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!"