Ok, so let me just say that wow, it has been a long time since I have been away from my computer and I am realizing that I have definitely not been absconding from technology since I’ve been in Africa. I have pretty regularly updated this blog despite the fact that I no longer find anything in my day to day existence particularly interesting, unless you consider incredible bureaucratic frustration to be especially engaging. However, the last week that I have spend sans computer has been one of legit trials and tribulations, as it were, although not much of those trials were directly related to technological-withdrawl. While in Djougou I got really bad food poisoning, was throwing up bad enough that I was super dehydrated, and ended up needing to go to the local hospital for intravenous intervention. Now, seriously, before anyone freaks out, I am fine and back in Porto Novo, safe and sound. The Peace Corps doctors advised me the entire time and everything was clean and safe. That said, it was pretty intense.
I suppose I’ll just tell the little post visit tale chronologically, but know that as I write this I am at full health with my trusty anti parasitic pills, and that I really liked Djougou. I’m also breaking this post visit into two parts; my thrilling tale of food poisoning will come later, but first let me recount all the other parts of my journey! The writing is a bit more story-like, which was definitely more fun to write than normal blog entries have been.
Ok.
Djougou Post Visit Part Un
The first day of visit began at 5:00am when I left my host family to walk to the school where the van was picking us up to take us to the bus. It was still dark outside as I walked to school and the entire city was transformed into a weird, mysterious landscape that only made not speaking french that much more frustrating when dark shadows called out things to me. Once I was on the bus, I managed to use up the entire battery of my ipod within an hour and my homologue, Imorou, and I didn’t really have much to discuss beyond the basic familiarities. I think we both realized we’d be spending a lot of time together in the future and there was no need to waste the glorious air-conditioning of the bus to actually attempt to engage in a conversation en franglais (an intriguing blend of French and English). We stopped in Bohicon, a lovely little town that will be hosting Heather and Craig, and there for the first time in my life, paid someone to allow me to pee in a hole. It was cheap, but one would think that the very act of paying to urinate necessitates some sort of sanitary conditions, but that was definitely faux.
Once we arrived in Djougou, Imorou kindly discute’d (“dis-queue-tay’d” a franglais word of tres importance that means negotiation) a good price for a meal of yam pilee with wagasi. Yam pilee is like pate (sticky and solid and white without any hint of nutritional value…comes from yams…which are not like one would expect; here they are these giant freakishly hairy grey tubers that resemble firewood. To make the pilee, the yams are mashed and boiled and mashed again and then molded into a strange gelatinous pile to eat by hand with the sauce) but unlike pate, yam pilee is actually sort of good. It tastes a bit like mashed potatoes if they were made by anyone not my mother or myself (there are few things as delicious and incomparable as my mother’s mashed potatoes). They lack a little salt, but with the thick, spicy tomato sauce and the freshly fried, crispy wagasi, yam pilee is definitely my favorite traditional Beninese food I’ve experienced thus far.
Wednesday night I just hung out with my homestay family in Djougou, which ended up actually being a quasi-hotel with clean sheets and my own room, but so much noise outside that I wished I had brought my earplugs or not used up all my ipod battery on the drive. The woman who was supposed to house me was sick and I instead slept at her place of business, a tissage center, a new, French built compound where groups of women get together to weave various colorful fabrics. It is actually the place where Doug, my post mate and host brother from another mother (he had my host family last year), works with his homologue in the Small Business Development sector. The place was nice and the people nicer; the children outside were screaming the screams of children playing, the noise was supplemented by the other key sounds of the West African town: goats, guinea fowl, and the ever-so-present muezzin of the many mosques that dot the horizon in the city. That night I ate some strangely spicy rice and bean dinner (washed down with half a liter of unfiltered, unboiled water before I realized what I was doing and poured it down the drain), listened to the muezzin in his minaret and read my book called Reefer Madness: Sex, Drugs, and Labor in the American Black Market (if possible, I’ve become even more of a voracious reader here in Benin as well as increasingly, annoyingly liberal. By the end of the book I was ready to argue about the legalization of marijuana to anyone who was bored enough to listen…which was essentially the huge cockroach that ended up dying next to my bed that night). The third half of the book was all about pornography and nudged between discussions of Hugh Hefner and the porn connections to the mafia, there was a mention of my NGO, Population Services International (PSI) as having been started by a guy who wanted to sell novelty items by mail in the US and contraceptives in the developing world. Well, there ya go.
The next day was Thursday and at PSI I was introduced to the Djougou staff who all tried to speak English with me. I thought about asking them about their organization’s humble beginnings, but didn’t think either my French nor my English was sufficient to discuss mail order sex toys at any great length. Everyone seemed really nice and well educated and fully enjoying the air-conditioning and the high speed internet. A few people really joked around with me and I think that I will actually have a bit of fun working there. Imorou and I went out on a little visit to a neighboring village a few kilometers out and met up with a sage-femme at a maternite to collect from her records information about STIs and contraceptive use in her region. Imorou diligently recorded the numbers and we chatted with her for a bit. The place was eerily quiet; all the public health workers in Benin are en grave, on strike, right now for more money from the government. I asked what people do if they get sick and she just smiled and said that they all still work on Fridays.
