivers honk to let you know they are around, and sometimes, I promise you I'm not making this up, people drive down the road honking at nothing. They just honk to honk. Honk. This country is honky-horn happy and it creeps me out.

Another form of transportation, and by far my favorite, is large tour bus. They’re usually air conditioned, they have an assigned number of seats, and, for the most part, are safe. I mean, we’re the largest thing on the road. You do have to watch out of the window at every stop to make sure no one is stealing your luggage, or, just setting it on the curb thinking that its owner is getting off at that stop. Buses in this country are the most expensive way to travel, but by far the most efficient and safe. I’m sure I’ll be taking lots of them.

Now we move on to personally owned vehicles. This is the first country I’ve lived in that didn’t have its own automotive country (U.S.A., France, Japan) and it’s kind of interesting to see what vehicles make it to this country. If you’re not a taxi driver and you’re not rich, you probably don’t have a car. That means, for the most part, it’s taxis and nicer vehicles. People drive Lexuses, Mercedes, BMWs, I saw a Cadillac Escalade, I’ve seen vehicles from all over the spectrum. But, for the most part, there really aren’t that many American vehicles over here. The aforementioned Escalade is one of about five gas-guzzlin’ machines I’ve seen make it across the pond. And, the vehicles I have seen have been pretty random. I’ve seen a Dodge Intrepid, a Buick Rendezvous, a Dodge Caliber, and a few others I can’t remember. But, all in all, it’s just a random mix of vehicles. I’ve seen a Volkswagen dealership, a Toyota dealership, a Mitsubishi dealership but I’ve seen no American dealerships in this country. I guess these American automotive dealerships didn’t see the Africa market as a viable option.

Transportation in Benin is all over the map. (he he, puns) We have crazy Zemijohn drivers, and thick, smog-filled air, and over stuffed taxis. Though some of the vehicles may barely work, let me assure you, their horns do. It really goes along with all the other things in Benin that are mind boggling and amazing, but it’s just one of the many things that makes this adventure worth every minute.

Literally, i'm living in the middle of the bushes.... literally.

August 31, 2009

Porto Novo, Benin

We received our post announcements a few weeks ago and I was told that I’ll be moving to Kerou, which is in the Atacora region of Benin. (For those looking at a map, it’s in the northern region, right in the middle.) Kerou is a medium-sized village known for its dairy products, yam pile (pronounced pee-lay), and for generally being a bit difficult to get to.

Growing up, as we’re probably all aware, I was an only child. As such, I normally got what I wanted. (That sounds horrible, I know. I couldn’t figure out a nicer way to phrase it.) So, when things happen that I’m not expecting it’s takes me a moment to adjust. It’s not that I’m inflexible, or throw tantrums when things don’t go my way, it’s just something with which I hadn’t dealt much in my early childhood development and is something I’m learning to deal with as I mature. So, when I first found out where I was going to be posted I was a bit disappointed. I was disappointed because I wasn’t really posted close to anyone I knew. I was in the middle of nowhere. (To give a general understanding of how remote Kerou is you must understand that it’s a two-day journey from Porto Novo, where I’m living now, to Kerou and for one of those days I’m not on paved roads.) Therefore, for a few days following my post announcement I was a bit, how should I say this, disoriented, as I needed a few days to step back, revaluate, and look at my situation from a new vantage point.

After speaking with a few people I learned that I’ll be located in one of the prettiest areas of Benin and directly between two national parks. One of the national parks has lions, elephants, and giraffes. I’m close to Natitingou, which is a beautiful city situated in the mountains of Benin. I also have some really cool people with whom I share my workstation, which means we’re close to one another. (A workstation is like a Peace Corps Volunteer office. They are located in large cities generally close to volunteers and they have Internet, a library, and there are beds so we can stay over night.) Also, I found out that I will have a post mate, whom I’ve not met as of this posting. Word on the street is that she’s pretty cool: likes to joke and laugh and is generally a good time. I like those kinds of people.

One week after we found out where we would be going we left for a post visit so as to check out our new living arrangements, make sure that if there was still work to be done to our housing people knew about it, and to meet some of our colleagues and see our new schools.

