Down in the valley with the whiskey rivers

oh you guys, I’ve been sitting on the floor of the work station, staring at facebook and trying to drum up the steam to type up everything about my life to tell you guys. I’m exhausted already, there’s just so much to tell and it’s gonna have to wait. BUT I will give you a couple of anecdotes that will give you a bit of the flavor of my life here.

I shaved my legs for the first time in a month the other day, and as my actual legs were revealed (a month is a loooong time, just in case you didn’t know) I noticed that my legs were actually covered in a bunch of small bruises that I’d never noticed because of all the dirt and hair. (I actually know where most of these bruises are from though, which is pretty uncommon in la vie de Camille. I got thrown off a zem the other day because there were a bunch of giant cows in the road who wouldn’t move. It was quite an adventure actually, and all I got out of it was a bruise and a good story. I was telling my dad about it last night and how normal it is when it dawned on me that, to me, my life is completely normal but it’s such a different kind of normal. The getting thrown off zems and giant cows in the road and not having to shave kind of normal.)

After the Volunteer Swear-In at the Ambassador’s house (we took the Department of the Interior oath and became real volunteers, not trainees! whoop!) a couple of us went out in Cotonou, the biggest city in Benin. There’s a road that is just full of Western food, where you can get schwarma and burgers and Italian food and Indian food, and we decided we wanted Indian food. We go, and get our chicken tikka masala and everything is just so amazing. We even got to speak in English with the staff (they actually yelled at us for trying to use French!) and we are sitting here, just so happy with our tasty tasty food, and we decided to splurge on some water. He brings us this giant bottle of cold water and we all just melt... oh my god cold water... you don’t even know how tasty that cold water was. It’s the little things, my friends.

I don’t have service in my house so when I talk to other volunteers or my parents, I have to walk out into the bush. I actually have a nice shady spot that I go and I sit under a neem tree just far enough the road to be noticed by some of the passersby. Usually there’s a group of kids standing at the road just staring at me, trying to figure out what I’m doing. Everything I do is weird to my village, they just don’t know what to do with me. Whether I’m running, or gardening, or washing my hair out my door, they just stop and stare and try to puzzle out what this strange white girl is doing in their village with all this hair and movement and speaking french. 

I actually have to go, we’re going to the supermarches to look for can openers and chocolate and toilet paper and all the tasty/important things you can find in the city. More late my sweets!

Happy-Making

friends of the world: I have a new address! (I say new because I've been posting addresses all over the place on Facebook, but for the bloggerverse it's the only address I've given you so far. However, its the best and fastest way to get something* to me.)

Camille Harper Volontaire
BP 358 (Corps de la Paix)
Parakou, Benin
Afrique L'ouest

*And by something, I mean letters and packages and pictures and candy and cheez-its and play-doh and whatever other lovely things you can send to a cheese starved friend in Benin. Thank you in advance, thank you to those who have sent things already, and pleas for kindness to those in the middle.



And I actually hate to do this, but these are all the things I am hurting for in Benin:

lots of those mio squeezy drink packets. I'm absolutely terrified of running out. I have been pacing
myself but damn, I can only drink hot boring water so much. It's my special treat of the day.
dark chocolate m&ms and reeses pieces.
CHEEZ-ITS (girl, you know!)
new music 
magazines! cosmo and natgeo and newsweek and anything lovely or gossipy or smart or trashy. except people, people pisses me off.
stamps and letters. sooo many letters, I can't even begin to explain how happy a letter makes me
pepperoni/summer sausage
sauce packets (pesto, alfredo, mushroom gravy, taco, asian story-frys and teriyaki, anything that looks tasty) and seasonings
That sprinkly stuff you put on popcorn to make it taste buttery/cheesy/ranchy whatever. I found popcorn at the market and it has changed my life.
parmesan cheese

anything else lovely/tasty/dancey/awesome/fun/happy-making. I trust you guys. Thanks a million!

