I used to dread seeing a big, red box from my grandmother beneath the Christmas tree. Grandma hated sending money or gift certificates, but she also hated shopping at the stores I liked. Grandma subscribed wholeheartedly to the “it’s better to give than to receive” philosophy. She loved giving gifts, but only gifts that she herself would want. My mother, bless her heart, tried every year to convince Grandma to take a gander at Urban Outfitters or Anthropologie, but to no avail. Grandma’s favorite store was Talbots. The last present she gave me was a red boiled wool jacket from there. Because I’m a terrible person, I returned it without her ever knowing (I’m banking on a lack of Internet in the afterlife to save me from Grandma finding out posthumously). I got a hefty amount of store credit to a place I was sure I would never find anything for me.
As I began packing for Benin, I realized that my wardrobe was heavy on moth-eaten sweaters, skinny jeans, and holey t-shirts. Somehow none of those things seemed right for business casual in Benin, so I went shopping. My wonderful and amazing Aunt Joan came into Seattle for the day, and we hit the mall for modest, practical clothing. This could be Talbots’ tag line – I finally needed them! Despite my embarrassment, we managed to find some lovely things, which is exactly how my grandmother would have described them. In fact, she would have been so happy to go with me to buy these lovely things. I sent a silent prayer up to her as I handed over my store credit to the cashier.
I haven’t yet described laundry here, but it is an intense process, a physical workout that leaves me drenched in sweat, with blistered hands and sore muscles. It is a tripartite system – everything gets soaped and scrubbed three times, paying extra attention to collars, crotches, and armpits. [Tripartite is the wrong word I think…Someone who knows about these things come up with a better adjective please]. Granted, now that I’m on my own there is no one to enforce laundry standards, and I could just slop my shirts around in the bucket and call it a day, much like I hand wash delicates in the States. But I am here to integrate into the culture, dammit, and I will kill myself to do laundry like the Beninese if that’s what it takes. Plus, if Estelle in Porto Novo (who taught me to do laundry) found out I was skimping she would be horrified. Compounding the problem of rigorous washing, the detergent apparently errs on the side of caution and tries to remove everything, including all color, from your clothing.
So, my clothes have been subjected to this intense and damaging process for three months thus far. And all my adorable hipster T-shirts and skirts are desperately faded and worn (which is a look I would normally go for, but Beninese are pretty clothing conscious and it just doesn’t do). But my three Talbots T-shirts are in incredible shape – holding up in color and construction. And I finally realized that Grandma wasn’t just stubbornly buying me what she wanted me to wear (though that was part of it) but also that she really wanted me to have a wardrobe of good things that lasted. Though she wasn’t thrilled about the Peace Corps idea (she had long harbored hopes that I would join the Foreign Service and become the Cultural Attaché to Finland) I know she would be glad that I am at least well equipped. Thanks, Grandma.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Naked Lunch
Today I found the largest bug I’ve ever seen with my own eyes (because I’ve seen with other people’s eyes??) inching its way towards my shower. It looks like it’s capable of flight so I didn’t want to anger it, which rules out killing it. It also is large enough that I’m not sure I can kill it – there are lizards smaller than this bug, and I would never kill a lizard. In short, it’s too close to being a sentient being. Plus it would make a huge and disgusting mess, which I will inevitably leave there as long as possible, if my treatment of the giant cockroaches I kill on occasion is any warning. I had people over for dinner yesterday, and I realized then that I should probably take more care to remove the bug carcasses from my house before inviting guests.
In other news, we had the longest power outage of my sejour in Benin – almost a full day (from about 6pm to 10 am the next day). On the plus side, it meant that my guests only saw a couple of the dead bugs in my house. I also learned a nifty mosquito catching technique – put a candle in a tin can, hold flame to mosquito, mosquito jumps into tin can and dies. We caught one that was full of blood, and you could see its distended, red belly glowing in the candlelight. Pretty disgusting.
UPDATE: the giant, unidentified bug can indeed fly. I vanquished the evil beast though - it landed on a broom which I promptly threw out the door.
Electric Koolaid Popo Test
Strange, Larium induced dreams last night; the strangest was probably one where Dell had set up a large tent about 20 feet from my door and the four people working it were Gtown people…Even stranger was that I wasn’t surprised to see them, or a Dell tent in the middle of my street in Benin. Of course, I was busy trying to get home with wads of cash with a bunch of sketchy people following me.