I made the two-day journey with my new director, who is my boss, and we made a stop over in Parakou for the evening. (The Peace Corps mandates that we do not travel at night for safety concerns.) I had dinner with my boss and his family (there are pictures of him, his home, and one of his sons in my pictures) and had the best sauce legume (vegetable sauce) that I’ve had yet in Benin. After leaving Parakou the following day we got off the Goudrone (the paved road that goes to the north of the country) and onto the terre rouge (red ground). This is the point in my journey where I said goodbye to paved roads, which I wouldn’t see again for three days. After nine hours in the car we made it to Kerou. It’s a fine little town. I stayed with Professor Bandele and his family while in Kerou. Professor Bandele is a math professor and has a laugh that sounds like Sloth from the Goonies. This by no means implies that he’s of a deteriorated mental state, his laugh just sounds exactly like Sloth’s. The following day Professor Bandele took me around the village to meet a few of my fellow professors, the mayor, the chief of police, I got to see the school grounds (pictured), and where I’ll be living for the next two years (also pictured). Living in a third world country one needs to never have their expectations of things set too high. One must also realize that one is living in a developing country (Benin being the ninth least developed country in the world according to our training) and be surprised when things turn out well. So, after my nine-hour car ride on dirt roads and seeing how some people live in this country I was a bit afraid of where I’d be living. So, when I arrived at my new house I was pleasantly surprised. My walls are a nice color of green, there are paintings on the ceilings, and I HAVE A TOILET!!!! The house is new, so I’ll be the first people living there, and, for that matter, pooping in the toilet. When I saw the plumber installing a real, not-squatter toilet, I jumped for joy. If you’re not aware, toilets in this country are a luxury and we were not guaranteed to have one. We could potentially have a latrine, which I had used for the first time seven hours prior, and I surely didn’t want that. I know any some point I will be getting diarrhea sick and I surely don’t want to have to do that in a latrine. I also want you all to know that I DO NOT have running water, I have to dump water down the toilet as it doesn’t “flush.”

After checking out my new abode I ate dinner with Professor Bandele and my director, as well as a few other professors. It was interesting. The next morning I fell pretty ill as I am not all that acclimated to the food in the north, also, if the vegetables aren’t properly clean it can be pretty bad for us Americans. (To be quite honest, we have pretty weak stomachs in general.)

The rest of this story is something that needs to be told in person or over the phone… Just know that at three in the morning I found myself in a field evacuating my lower intestinal tract and stomach wearing a headlamp and staring up at the sky looking for a shooting star upon which to wish. I mean, I was looking for a sharfing star! Quite possibly the most demoralizing moment yet… and if you know me, that’s saying something. The next morning I was taken to the hospital in Kerou and was given some SERIOUS antibiotics. All is well now. But for a few moments there the S.S. Tartanic was loosing steam and taking on water. Ha, actually… I couldn’t even keep water in. I had to drink a salt-water solution.

On another note, the sky at night in Kerou was absolutely beautiful (I had plenty of instances to see it throughout the evening). Due to the lack of lights, and electricity for that matter, there is no light pollution. I had actually never seen so many stars at night in my life. If anyone reading this sends me a package a star chart would be a wonderful surprise/addition.

After my less-than-enjoyable trip to Natitingou, from where I would be taking a bus back to Porto Novo, and after the 12-hour trip from Natitingou to Porto Novo, I never thought I would be so excited to see my mosquito-netted bed and wooden desk.

That was my post visit. Though I got really sick I’m excited to get there and be a resident of Kerou. I’m excited to teach at my school and I’m excited to have my Peace Corps life start. Right now I’m teaching in model school and having a lot of fun, but being a stagaire (trainer) is nothing like what it’s going to be like when I’m a volunteer. I’m excited to have my own students and my own house and my own toilet! It’s nice being in Porto Novo, I’m just ready for my service to begin.

My “Swearing In” ceremony is September 25^th, 2009. So, after that I’ll be moving to Kerou. When I know my address in Kerou I’ll have it changed on the sidebar of my blog. More than likely I will have things sent to Natitingou as I will have to go there quite frequently, Kerou doesn’t have a bank and no one in Kerou takes my VISA card. If you’re going to send something, don’t hesitate, it doesn’t matter where I am I’ll get the package.

Please take a look at my photos and let me know what you think. I’m sorry if it’s taking me awhile to answer emails. It’s not easy to get to the Internet. Also, it take a really long time for me to mail letters as the easiest way is to send them is with a volunteer who is ending his or her service. Receiving mail is easy. Sending mail is difficult. Emailing is probably the easiest way to communicate, though infrequent, but if you’d really like a letter please be patient with me. I’ve written them I just don’t have an easy way to send them.

I want to thank Mama D for her package. She won the race and was the first person to send me one. The soap is great. The soap that i find here leaves a gross sheen and it's hard to wash off when you have to use a bucket to take a shower.

