A Slice of Beninese Life

Last week's yellow fever vaccination campaign provided an interesting window on life in Benin.

Vaccination campaigns (concerning various illnesses) happen periodically throughout the year all across the country. They are great favorites with the workers at my health center since, unlike their monthly salaries, a paycheck is a sure thing at the end of them (as they recieve outside funding, such as WHO, and not from the Beninese government). Each health center keeps a group of vaccinators on the ground while at the same time sending teams of vaccinators out into villages farther away from the center itself. This "agressive strategy" is meant to reach the greatest number of people possible within the time constraints of the campaign.

I was part of the team that stayed at the health center. There were four of us: only one spoke the local language and only one, but not the same one, actually vaccinated; the rest did paperwork. We were all women, something that the head doctor initially objected to. He said he didn't want a team with only women since it was inevitable that "they would fight." You know women and their hysterics.

I mentioned paperwork. The Beninese have an on-going never-ending love affair with paperwork. Anything that is smothered in legalese, stamped, and signed several times is bound to be framed and hanging in any respectable Beninese home. Everyone vaccinated was given a card with their personal information (and an official stamp) and my job was to check them off in the appropriate age group. When I help with pre-natal consultations during the week I shuffle through four different notebooks along with various charts and booklets in a hurried scramble to get everyone's information copied down, usually in triplicate.

And who is all this paperwork prepared for? The all-powerful patron--in our case the head doctor. Patrons or head bosses strike fear in the hearts of their underlings with regular check-up visits in which they rarely fail to find at least one thing wrong, no matter how trivial (think: amount of leaves on the ground). Reprimands for such errors are usually stern and are often aimed to humble and humiliate. In the case of vaccination campaigns this translates into extra care in groundskeeping, a halt to charging phones with the center's generator (used to power the vaccine's refrigerator), and frequent fudging of numbers on all that paperwork in case of any unaccounted or left over doses. What the patron doesn't know can't reflect badly on you.

Finally there's the vaccination process itself. Everything starts off fine, it's dry season now so the mornings are quite cool and everyone is ready for the day's work. The nurse actually vaccinating and I have set up inside the consulting room of the maternity, the two other women are outside dealing with paperwork. Anyone and everyone is supposed to be vaccinated, nine months and up (one shot good for ten years). I am given the seemingly simple task of checking people off based on age groups--problems quickly crop up. A lot of people simply don't know their age. Others, mainly students, give fake ages--the age they use in school. It seems that the Beninese school system has an age limit, so once you pass that you're no longer allowed in. Therefore those who have previously dropped out or who never went in the first place and who are already too old will lie and say they're younger so they can go to school. Thus the full-grown man sporting a beard whose towering over me and claiming he's twelve.

The nurse vaccinating has begun the day fairly good-humored and jokes with the villagers who have come to be vaccinated. As the day wears on and the sun climbs higher however, her cheerfulness flags. It becomes hot, very hot, and the burning sun starts to bake the dead rat that's been in the ceiling for days. It stinks. We've already vaccinated over six hundred people and the nurse is no longer joking--she's irritated. Children from the primary school across the street have lined up and after the tenth one in a row who hasn't rolled up his shirt sleeve in preparation for the shot the nurse starts dealing out slaps to the tops of heads. Needles are waved about and nurses are screaming at everyone. Eventually things do slow down and, regaining her former good humour, the nurse tries a joke or two, adding a few racial slurs for good measure. Once during the course of our regular, weekly vaccinations I saw a health worker slap the face of a young mother who hadn't restrained her child properly while she was gettting a shot. The doctor-patient relationship we enjoy in the states is almost unimaginable here.

That first day of the campaign we vaccinated eight hundred men, women, and children against yellow fever. Afterwards I went home, cooked dinner, and read a book before falling asleeep. A (fairly) typical day in Benin.

A Letter of Appreciation to My Mama

Just about every volunteer (at least in Benin) has a mama. Often she's a neighbor; sometimes she's just a good friend. Sometimes she speaks French while others only know the local language. She's the one that gives you massive amounts of food and scolds you when you can't even finish half. She always offers to do your housework for you (and maybe she actually does) and she's terrified when you're sick. She knows all the best food sellers, clothes sellers, any kind of seller, and will tell you the right price. Maybe she'll even help you barter. In short she's a godsend, a life-line, a source of support. And because my mama is all this and more, here's a letter to her in my local language:

Mama--

Thank you. Thank you for befriending me from the very first moment when you walked up to my front door and asked to chat for a bit because you felt lonely. Even then it was easy to talk to you (especially since you speak French) but also because you treat me like anyone else. Instead of seeing me as an opportunity (i.e. for money or free things) you see me as another woman, another villager who you can talk openly with about anything. And we do talk about everything--how you were circumcised, spousal abuse, the fact that not all Americans are white, your fear of small animals (which is weird by the way). Thank you for laughing at me and with me. Thank you for helping me learn Lokpa. Thank you even for your only son who at four years is possibly the biggest brat I have ever met (think Dennis the Menance to the fiftieth power). Thank you for cooking me dinner for the better part of a year and for having the good grace to accept it when I started cooking for myself after two bouts of ameobas. And thank you most of all for all those conversations under the stars before we both go to bed (early!) and for all those conversations yet to come. You are my biggest support and best friend in village. Thank you,

Heidi (Aicha)

I am Huge and You Can't Judge Me!

After working for two weeks with the newly arrived trainees, I decided to take a few vacation days to visit a friend here in the South. She lives in Aja-land where the tropical heat and especially the humidity means that a simple walk down the street can trasnform the clothes on your back into sopping sweat-rags. It also means that the vegetation down here is a vibrant green that grows in thick, tangled masses all over the place. Driving out to her post I passed satuarated marshlands and lakes with stilt houses growing out of the still water. Often the grass hanging over the side of the road was taller than a grown man, a fact that did not affect the speed of cars and motos (i.e. breakneck) even when the road became very curvy.

Catherine, my friend, lives in a medium-sized town complete with several paved roads, electricity, and running water. Here in Aja-land everything is loud. And it's not just the constant flow of taxis and motos that screech and honk incessantly. It's the people who yell and scream and holler at each other and you and everyone. But they're not angry--not all of the time--this is just how people are here, how they express themselves. "Yovo" was sung/shouted at us constantly.

Mostly we stayed in her cozy house where we cooked (fabulous meals of Hamburger Helper, carrot cake, and pigs in a blanket!), and watched movies on her lap-top. We did make one expedition however, to see the local hippopotamuses (or hippopotami?). There are two of them--a mother and her four year old--who live in a nearby lake and for the price of 3000FCFA ($6?) you can rent a pirogue (think: canoe) and see them. Definitely worth it.

To begin we took motos to a nearby village where a pack of children met us and, instantly knowing what we wanted, led us to the house of the hippo guide. After some paperwork and payment our guide led us through the village to the lake. Barefoot, he walked swiftly down a winding path that cut through the encroaching brush while we struggled to keep up. Two smaller children carried our moto helmets, also outstripping Catherine and I.

Once at the water's edge we were told to wait while the guide got the canoe ready. Soon we heard the sound of the small children bailing out water; our canoe, it seems, was a bit leaky. Once most of the water had been dumped out we got in and our guide, pushing the ground with a long stick, deftly manoeuvered us through a tight inlet and onto the lake itself. The lake was wide and calm and ringed with leafy, green vegetation.

We drifted towards the center for a bit, occasionaly asking questions of our guide. At one point a fisherman at the other end of the lake yelled something and we changed directions. Catherine and I supposed that he had said something like, "the hippos are over here!" Soon we saw the ears and the top of the head of one of the hippos, the mother. At a distance we could see her head out of the water and we could see that she saw us. Then she ducked under for several minutes at a time before resurfacing at a point closer to us. Our guide and the children bailing out water drove the canoe into the nearby bank. A few low, staccato grunts sounded from the bushes somewhere to the right of where we waited. The child was calling to its mother. Then they were both in the water, swimming in circles around each other while we watched. After awhile we shoved off, lazily drifting towards our starting point, all the while still watching the hippos. For a time the child followed us but he quickly gave up. The sun was setting and the temperature was cooling off--almost time for the hippos to go on land and feed.

We asked if the locals had given the hippos names. "Yes," said our guide, "they are called 'I AM HUGE AND YOU CAN'T JUDGE ME!"

Yoga, sex, and an ambulance

What happens when you put sixty Beninese (teenage) girls, seven Peace Corps volunteers, and matching t-shirts all together in a semi-cramped yet wonderfully available tissage center? Girls Camp! That's right: one full week of group discussions, defining objectives, sports (think: dodgeball!), learning computer skills, talking about sex, games, and camp songs sung at ear-piercing levels in French.

The highlights for me? Firstly I led the yoga session in our "Managing Stress" segment. It seemed to go over fairly well although space was limited, the girls were giggly, and the idea that it was not supposed to hurt didn't quite carry itself across. Secondly, after having a head maternity nurse come in to answer any questions pertaining to reproductive health we realized that most of them didn't even have the basics down (e.g. what is a uterus? why do women menstruate? etc.). In fact that information isn't given out until the 3eme grade--which is roughly equivalent to freshman or sophomore year of high school. Our girls were more like middle school. So, Rut (my postmate, also a health volunteer) and I quickly drew up some matter of fact diagrams of a naked woman and man, explained the uterus and menstruation, the mechanics of sex, and different methods of contraception. Afterwards everyone said that our talk was a lot clearer for the girls and that they were all very interested in what we had to say.