So I’m blaming the Larium for my weird dreams and restless sleep, but it could well have been the Sodabe I drank last night with dinner. The family at the Methodist church near me invited me to eat with them. I was excited – I’m really trying to befriend families because I’m so sick of the only people I know being young, single men (what kind of parallel universe am I in? Six months ago at the Evans School I couldn’t even fathom that thought…) Anyway, I guess I went in with lots of assumptions – I was prepared for the sisters to be slaving away and the men to be sitting watching TV. Instead, it was the oldest son directing the action of the preparation; his sister made pate (pr. “pot” – white paste made from corn flour; actually quite yummy with good sauce); he cleaned fish and fretted over the sauce; his brother chopped onions. He explained every step of the way: “Now I’m adding tomato paste in addition to the fresh tomatoes because I want the sauce to be really delicious.” (He might have said “to be really sweet” because the slang word for delicious (or cool) is also the word for sweet, much like in English). Then the real surprise – I expected that the family didn’t drink at all because they are religious but that is just not the case. Apparently, you take a shot of sodabe (local moonshine) before eating. Mama, bless her heart, knocked hers back like a champ while I was gagging a bit (though I think they gave me more than others). Next, a strange cocktail of citronella, sodabe, sweetened condensed milk, sugar, and ice. I felt a little bit like I was drinking mosquito repellant, but it worked to keep me from being bitten at least. Finally, wine in a box. We sat in the courtyard on mats and ate from the same bowl with our (right) hands – I felt like I’d finally arrived in Grand Popo. Though, I am pretty incompetent at eating with my hands apparently, and managed to drip red oil all over myself and drop bits of pate everywhere. Despite the mess, I went home contented that I had successfully navigated my first dinner invitation. Now to find a way to keep the invitations coming so I don’t ever have to cook for myself…
So I’m blaming the Larium for my weird dreams and restless sleep, but it could well have been the Sodabe I drank last night with dinner. The family at the Methodist church near me invited me to eat with them. I was excited – I’m really trying to befriend families because I’m so sick of the only people I know being young, single men (what kind of parallel universe am I in? Six months ago at the Evans School I couldn’t even fathom that thought…) Anyway, I guess I went in with lots of assumptions – I was prepared for the sisters to be slaving away and the men to be sitting watching TV. Instead, it was the oldest son directing the action of the preparation; his sister made pate (pr. “pot” – white paste made from corn flour; actually quite yummy with good sauce); he cleaned fish and fretted over the sauce; his brother chopped onions. He explained every step of the way: “Now I’m adding tomato paste in addition to the fresh tomatoes because I want the sauce to be really delicious.” (He might have said “to be really sweet” because the slang word for delicious (or cool) is also the word for sweet, much like in English). Then the real surprise – I expected that the family didn’t drink at all because they are religious but that is just not the case. Apparently, you take a shot of sodabe (local moonshine) before eating. Mama, bless her heart, knocked hers back like a champ while I was gagging a bit (though I think they gave me more than others). Next, a strange cocktail of citronella, sodabe, sweetened condensed milk, sugar, and ice. I felt a little bit like I was drinking mosquito repellant, but it worked to keep me from being bitten at least. Finally, wine in a box. We sat in the courtyard on mats and ate from the same bowl with our (right) hands – I felt like I’d finally arrived in Grand Popo. Though, I am pretty incompetent at eating with my hands apparently, and managed to drip red oil all over myself and drop bits of pate everywhere. Despite the mess, I went home contented that I had successfully navigated my first dinner invitation. Now to find a way to keep the invitations coming so I don’t ever have to cook for myself…
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Bight Makes Right
(Sorry, this Benin-themed pun thing might have gone too far with that title...it doesnt even make sense really, but I'm hungry and short on time)
A very smart lady just chastised me in a letter for not updating my blog, so here we go. Not that I have any readers left, since I’m sure you’ve all got better things to do than check if I’ve gotten my act together and updated this thing.
As I turned on my computer to write this, the power cut so I’m typing in the dark by lantern light, which is all a bit strange. I just came back from an art opening at the Finno African Cultural Center – an exhibition of the cover art of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, in English, French, and Finnish. What it has to do with Finland or Benin , I’m not quite sure, since the books are by a Scottish guy raised in South Africa and all take place in Botswana . But these are the little mysteries that keep my life interesting (like why the heck is there a Finno-African Cultural Center across the street from me?)