Melf, you're the best. Thank you so much for my chocolate. You brightened not only my day but a few of my friends. lol, i loved my T-Bag. :-)

Know that someone in Africa thinks of you and misses you greatly…

Brandon in Benin

The 9^th of August in the year 2009.

I know it’s been awhile since I’ve last posted, and here’s why. I don’t know if you’re all aware of this, but the availability of Internet in Africa is few and far between. And, let’s be honest, I’m a bit lazy. In America I was connected to the Internet 24/7, and I loved it. But, it was a part of the social environment. Everyone has iPhones, WiFi, and Internet capable phones. (I was a crackberry addict, I’ll be the first to admit it.) Here, things just aren’t like that. I’m reading a lot more: I’ve already finished two books and I’ve been here for two weeks. And, life is completely different. So, I apologize if sometimes it takes a week or two for some news.

I have a lot to explain here and I hope I can do it all justice.

I arrived in Philadelphia with my mother with a sense of anxiety: I was leaving all that I had known to venture off into a world with which I was completely unfamiliar. It was at this moment that everything I had studied, all that I had experienced, all that I was, came together to prepare me for 27 months of service in the Peace Corps that now awaited me. I know that fundamentally I’m not going to change. I’m still going to love laughter and I’m still going to try to squeeze every drop of fun out of life that I possibly can. But, the person I was and the person I’m going to be, starting from this point, are completely different. Coming to this realization is a bit difficult when you like yourself as much as I do. But, with all of this self-adoration comes a bit of self-reflection and evolution. I’m surely not, today, the best person I think I can be. Much has to change, maturation has to take its course, and I need to become something more in my own eyes.

So, I arrived in Philadelphia with mother and Neil in tow. I went into the designated hotel and began to meet a few of my new friends. We all did the obligatory salutations and got to know each other. I was a bit apprehensive at first not wanting to overwhelm some people, and thankfully I met up with Jamie (www.jamieinbenin.blogspot.com) and felt as though I had a buddy to help me through these greetings. (There is a photo of her reading with a pair of wayfarers in my photos.)

We all got some money from the Peace Corps and got a chance to go out and eat with all of our newfound friends. Thinking it was the last time I would get to eat some Mexican food, I took the chance to eat at a fancy Mexican restaurant called Tequilas. It was fantastic.

The following day we all went to get some vaccinations and left for Africa. The plane ride was long and I don’t know if you know anything about Charles-de-Gaulle airport in Paris, but it’s retarded. We landed somewhere on the tarmac and had to ride a bus, it felt as though, the entire way around Paris to get to the appropriate terminal for planes departing for Africa. In the terminal it was kind of stinky and the food was overpriced. But, we found our plane and left for Benin!

We landed in Africa in a bit of a furry. As you can probably imagine, things were a bit unorganized, but thankfully we met a Peace Corps representative named Iffy, yes it was a bit disquieting for me as well to give my passport to someone named Iffy, and moved into the baggage claim area.

This may or may not have been the biggest shit-show cluster f%ck I have ever seen. I hope I can paint this picture effectively. There are about a thousand people, literally a thousand, in a room built for five hundred. You enter the room and the conveyor belt comes out of the wall, extends halfway across the room, thus creating a funnel/traffice jam of people trying to find their luggage or an appropriate place to stand to find their luggage. (Let’s not forget that Africa is waging a war against air conditioning, so the room is hot, I’m sweating, so is everyone else, tensions are high as we hope to find all that we’d brought, and people stink.) So, we attempt to make our way to the conveyor belt and find a place to start collecting all of our luggage but everyone who is not a Peace Corps volunteer, there are only about 60 of us, has a cart and has created what I would imagine an L.A. freeway shit storm traffic jam of those carts around the belt. So, people are running over our toes, hitting us with carts, and then not understanding why people can’t move out of their way once they’ve gotten their baggage. It was at this moment I started to realize that common sense really isn’t just something most Americans are missing, this is a global retardation epidemic. Most of us get our baggage in around two hours of standing, waiting, and being generally frustrated. My one new friend Catherine has found out someone has stolen one of her bags that she had put into another bag for easier carrying. (She would later retrieve the bag after numerous return trips to the airport and hours of argument with Air France, though not all of the original contents remained.) As we walked out of the airport we were greeted with cheering Peace Corps volunteers, which was comforting.