Talking about sex...I've been asking around in my village and the end consensus is that people don't. Parents especially almost never talk to their kids about sex, although they complain quite often and loudly that the youth of today have no morals and its all they think about. This unfortunate taboo goes for other subjects as well, such as menstruation. In a culture where you learn not by asking questions but by silently watching and copying, finding out about such topics becomes a little tricky; some things you just can't observe. A further complication: as I mentioned above the "sex talk" isn't delivered in school until about high school at which point kids are given a run-through of human anatomy and the barest sketch of the other stuff. In most cases this is way too little way too late since, especially in smaller villages like my own, many if not most girls drop out of school long before the 3eme and many are already having sex. In a situation like that, with no one to tell you any different, who knows what sort of explanation you might come up with on your own...

After the camp I was looking forward to a few days of relaxation and then of preparation for some upcoming Care Group meetings. Not so. The very last day I woke up with a splitting headache that refused to go away. Once home I tried eating something to see if that wouldn't help things a bit...I threw it up. Then I threw up water and was dry-heaving. I had a fever. I called the Peace Corps doctor who wanted me to spend the night at the health center so I wouldn't be alone. One terrible night later an ambulance was called in from Parakou that took both myself and Rut (as moral support) down to Cotonou. After having an IV the entire way down I felt a lot better and quickly recovered in the days that followed. The doctor thought I had malaria even though it didn't show up in the blood test. But I might just tell people I did...malaria sounds much more interesting than the flu.

Rain on a tin roof makes a very loud noise

Rainy season is finally here again, just as the mangos have started to dwindle. Everything grows so fast here--I went down to Cotonou for a week-long workshop and when I came back all the previously brown and dying shrubs had somehow been replaced by thriving, green, knee-high vegetation! It was like the whole landscape changed overnight, like it took a really great (non-bucket) shower.

This has also meant a return to the fields for many villagers (some never really left off). Now instead of the gangs of men lounging around playing board games all day I seem them starting off into the "bush" early in the morning--wearing their worn work clothes and broad-rimmed straw hats, carrying machetes and hoes. For the women, who never stop working (and certainly do not play board games), this just means a new task to shoulder along with all the rest.


Lately I've been trying to start up what are called "Care Groups." This means selecting a group of Leader Mothers (about ten) and holding monthly meetings with them about certain topics like malaria, sanitation, or malnutrition. Then the Leader Mothers go out into the village to relay the same message to other mothers and report back at the next meeting. Our first real meeting was a few days ago, the women had a blast even though it hadn't gone exactly as I'd planned. I had wanted them to draw a community map to sort of envisage for themselves their village. They wanted to actually go house to house and talk about malaria (a topic we had discussed in a previous meeting [we, including me, sang a song for them in Lokpa!]). We went house to house. There were a few problems but, like I said, the women absolutely loved it. And as long as they do I have no problem at all with changing my plans around.

Homecoming

I came back to post after traveling a bit for some Peace Corps functions to find my little Beninese village flooded with people. Loud music emananted out of "downtown" and the streets were so choked with human beings my zemidjan was hard pressed just to drop me off at the house. Looking around I saw large, loud women dressed to the nines in colorful matching outfits with outlandish headwraps, invading the surrounding airspace at odd angles. A brass band errupted into noise and rythm with abandon. A voice from deep within the ever-expanding crowd was struggling with a microphone and the touchy, generator-fueled technology that supported it. A fete (festival) was in full swing.

I had been waiting for this particular fete almost since I first arrived back in September and was ecstatic that it had finally come. This, I knew, would be a full week-long fiesta in which every current and past resident of the village returns to party, dance, and discuss the community's future development. But mostly to party.

The result was often a strange mix: young men returning from bigger cities like Parakou, Cotonou, or even Niamey had come back sporting corn-rows and long, silver chains with "50cent" medallions. They looked more like American youths coming back from a concert in comparison with the shaven village boys who wore worn, hand-me-downs bought at the local market. Returning women exuded wealth with their elaborate outfits, hairstyles, and manicures, and men with flashy new motorcycles and cellphones. I heard French more and more, and was called "yovo" so much it felt like the past eight months had been erased and I had just stepped off the plane.

