Harmattan to Chaleur

During the months of December and January the air became a little cooler, it’s called Harmattan. During this season the winds came down from the Sahel of the Sahara Desert. The mornings are hazy; sand ligers in the air while my neighbors sweep the area in front of our house. The villagers would shield themselves from the cold by staying in their homes until they had no choice but to start the morning chores. Babies were dressed in knitted hats, jackets and booties. Others wore sweatshirts, pants under pants, down jackets; one day I noticed Tayé (an apprentice) wearing a jacket made for firefighters- how it got to Benin beats me.

I too felt the chill. There were some nights when I needed to sleep in a sweatshirt and socks. The mornings I would wake up, make a cup of coffee with my French press and crawl back into bed with a book- I loved it! You are probably wondering how cold it actually got, well… my thermometer never fell below 70 o, not cold by our standards but hey, it was at least 20 o cooler than normal.

Too quickly the days grow hotter. Harmattan was coming to an end. The transition to chaleur or the hot, dry season meant an end to mornings drinking hot coffee and a beginning of profuse sweating. Tomatoes have become almost impossible to find and basins are piled up at the pump; women spend hours waiting for water. However, this is also the season for cashews. For the risk of sounding dumb, I never knew cashews grew on trees- huh. They grow on the bottom of a cashew apple, a fruit filled with juices that stains your clothes, but are so delicious!

One day walking around, I was beckoned by one of the men who work at our “gas station,” in other words a little shack where they sells gas and do some moto repairs. The men were in the process of cracking grilled cashews and asked if I wanted to join. Of course I did! So I was offered a tiny stool, handed a wrench, and with minimal explanation I began cracking. It was quite a sight for those passing by to see me, in a clean pair of jeans and a button down shirt, sitting with a bunch of men covered in soot around a pile of cashews. I soon learned the secret- eat more than you put in the finished pile, something I was glad to do. After this little pow wow, I was invited to stay and eat bouille (a gruel, porridge like thing made from corn flour and lots of sugar). That afternoon I was just one of the guys.

(My neighbors Dione, top, and Prisca, bottom, grilling and cracking cashews.)

But the glories of eating cashews are not enough to win me over. Lately, I wake up sweating and go to bed sweating. Walking any distance longer than 50 feet and I’m drenched; after cooking I look like I’ve been sitting in a sauna. I stopped using my lantern as much because it gives off extra heat. And for a while, I would lay outside on my porch at night, waiting for my house to cool down a bit before crawling under my mosquito net.

Besides the continuous sweating, constant applying and reapplying of sunblock and the endless desire for something cold to drink in a village where refrigerators are few, I also have new habitants in my home trying to find shade. Spiders, geckos, and crickets I’m used to, even the really big hairy spiders I can deal with, but the scorpion I found behind my bookshelf- eeck! It took three swats with my sandal to kill it. I saved the remains only long enough to show my neighbors. The first thing they said was “ah kāy kāy” (the word for scorpion in Nagot) and that it stings man. Something I was well aware of.

Hopefully the rainy season will creep up as quickly as the chaleur did. Already it’s rained twice, both times only for a few minutes, but it was welcomed.

C'est la Vie

I've finally started my work at the health center and it has been going well. I talk to pregnant women and mothers of infants about proper nutrition for them and their children. I've learned about a lot of taboos that they have (for example its said that if pregnant women eat eggs they will have a miscarriage) and mothers often do what their told by the elders even if they know its wrong (when one mother’s month old baby was sick she was told by her mother in law that if she didn't give him water it would be her fault he died, so the mom gave him water, probably not clean, even though she new it wasn't the right thing to do). These sessions help me realize that behaviors are much harder to change than giving information and perhaps the moms won't be allowed to make drastic changes now, but I hope that when they become grandmothers they will be less likely to pass along false information concerning the health of their grandchildren. The sessions are translated by one of the apprentices for hardly any of the women who come speak French and sometimes not even the same language so the info has to be translated twice. Sometimes the apprentice takes over which inspires me that he could continue giving the sessions without me present- my ultimate goal.

The sessions also help me become familiar with more faces in the community and I get to see a lot of cute kids that come. Lately I see the same mothers at the market and noticed a higher level of interaction with them. And there are fewer questions as to why I'm here. But getting to know the women can have its toll.

Just this past Monday I had a pregnant mom come to listen to one of my talks. There were few that came that day and she understood French so I was able to have a conversation with her. She was 9 months pregnant with her third; however her previous children have died. So when she came back Wednesday and delivered a 6.5 lbs baby boy (large by Benin standards) she was thrilled. I saw her in the health center glowing and shortly after she took him home. Friday she came back to the health center, her son was pale, but she didn't let on that she was nervous. Later that day, my counterpart, the nurse at the health center, told me haphazardly that the newborn died.