From there we loaded ourselves into a few vans and, with the guidance of current Peace Corps volunteers, and made our way to St. Jean Eudes, which is a Catholic school/compound. Along the way Lucy, our PCV guide, answered our questions, tried to dispel any rumors, and informed us of a few vital tidbits of information. Looking out of the windows of the van I found myself in a completely foreign environment. Traveling throughout Europe has its own exoticism, but being in a country where dirt roads are the norm, laws seem to be merely suggestions, and people eat things I would never have considered food before hand carries an exoticism before now I’ve never felt.

We arrived at St. Jean Eudes in the evening to the cheers of current Peace Corps volunteers and we hustled off to a dormitory and found our mosquito-netted beds. We unloaded our things and headed off to the buvette, (which is the Beninese word for a place you get drinks both alcoholic and non-alcoholic) which was on the Catholic compound. (I’m sure my grandmother is going to love that they were serving alcohol on the Catholic compound.) That evening we drank with our new friends, complained about the trip, and laughed as we got to know the new characters who would be playing the leading roles in the production known as “Real World Benin.”

Our time at St. Jean Eudes was filled with classes on safety and security, health, language, and other Peace Corps-related topics to keep us safe and healthy. The Peace Corps does, if not to excess, everything that it can to maintain our safety here in Benin. It’s hard for some to understand the inherent dangers that come along with being in a third-world country. The value of life is exponentially diminished, hospital services are few and far-between, traffic control devices are merely a suggestion, and people are flying around on scooters and in vehicles that have century-old safety features. If you haven’t been in this environment before, let me assure you, it’s not the safest place on the planet. Therefore, having numerous classes and sessions on how to avoid the avoidable and what to do if something happens cannot be overdone.

While at St. Jean Eudes we weren’t allowed outside of the compound walls without an escort. Which, at first bothered me, then once I finally got outside I realized why. Being an American people instantly assume that you have money and therefore a potential target. Also, the French that they speak here is not the French I learned in school. So, having someone who knows the local language and traditions, and how to protect themselves is indispensable and necessary.

We spent four days in Cotonou at the Catholic compound and then made our way to Porto Novo where we would be meeting our new host families. When we arrived in Porto Novo, which is the capital of the country, for all those who’d like to know, we ventured off to a sustainable, organic farm known as Songhai. I was a bit apprehensive. I had a picture of my new family, but surely didn’t know what they were going to be like. I had fantasized about the family dynamic hoping they would be laughers and talkers just like me. I knew I was going to have a few kids, three to be exact, and a new brother who seemed to be about the same age as me. Though, to be honest, Africans age so gracefully that I’m completely inept at guessing their ages from looking at them, let alone in a photo.

As we entered the gathering area I noticed my new host mama immediately. She had a smile that would not end and we instantly connected and started talking. Thankfully she speaks French fluently, as I speak French pretty well. I sat down next to her and it’s been laughter and love ever since. As I’ve come to find out, we have a lot more in common than I would have ever assumed. She’s a Libra, single mother, was a teacher, has a son who has a Japanese wife (I was born in Japan), and served me green beans my very first night (green beans are my favorite vegetable). I honestly could not have asked for a better situation.

As of now, my living situation is as follows. I live in a small little compound that has four little buildings. I have my own little building that I share with my host brother, Theodore. He leaves for work before I’m up and gets home after I’ve gone to bed. I have a normal-sized room, nothing enormous, and my own shower and bathroom. (BTW, there’s not hot water, so it’s cold showers all the time. Which, in five-billion degree weather, it’s not so bad. When you first step in a little WOOT WOOT helps you get comfortable.) I like my little space. For those who know where I’ve lived before, I’m used to small living quarters, and to be honest, I like them. It’s easy to find things, you don’t have much to clean, and everything is close. Another building is where my host Mama lives, the kitchen lives, and the living room. Just to the left of this little building, which is across the courtyard from mine, is another little houselette where my domestique (another word for someone who cleans around the house and makes all of my food and does my laundry), my grandmother, her mother, the three kids, and an aunt all live. I’ve not looked through this area as it’s not mine, but I assume it’s rather close quarters. The fourth building, which is to the right of mine across the courtyard is where Mikial lives. I’m not quite sure how he’s related, but he works hard and is never without a smile. The sense of community in Beninese culture is quite profound, which lends to many non-traditional living situations. Oh, I also have two mango trees in my yard, how freakin’ sweet is that?!