Life in Grand Popo goes well. I’ve been here three weeks, and I think I have received nearly 100 marriage proposals so far. At this point, I’ve woven an elaborate tale of the fiancé I’ve left “la-bas” (back home), who was sad to see me go but understands that this is what I need to be doing right now. He’ll probably come visit, so if anyone wants to pretend to be my fiancé, I could really use some help before two years is up. It is a bit frustrating though – no matter who I talk to or how un-romantic our conversation seems to be, it always turns to whether I’m married and whether the person can drop by sometime to see me. The poor, stuttering water meter reader got the brunt of my frustration the other day as he struggled to hit on me despite his speech impediment. I rolled my eyes and said “Do I owe you money for my bill? Because if I don’t, you should go.” To his credit, he did turn around and go. Hopefully he doesn’t jack up my bill as a result (really, if I’d been thinking ahead, I could have gotten free water for the rest of my time here. Hindsight…)
Despite the marriage proposals (or maybe because of them?) people here are really welcoming and generally helpful. For example, the woman who sells me fruit every week stopped me as I left the house last week and essentially said, “You’re wearing that shirt with those pants?” She phrased it as, “When a sister sees another sister making a mistake, she has to say something.” I went back in and changed. Now that I don’t have Kate or Sophie to tell me when things don’t match, I’m at a loss, and must rely on the kindness of strangers (or fruit sellers…this fruit seller is actually a midwife from Ghana who couldn’t find medical work here and so has to sell fruit instead…I’m overwhelmed sometimes by the unfairness of life).
Now, I’m waiting to head out to a Ramadan party, or rather, an end to Ramadan party. There aren’t many Muslims in Grand Popo, but apparently they go all out for the end of Ramadan. And it’s a national holiday, so the mayor’s office wasn’t open and I got to hang out at home and do laundry and go to bizarre art openings across the street from me. So all in all a good day, and as good a place as any to end this update. Continue to write letters and emails and make phone calls, if you all can afford to in the wake of the economic disaster that apparently is the US right now. I only hear the worst, so you should call to reassure me that I’ll be able to find a job in two years when I get back (or will I be better off learning how to work the land here instead?)
A very smart lady just chastised me in a letter for not updating my blog, so here we go. Not that I have any readers left, since I’m sure you’ve all got better things to do than check if I’ve gotten my act together and updated this thing.
As I turned on my computer to write this, the power cut so I’m typing in the dark by lantern light, which is all a bit strange. I just came back from an art opening at the Finno African Cultural Center – an exhibition of the cover art of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, in English, French, and Finnish. What it has to do with Finland or Benin , I’m not quite sure, since the books are by a Scottish guy raised in South Africa and all take place in Botswana . But these are the little mysteries that keep my life interesting (like why the heck is there a Finno-African Cultural Center across the street from me?)
Life in Grand Popo goes well. I’ve been here three weeks, and I think I have received nearly 100 marriage proposals so far. At this point, I’ve woven an elaborate tale of the fiancé I’ve left “la-bas” (back home), who was sad to see me go but understands that this is what I need to be doing right now. He’ll probably come visit, so if anyone wants to pretend to be my fiancé, I could really use some help before two years is up. It is a bit frustrating though – no matter who I talk to or how un-romantic our conversation seems to be, it always turns to whether I’m married and whether the person can drop by sometime to see me. The poor, stuttering water meter reader got the brunt of my frustration the other day as he struggled to hit on me despite his speech impediment. I rolled my eyes and said “Do I owe you money for my bill? Because if I don’t, you should go.” To his credit, he did turn around and go. Hopefully he doesn’t jack up my bill as a result (really, if I’d been thinking ahead, I could have gotten free water for the rest of my time here. Hindsight…)
Despite the marriage proposals (or maybe because of them?) people here are really welcoming and generally helpful. For example, the woman who sells me fruit every week stopped me as I left the house last week and essentially said, “You’re wearing that shirt with those pants?” She phrased it as, “When a sister sees another sister making a mistake, she has to say something.” I went back in and changed. Now that I don’t have Kate or Sophie to tell me when things don’t match, I’m at a loss, and must rely on the kindness of strangers (or fruit sellers…this fruit seller is actually a midwife from Ghana who couldn’t find medical work here and so has to sell fruit instead…I’m overwhelmed sometimes by the unfairness of life).
Now, I’m waiting to head out to a Ramadan party, or rather, an end to Ramadan party. There aren’t many Muslims in Grand Popo, but apparently they go all out for the end of Ramadan. And it’s a national holiday, so the mayor’s office wasn’t open and I got to hang out at home and do laundry and go to bizarre art openings across the street from me. So all in all a good day, and as good a place as any to end this update. Continue to write letters and emails and make phone calls, if you all can afford to in the wake of the economic disaster that apparently is the US right now. I only hear the worst, so you should call to reassure me that I’ll be able to find a job in two years when I get back (or will I be better off learning how to work the land here instead?)
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