3 pregnancies, 3 deliveries, 3 lives unlived.

I was lead to her house by one of the apprentices later that day to give my regards. I found her there, sitting on the floor, tears streaming down her face. You would think at a time like this my foreign status wouldn't matter, but no, I was still paid attention to when all the while I just wanted to comfort her. I couldn't understand what the others were saying but it sounded more like blame than support. Needing to get some air and hide my own emotions, I knelt down beside her and gave her a hug, the only gesture I know in times like these, and left. That day I cried in front of my college, something I don't think he knew how to handle.

It shouldn' t be that hard to introduce a new life into this world.

Long Live the King

Not too long ago the people of a subdivision of my village A (it is required that we do not post the names of our villages) decided that they too were a village on their own, a village with an approximate population between 400-600 people. I’m not quite sure the need or advantage of having two small villages instead on one; but to the people of A2, it was essential. Of course members of village A were against the decision and forbid anyone from A2 from crossing the border. This dispute lasted a few nights with out me noticing anything until I was told about “la guerre” or the war as it was called. I was in no harm for I am neither considered village A or A2- I am both, but during the trifles some were sent to the hospital with wounds from beatings and one person even lost an eye from a thrown rock.
As with most family disputes la guerre didn’t last long and being their own village, A2 established their own market, a few stalls where people gather to chat, and they elected a King. The King selected comes from a royal blood line and is one of the oldest in the village. He is well respected and highly regarded even though he has little former education and is of the same occupation as most of the villagers. After being chosen he was required to remain at his home for a period of 9 weeks. After his “probation” was concluded there was going to be a three day celebration. As with most celebrations, people purchased “même tissu,” or same fabric and t-shirts that were made with an imprint of the King’s face. So, early on a Friday morning the celebration began, the King left his house and with a train of people following him, he made his way through the village to the newly established market which just happens to be outside my front porch. Noticing the commotion, I left my house to get a better look. Before I knew it I was pushed to the center of the mass of people where the King, dressed in the traditional “bomba” and wearing thick red beaded necklaces, prayed for me as he tapped me with his wand made from an animal’s tail.
The cluster of people soon broke apart as people sang and danced their way back to the King’s home. I too went along and looked back at the remains of the cluster to see people dipping their hands into a mud puddle created by water spilled by the King. It’s “girs-gris” they said or protection from evil. At the King’s home the women and a few men took off their sandals (that is if they were wearing any) sung and danced to the tapping of drums and bowing to the King ever so often. (The proper way to bow is to get into a pushup position and remain there until the King gives permission to rise.) After a while I was in need to wash up and eat something, but was informed to hurry back.
On my way back, the delegate, or elected representative of village A2, spotted me and dragged my by the arm to the King. There I removed my sandals and bowed (not an official bow, but my American attempt) as he prayed for me the second time that day. Afterwards the delegate beckoned for “Chou” a beer made from millet with a bit of sweetness to it. So, not wanted to be rude I took the drink and then I was whisked away by the delegate to go pay our respects to a family who’s “vieux” or old man recently died. There we were giving liquor (have I mentioned this was still before noon), I tried to politely refuse but he wouldn’t accept. So I slowly sipped the glass of liquor hoping he wouldn’t notice if I left the glass full when it was time to go. After this, the delegate was satisfied with my actions and left me to enjoy more of the festivities that day.
On the second day of the celebration, as well as the first, people would unexpectedly break out into singing and dancing while preparing food or waiting at the water pump. That afternoon there was a soccer game in which the players wore shoes that didn’t fit or no shoes at all. The King was the honored guest and made an entrance accompanied by the wise Mamas whom also wore the thick red beaded necklaces. The game ended in a tie and that gave enough cause to celebrate, again. (At the soccer game: kids crowding to get in the picture; drummers)

I was told that the third day was when I should were my outfit that I had made. So wanting to become well integrated I put on the meme tissu and went in search of where I should be. I found my neighbors, Prisca, Blandine and Dione (ages 11 and 12) feasting at the King’s house, but none of the Mamas that I was looking for, so I continued walking. Soon enough I was spotted (quite easily considering I’m the only white person) by the Mamas, the same Mamas from the New Year’s fête. They were in process of preparing the food in honor of the King and directed me to have a seat with the men. I noticed that the men were wearing the outfits from New Years, but I was assured I didn’t have to change because the women would be wearing the King’s tissu. Then the first Mama arrived, she was wearing her New Year’s bomba, almost immediately the response was take Rachelle home so she can change. The gesture was welcomed for it made me feel like an actual member of the “association” as they call us.

So I ended the King’s celebration eating pâte rouge, drinking cold beverages, listening to music, wearing même tissu with the people who have accepted me most into the community. A great way to end any weekend. (Me with Mama- my counterpart's wife, Pascaline, and their daughter, Amidath)