So, what’s my day-to-day life like? I wake up at 6:30 AM everyday, which is around 1:30 AM for you Americans, and head off to school where I study French, have technical sessions on teaching practices and methodologies, and culture lessons to learn how to shop in the market, what we can and cannot eat, the ins and outs of Beninese social dynamics, and then security and health classes (I’ve never talked about pooping so much in my ENTIRE LIFE). It’s kind of like being in college. I have two more months of this and then I’m off to my post, which I learn this Friday, the 14^th of August. We get an allowance of 500 francs (which is about a dollar, U.S.) a day for lunch, which is usually a bean sandwich with hot sauce and a Sprite. (I know that sandwich sounds bizarre, and let’s be honest, the Beninese put the weirdest things on sandwiches, but bean sandwiches are delicious. I’ve also had a sandwich with spaghetti, eggs, cooked tomatoes and onions, and hot sauce, which was also pretty freaking amazing. The bread here is just like French bread in France, so that’s good.)

I’m going to have an entire post on food here in Benin. I’ll have to give them one thing they sure are efficient.

Culture shock definitely hit me around day ten. When you’ve lived somewhere your entire life, who you are is directly related to your environment. Having all the conveniences of American life is nice and you don’t know how much you have until it’s on the other side of the planet. I joined the Peace Corps because I want to become something better. I want to be able to live and thrive in numerous cultures and situations. And, I knew it was going to be difficult, and right now it’s that time. Life changing events are never easy. But, as we’ve all heard, and I’m learning, it’s not the easy times in life that define you but the hardest.

I’ll never forget, though, that I have the best family and greatest friends to be the wind in my sails on the S.S. Tartanic if I start to lose steam.

The 9^th of August in the year 2009.

I know it’s been awhile since I’ve last posted, and here’s why. I don’t know if you’re all aware of this, but the availability of Internet in Africa is few and far between. And, let’s be honest, I’m a bit lazy. In America I was connected to the Internet 24/7, and I loved it. But, it was a part of the social environment. Everyone has iPhones, WiFi, and Internet capable phones. (I was a crackberry addict, I’ll be the first to admit it.) Here, things just aren’t like that. I’m reading a lot more: I’ve already finished two books and I’ve been here for two weeks. And, life is completely different. So, I apologize if sometimes it takes a week or two for some news.

I have a lot to explain here and I hope I can do it all justice.

I arrived in Philadelphia with my mother with a sense of anxiety: I was leaving all that I had known to venture off into a world with which I was completely unfamiliar. It was at this moment that everything I had studied, all that I had experienced, all that I was, came together to prepare me for 27 months of service in the Peace Corps that now awaited me. I know that fundamentally I’m not going to change. I’m still going to love laughter and I’m still going to try to squeeze every drop of fun out of life that I possibly can. But, the person I was and the person I’m going to be, starting from this point, are completely different. Coming to this realization is a bit difficult when you like yourself as much as I do. But, with all of this self-adoration comes a bit of self-reflection and evolution. I’m surely not, today, the best person I think I can be. Much has to change, maturation has to take its course, and I need to become something more in my own eyes.

So, I arrived in Philadelphia with mother and Neil in tow. I went into the designated hotel and began to meet a few of my new friends. We all did the obligatory salutations and got to know each other. I was a bit apprehensive at first not wanting to overwhelm some people, and thankfully I met up with Jamie (www.jamieinbenin.blogspot.com) and felt as though I had a buddy to help me through these greetings. (There is a photo of her reading with a pair of wayfarers in my photos.)

We all got some money from the Peace Corps and got a chance to go out and eat with all of our newfound friends. Thinking it was the last time I would get to eat some Mexican food, I took the chance to eat at a fancy Mexican restaurant called Tequilas. It was fantastic.

The following day we all went to get some vaccinations and left for Africa. The plane ride was long and I don’t know if you know anything about Charles-de-Gaulle airport in Paris, but it’s retarded. We landed somewhere on the tarmac and had to ride a bus, it felt as though, the entire way around Paris to get to the appropriate terminal for planes departing for Africa. In the terminal it was kind of stinky and the food was overpriced. But, we found our plane and left for Benin!

We landed in Africa in a bit of a furry. As you can probably imagine, things were a bit unorganized, but thankfully we met a Peace Corps representative named Iffy, yes it was a bit disquieting for me as well to give my passport to someone named Iffy, and moved into the baggage claim area.