I was able to see my house that afternoon and let me tell ya, I was not thrilled with my first impression. It had been taken back by Africa; reclaimed by the gods to the insects and creatures of this continent. Spiders, lizards, heretofore unseen bugs of various varieties, cobwebs, freaky looking plants. All that paled in comparison to the maestro, la grande, the largest fucking spider that has ever been conceived outside of a Hollywood horror film. This spider was the size of a large, well-fed rodent, although not nearly as hairy and it was hanging out in a thick, dewy web next to my shower just waiting for an unsuspecting child to wander into it’s nest, Shelob style. I’m talking ten inches from the tip of it’s disturbingly pointy front legs to the back of it’s claw-like nether regions, with a dark, sinister body as thick and robust as my fist. MY FIST. I actually don’t think I’ve seen a larger spider in cinema, except for the Tolkein creation, Aragog from HP, and those freaky Jumanji spiders that gave me the heebie-jeebies for years. Yeah, you remembers those. Imorou killed it valiantly with a stick and I have been assured that the body has been properly disposed of. Doug guaranteed that la grande was not a normal occurrence, a reassurance that was very necessary after Imorou insisted I stay at the house and get habituated to them. Yeah, I don’t want to be that bien ingre, thanks.
Despite the lurking arachnid horror, the house is lovely. I have a few things to be made by the menusier, like a bookshelf, double bed, a few shelves here and there, and a clothes rack, but I have already a make-shift couch, a coffee table, two living room chairs, a dining table with four chairs, a desk, a cot, an extra twin bed, and some duct taped newspaper clippings from the 2008 World Series as decoration. Most of my move in allowance will be spent on carpentry, kitchen supplies, and some cool paintings if they are not too expensive. The house is big and right next door to PSI. I think I’m going to try for a garden outside in my concession if it is okay with my 2 neighbors, although I doubt they’ll care if I give them some tomatoes or moringa leaves free of charge every now and again. I have a guava tree beside the house, but my favorite thing about my house is that there is a mango tree right in front of my little stone porch and I can absolutely see me and Colt sitting underneath it in the hot African winter, eating warm mangoes that have just fallen from above us. It’s like a Jack Johnson song in my front yard, which is just dandy for me although it makes me miss him even more.
That night I had another ‘whoa Africa’ moment looking up at the stars while on the roof of the buvette near my house, on the outskirts of the town where the noises fade away after dark. Doug and I met up to get to know each other a little bit better and have a couple drinks and somehow we ended up on the roof with the very drunk proprietor and a bowl of yam frites while drunk dialing Maman Rico in Porto Novo. I was drinking a petite Beninoise, the local beer of Benin, which is also the feminine nationality here (one could think I was ordering up a small Beninese woman for the evening if that sort of thing happened here, which it does, just not by other women). We had lapsed into a comfortable silence despite the odd moto horn in the distance, unintelligible insect noises in the bush, and the reassuring snores of the bar owner next to us. The moment was subtle, I hardly noticed it to be honest, but I looked up and realized that all the stars seemed somehow nearer and brighter than I’d ever seen before in my life and immediately after that realized that that moment was the first time I was really seeing the unaltered African sky. Because I’d only been in big cities thus far and was too tired and stressed on tech visit in Lalo, I’d managed to miss one of the most simple and breathtaking sights this continent has to offer.
I spent Friday at the Centre de Sante, the health center, and talked with the sage-femmes and lab techs there. I actually watched a women, who only spoke Dendi, get the implant contraceptive, Jadelle (like Norplant) contraceptive inserted into her upper arm in the morning and sat in on a positive HIV test informing meeting in the afternoon. Both of those were pretty intense for different reasons. The first one was pleasing to me because I really enjoy procedures and seeing them done is always exciting for me to learn more about how the human body works and responds to stress. I am always impressed with both the resiliency of the patient’s body and amazed by what looks like a callous roughness from the physician or nurse. Imorou was with me during the insertion and he mumbled reassuring things to the woman in Dendi while taking photos of me dripping iodine solution onto a gauze pad for the midwife. After that we saw the lab where one of the doctors was just about to get the results for an HIV test he was working on. We waited while the little strip began to clearly show the outline of a positive sign and I found myself choking back tears as he explained that the woman, also a non-French speaker and Muslim, was waiting in the other room to get the results. I sat next to him in his office while he called her in. Her face was veiled completely save for her eyes, which were outlined with black and flashed boldly. When the door was closed behind her, she removed her veil and sat down, silent. Without the cover, her gaze was less bold and more tired; the lines of the years had begun to write themselves in the corners of her eyes. I glanced down at the papers in front of the physician and noticed that she was thirty years old and that she was pregnant. Looking while trying not to stare, I could see she was just starting to show under her robes, the swell not more than 6 months old. I expected him to greet her, open the conversation carefully, doucement, break the news as gently as possible, but that didn’t happen. He simply pulled out a stack of cotrimazidole pills from his desk drawer and handed them to her; she didn’t even blink as she tucked them into her waistband.
Later, after a suspiciously tasty dinner at Le Cafetariat le Flamboyant, a buvette/salad joint near the bus stop, it began to rain harder than I‘ve ever experienced. I was lounging on the bed, the mosquito net still flipped up, not yet ready for the night, fanning myself and reflecting on the Dendi that I had managed to pick up during the last couple days (Nasuba--bonjour, Me teg gah?-- comment ca va?, baani--ca va bien, nagbe--merci). I was laying there, trying to think over the noises of the guinea fowl, children, and mosques, vaguely hoping that the still distant cramping in my gut would soon abate, when the skies abruptly opened up with the crack of lightning. My door had been open to the warm evening and the tiled floor was instantly soaked with the sudden African rain. I felt the heat immediately dissipate as I jumped up to close the door against the barrage. I noticed something else as I stood there, the rain soaking through my clothes. It was easy to miss if you weren’t listening, but the sound of the rain was so complete that it filled the room perfectly and silenced all the other sounds of the city save for the pounding hush of the downpour.