Each regional group (e.g. all those returning from Cotonou) had prepared their own unique dance which was performed for the crowd throughout the week. When a dancer was thought to be good, candy was stuck to their forehead--when they were really good, money. Here again was an opportunity to display one's success and accumulated wealth in the difference between a 25 franc piece, 500 franc piece, or 1.000 franc paper bill that one plastered across the forehead of a particular dancer. At night when the performances were finished the youths took over, blasting popular music and dancing until all hours of the night.

During the day the elders held meetings to discuss the village's development. Held "downtown" under the mango and baobab trees, these meetings were often large and predominantly male (I never saw more than three women present, myself included). Ideas were presented, and grievances expressed. The progress on the new school being built just outside the village limits was reported as well as the past year's expenditure for the local village association (who hosted the fete). Generally, it was the local residents who did most of the talking.

The entire week the village was charged with an electric energy--the village was full, things were happening, people were happy. This carnival atmosphere sustained itself until Saturday. On Sunday everyone was gone; the village was empty again. Slowly, almost like a deflated balloon, villagers took up their old posts and jobs again and began to live the quiet, normal life they had briefly left during the fete.

I found out afterwards that the fete made national television--complete with several shots of the local American dancing along with the best of them.

Working girl

Our first project is finished.

Friday my post-mate and myself held a workshop for health workers on HIV/AIDS. Specifically the day was supposed to be a training of trainers to introduce more engaging and interactive community education techniques (think games). This would be a refreshing break from the more routine lecture format or the style of the all-knowing God bequeathing knowledge unto all the mere mortals.

There were some kinks.

Our time-frame (based on the grant we wrote for the project) was short. We didn't pay enough attention to the group dynamics of our trainers (there were four). We were blind-sided by the absolute importance of the chain-of-command in Beninese society (juniors v. elders). Finally, and most importantly, there was the money.

From what we can gather, years ago when "development" first began to be bandyed about as a cure-all for post-colonial/independence crises a prevelant train of thought was that if we just pump money into the situation and step back things will right themselves. This has obviously not worked.

One actual result of this history has been an automatic connection between money and development work. This means that when people are asked to participate in a development meeting/workshop/training one of their first thoughts is how much money they will recieve at the end of it (as in, actual cash handed to them for simply attending). Now this isn't to say that every single person thinks this, just that many people do. And that it was a major problem at our workshop.

Was it a success? A disaster? It was a learning process with growing pains. We're a little wiser for next time, more prepared, ready.

A new school

"Yes?"
"I said, are you watching my hand?"
"Uh, yes.."
"Ok repeat that back to me."
"Ma-iss-moo-ki!"
"What does that mean?"
"It means: what is your name?"
"Right, now let me see how you wrote it.."

The teacher looks over what I had hastily scribbled moments before (I hadn't been paying attention) and claims that I've copied his Arabic script perfectly. I'm not buying it.

I'm in a tin-roofed shack on a hill in the middle of Quran school. The other students are taking an exam while I'm recieving my very first lesson in Arabic. The whole thing was a chance meeting--I was on my way to catch a taxi to Togo when the teacher here stopped me to talk a bit. He asked me to join in and I said of course! After the lesson I agreed to return every Wednesday evening, "we also have class Saturdays and Sundays," he tells me. I'm not that gung-ho I say with a laugh as I go to shake his hand. The teacher smiles uncomfortably, shifts his weight and says, "oh, you know, between men and women...if they're not married we don't really shake hands..." Oh. Right. "Not a problem!" I say laughing at my own blunder, "see you next Wednesday!"

Some Thoughts on the Ever-Accumulating Dust

I'm in Nattitangou writing a grant with my post-mate for an HIV/AIDS education workshop we are hoping to hold in February so I thought I would drop you all a few lines.

Harmattan has begun in earnest. This means that strong winds are blowing in from the northwest, bringing cool, dry weather and Saharan sands with them. In the practical terms of my day-to-day life this translates into very cold mornings, minor respiratory problems, and some of the dirtiest motorcyle rides I have ever experienced (aided and abetted by my entirely visor-less helmet).

Dust is everywhere.

And since we're nearing the heart of the dry season work in the fields has started slowly winding down--in its place controlled brush fires are set to drive out rodents and other animals for young men to hunt down and bludgeon with clubs (my friends have all promised to take me with them one of these days..).

Still in all, a few have predicted rough times ahead. The rains this past year have done quite a bit of damage--from the tearing down of mud-brick buildings and homes to the destruction of needed crops. Coupled with a widespread inaccessibilty to expensive fertilizer has meant a lower overall yield leading some to worry about the approaching scarcity of the dry season.

While very real, such warnings shouldn't be blown out of proportion: I hardly expect a famine. The real crisis is far more gradual and deeply rooted--the daily grind of poverty, made that much more difficult by a few added ecological and economic factors.