This may or may not have been the biggest shit-show cluster f%ck I have ever seen. I hope I can paint this picture effectively. There are about a thousand people, literally a thousand, in a room built for five hundred. You enter the room and the conveyor belt comes out of the wall, extends halfway across the room, thus creating a funnel/traffice jam of people trying to find their luggage or an appropriate place to stand to find their luggage. (Let’s not forget that Africa is waging a war against air conditioning, so the room is hot, I’m sweating, so is everyone else, tensions are high as we hope to find all that we’d brought, and people stink.) So, we attempt to make our way to the conveyor belt and find a place to start collecting all of our luggage but everyone who is not a Peace Corps volunteer, there are only about 60 of us, has a cart and has created what I would imagine an L.A. freeway shit storm traffic jam of those carts around the belt. So, people are running over our toes, hitting us with carts, and then not understanding why people can’t move out of their way once they’ve gotten their baggage. It was at this moment I started to realize that common sense really isn’t just something most Americans are missing, this is a global retardation epidemic. Most of us get our baggage in around two hours of standing, waiting, and being generally frustrated. My one new friend Catherine has found out someone has stolen one of her bags that she had put into another bag for easier carrying. (She would later retrieve the bag after numerous return trips to the airport and hours of argument with Air France, though not all of the original contents remained.) As we walked out of the airport we were greeted with cheering Peace Corps volunteers, which was comforting.

From there we loaded ourselves into a few vans and, with the guidance of current Peace Corps volunteers, and made our way to St. Jean Eudes, which is a Catholic school/compound. Along the way Lucy, our PCV guide, answered our questions, tried to dispel any rumors, and informed us of a few vital tidbits of information. Looking out of the windows of the van I found myself in a completely foreign environment. Traveling throughout Europe has its own exoticism, but being in a country where dirt roads are the norm, laws seem to be merely suggestions, and people eat things I would never have considered food before hand carries an exoticism before now I’ve never felt.

We arrived at St. Jean Eudes in the evening to the cheers of current Peace Corps volunteers and we hustled off to a dormitory and found our mosquito-netted beds. We unloaded our things and headed off to the buvette, (which is the Beninese word for a place you get drinks both alcoholic and non-alcoholic) which was on the Catholic compound. (I’m sure my grandmother is going to love that they were serving alcohol on the Catholic compound.) That evening we drank with our new friends, complained about the trip, and laughed as we got to know the new characters who would be playing the leading roles in the production known as “Real World Benin.”

Our time at St. Jean Eudes was filled with classes on safety and security, health, language, and other Peace Corps-related topics to keep us safe and healthy. The Peace Corps does, if not to excess, everything that it can to maintain our safety here in Benin. It’s hard for some to understand the inherent dangers that come along with being in a third-world country. The value of life is exponentially diminished, hospital services are few and far-between, traffic control devices are merely a suggestion, and people are flying around on scooters and in vehicles that have century-old safety features. If you haven’t been in this environment before, let me assure you, it’s not the safest place on the planet. Therefore, having numerous classes and sessions on how to avoid the avoidable and what to do if something happens cannot be overdone.

While at St. Jean Eudes we weren’t allowed outside of the compound walls without an escort. Which, at first bothered me, then once I finally got outside I realized why. Being an American people instantly assume that you have money and therefore a potential target. Also, the French that they speak here is not the French I learned in school. So, having someone who knows the local language and traditions, and how to protect themselves is indispensable and necessary.

We spent four days in Cotonou at the Catholic compound and then made our way to Porto Novo where we would be meeting our new host families. When we arrived in Porto Novo, which is the capital of the country, for all those who’d like to know, we ventured off to a sustainable, organic farm known as Songhai. I was a bit apprehensive. I had a picture of my new family, but surely didn’t know what they were going to be like. I had fantasized about the family dynamic hoping they would be laughers and talkers just like me. I knew I was going to have a few kids, three to be exact, and a new brother who seemed to be about the same age as me. Though, to be honest, Africans age so gracefully that I’m completely inept at guessing their ages from looking at them, let alone in a photo.

As we entered the gathering area I noticed my new host mama immediately. She had a smile that would not end and we instantly connected and started talking. Thankfully she speaks French fluently, as I speak French pretty well. I sat down next to her and it’s been laughter and love ever since. As I’ve come to find out, we have a lot more in common than I would have ever assumed. She’s a Libra, single mother, was a teacher, has a son who has a Japanese wife (I was born in Japan), and served me green beans my very first night (green beans are my favorite vegetable). I honestly could not have asked for a better situation.

As of now, my living situation is as follows. I live in a small little compound that has four little buildings. I have my own little building that I share with my host brother, Theodore. He leaves for work before I’m up and gets home after I’ve gone to bed. I have a normal-sized room, nothing enormous, and my own shower and bathroom. (BTW, there’s not hot water, so it’s cold showers all the time. Which, in five-billion degree weather, it’s not so bad. When you first step in a little WOOT WOOT helps you get comfortable.) I like my little space. For those who know where I’ve lived before, I’m used to small living quarters, and to be honest, I like them. It’s easy to find things, you don’t have much to clean, and everything is close. Another building is where my host Mama lives, the kitchen lives, and the living room. Just to the left of this little building, which is across the courtyard from mine, is another little houselette where my domestique (another word for someone who cleans around the house and makes all of my food and does my laundry), my grandmother, her mother, the three kids, and an aunt all live. I’ve not looked through this area as it’s not mine, but I assume it’s rather close quarters. The fourth building, which is to the right of mine across the courtyard is where Mikial lives. I’m not quite sure how he’s related, but he works hard and is never without a smile. The sense of community in Beninese culture is quite profound, which lends to many non-traditional living situations. Oh, I also have two mango trees in my yard, how freakin’ sweet is that?!

So, what’s my day-to-day life like? I wake up at 6:30 AM everyday, which is around 1:30 AM for you Americans, and head off to school where I study French, have technical sessions on teaching practices and methodologies, and culture lessons to learn how to shop in the market, what we can and cannot eat, the ins and outs of Beninese social dynamics, and then security and health classes (I’ve never talked about pooping so much in my ENTIRE LIFE). It’s kind of like being in college. I have two more months of this and then I’m off to my post, which I learn this Friday, the 14^th of August. We get an allowance of 500 francs (which is about a dollar, U.S.) a day for lunch, which is usually a bean sandwich with hot sauce and a Sprite. (I know that sandwich sounds bizarre, and let’s be honest, the Beninese put the weirdest things on sandwiches, but bean sandwiches are delicious. I’ve also had a sandwich with spaghetti, eggs, cooked tomatoes and onions, and hot sauce, which was also pretty freaking amazing. The bread here is just like French bread in France, so that’s good.)

I’m going to have an entire post on food here in Benin. I’ll have to give them one thing they sure are efficient.

Culture shock definitely hit me around day ten. When you’ve lived somewhere your entire life, who you are is directly related to your environment. Having all the conveniences of American life is nice and you don’t know how much you have until it’s on the other side of the planet. I joined the Peace Corps because I want to become something better. I want to be able to live and thrive in numerous cultures and situations. And, I knew it was going to be difficult, and right now it’s that time. Life changing events are never easy. But, as we’ve all heard, and I’m learning, it’s not the easy times in life that define you but the hardest.

I’ll never forget, though, that I have the best family and greatest friends to be the wind in my sails on the S.S. Tartanic if I start to lose steam.

Home and Away

Aging and growing up implies a lot of things. I’ve hoped to mature a little. Take on more responsibility. Work towards accomplishing dreams and aspirations. Work towards a desirable future. Coming home has helped me to realize that I’ve moved towards all of those things. I’m glad that I’ve had the support structure of my family and friends to help me accomplish those things. Coming home has also shown me that I’ve grown beyond my roots. It’s shown me that though Dover, Pa was a good place to grow up, it’s not somewhere I could live. I want to see the world. I want to be surrounded by people who challenge me intellectually. I want to have the resources at my fingertips that will allow me to become the cosmopolitan man I desire to become. This realization by no means discredits my past. Dover, Pa is a good place for those who don’t want to be around foreigners. It’s perfect for those who would like to have a yard, raise a family in a peaceful and quite neighborhood. It’s a place where you don’t pay $15 for a martini. ($5 at Westgate Lounger, for all those interested; and that’s top shelf.)

Being at home has also helped me realize that even though I’m off to see every inch of the planet I can, I’m a product of small town America. Regardless of where I find myself I’ll always love picnics with friends a family, frozen dairy products, good music, and a cold beer (and people with SERIOUS mullets.

My two weeks at home have passed and I’ve had a great time. It was awesome to get to see my mother. I laugh with no one on the planet like I laugh with my mother. It’s nice when you don’t have to watch what you say or care what is socially acceptable. You can just sit back, relax, and have fun. It was a joy to see my family, as well. My grandparents are exactly what I want them to be: doting, interested, and loving. I had a fantastic familial going away party, right down to the cake with bugs and snakes smattered all over it. Aside from family time, I got the chance to hang out with some friends who played an integral role in my teenage Tom Foolery. People like Jason, Billy, Justin, and Nikole. To be quite honest, it was a lot like hanging out with my family: no filter, nothing but love, and people who genuinely take an interest in you and what you’re doing; and vice versa. It was great to catch up. It was also reassuring to know that those whom I chose to befriend in high school maintained the same personality traits that drew us together so many years ago. We fell right into our same routines, Billy and I go back and forth intellectually, while also making fun of those around us, Jason and I talked about kickin’ ass and takin’ names, Nikki and I maintained our same flirtatious manners, and Justin and I laughed and competed at everything we could find.

I now feel that i can take on everything in front of me now that i've revisited everything that's behind me.

By the time this is posted, I’ll be in Africa.

A bientot mes amis…

Packing, Reminiscing....

I've finished work! Well, i've actually been finished for two weeks. Last week i spent my time planning things out, looking at the things i had to pack, and spent some time throughout the city.

There are times in your life when you move from school, or home, or ::insert location here:: and things just seem appropriate but a bit uncomfortable. It's similar, to me at least, to the sensation that almost overwhelms me when i've come to the end of a good book. The end of the book is obviously the logical progression, and completing it is relatively exciting, but that surely doesn't mean i'm glad to reach its end. There's the anticipation when you feel the final few pages in your right hand, and then victorious feel of completing something into which you've put so much effort. But, this a victory is bittersweet. Finishing a book has all the rewards associated with completing anything which takes time and effort, but it also comes with the heartache associated with losing touch with all the characters and friends you've made along the way. Whether it's T.S. Garp or Steven Weaven, i've lost contact with someone who has unselfishly entertained me.

But, one of the good things about packing and moving is that it forces you to go through all that you have. It forces you to see from where you've come; and, if you've been planning properly, where you're going. While leafing through my affairs i stumbled across numerous souvenirs: a few post cards from distant friends, affectionate letters from past lovers, and pictures of old friends. These souvenirs helped me to realize that it's the end of the book's job to make sure you don't forget about the first few pages that captivated you. Characters and plot don't just appear, they develop.

Alas, I'm packing my life into some "Space Bags" (which are not as complicated as they sound, nor as space-aged), large plastic containers, and anyone of the numerous pieces of luggage i have amassed in my healthy obsession with thrift-shop American Tourister. When i moved from North Carolina, it was quaint and mildly depressing to see my life fit into the back of my Volkswagen Beetle. Today, it's equally as quaint to see my "life" gathered in the living room of my DC apartment.

I move for Dover in just a few days and, as i've stated before, it's a bittersweet end to my stay in the District of Columbia. I'll not forget the Logan Circle Leisure Sports Society, Jazz in the Garden, Mr. Yogato, Georgetown Cupcake, U st, Zengo, Mien Yu, i mean... let's face it, All of Georgetown, and numerous other landmarks that welcomed me in. In my tenure, i'm glad to say that i've become a Washitonian and I hope that one day i'll make this my home, once again.

A DC landmark once told me, "What's Past is Prologue." How right it is.

Affectionately,

Brandon M. Tarbert

Getting My New Life Together

Life is changing. My future is here. I'm ready.

I have a few more days of work left until i'm free from the grasp of the DOE (Department of Energy) and onto new things. Life at DOE has been very educational. I've learned a lot about the "real world" and how i fit into it. I've learned a lot about clean energy, vehicles, and how the government plays a pivotal role in our automotive future's development.

That being said, it's time for new things.

Starting Monday I'll be in full "let's get ready to move to Africa" mode. I still need to buy luggage. (Which is a funny story. I was shopping for luggage and i was telling people that i need luggage that can withstand being thrown from a moving vehicle at any moment. Lord knows i don't need my underwear being displayed for all of the world to see as i arrive for training/my new post/anywhere else in Africa/the world to see.) I have two going away parties. I have friends to hang out with. I have to reminisce with them about all the great fun we've been having the past few years. I need to complete a few more documents the Peace Corps needs. I need to make a Will. I have to deal with some financial stuffs. I need to spend a lot of time with my Mother.

It's a lot to handle. I'm ready.

P.S. I want to thank all of those who have been supportive throughout this entire process. Getting into the Peace Corps is no easy thing, nor is it an easy decision. You all know that i love my family, friends, gadgets, clothing, and lifestyle. It's something i have/want to do for myself and my future. I want you all to know that i love you all and will do my best to keep in touch for the next 27 months. This is going to be quite and adventure and i'm glad you're along for the ride.

P.S.S. I will be living in rather different conditions whilst in Africa and i would LOVE LOVE LOVE to get care packages from you all. I will make a list of things i would like to receive when i have a better idea of what i'll need. That being said, i will always need letters, pictures, bootleg DVDs of movies that are about to come out in America, and funny stories about my friends and family.

Thanks again for everything,
Brandon