People Call Us Renegades 'Cuz We Like Living Crazy

I've been in village for one month today!! AHHHHHH! obviously I'm not in village right now, since I don't have electricity or internet in my village, but it's crazy that I've been living out in the bush for an entire month now, and it's kind of a big deal how NOT a big deal village life is. The village I live in is called Angaradebou, which is quite a mouthful, and I will tell you all about it and it's crazy, kooky inhabitants and beautiful garden and ridiculous children and colonies of goats on another occasion. However, they all really love me, and they gave me a new name: Pamudo. It's Fulani for "one who pays close attention and thinks ahead." 

So, I’ve been blogging the old fashioned way, in my handy dandy journal. But I promise I have been hoarding ridiculous things to tell all you lovelies, about life in Benin and eating soy cheese and reading too many books and gardening under the African sun and jogging in the savannah and all the other things I do and think and watch. A running theme throughout the first month of being in my village are the things that are normal, which otherwise would not be at all. 

Things That Are Just A Part of my Life Now

• Riding around on motorcycles on roads that were probably never good roads but, because it’s the rainy season, are now barely passable. I was riding on a zem the other day to Kalale (the seat of my communes mayor’s office) and it started raining and the roads turned into mud and we were soaked in a minute and lakes formed in what used to be the road and it was a grand adventure. 
• I traded tundra naps for bush naps. One of my first days in village, like a giant fool, I rode my bike to my market village, Peonga, which is about 8km away. (In all fairness, that is not far but bush distances are a whole different ball game.) In the heat of the damn day. I almost died. Instead of dying though, I decided to take a couple of breaks under some shady trees along the way. At one such point I was so tired that I just laid down in the bush and closed my eyes. After about 5 minutes of repose I looked up to discover that I was surrounded by about 30 giant cows, white and black with giant horns and massive shoulder blades and swatting bushy tails. When I sat up and they were startled and ran away like I was an alien. (I guess I kinda am.)
• Haggling. It was a joy in Thailand but incredibly stressful in French but now that I’ve got my language under control I’ve got my groove back. The secret in Thailand was the walk-away but here, it’s the disbelieving “Eh?!”, the all-knowing head tilt (“Now you and I know both know better than that.”) and sometimes it’s the joking and laughing that get you where you need to be. At least that worked when I bought my buckets in the market.
• Siestas on the floor. This has been my life since I’ve been here, and it’s quickly becoming my favorite part of the day. A girl can get used to socially acceptable napping; also it’s completely necessary, as another volunteer told me it was 109 degrees in the shade the other day. 
• Kids coming to my doorstep just to watch. Whether I’m cooking dinner, watching my water boil, or reading on my mat, I seem to provide hours of entertainment to the kids in my concession, mostly on account of being white and having eyebrows that weren’t drawn on with eyeliner. They must listen for the sound of my door to open (it is certainly not quiet, my old creaky door) and then begins a day of trying to sneak in the door, touch my things, peek in windows or, maybe, just the silent watching of a white girl turning oxygen into carbon dioxide. 
• Watching the rain and napping. I absolutely love it. I’ve always loved the rain but here it’s just so earnest... “I’m gonna rain, dammit, and I don't care if you need to go somewhere or do something today. I might rain for 10 minutes or 3 days and you’ll have to deal with it.”
• Goat or baby? It’s my new favorite game. It’s usually goat, for some reason the Beninese goats just shriek every chance they get, and they sound like crazy humans being murdered.
• Sand in my bed. It’s like going to the beach, without the beach. I think my homemade bush broom is my favorite possession, I use it like 5 times a day. There is sand EVERYWHERE.
• Thinking every sickness is malaria. I was deathly ill the other day and all I could think was “Please don’t be malaria! Oh God, I have malaria.” Well, that’s what I though after “Please don’t pass out in the middle of all these people and crash into a pile of soja cheese or get run over by a zem!” Of course it was market day in Peonga at the time, so there were people everywhere buying and haggling and selling and yelling and walking and trying to buy my hair. (I was actually in the market today when somebody asked me for my hair. "Il faut me donner ca! You must give me your hair!" Obviously I declined. My hair gets just as much attention as my clear skin on most days. That's what they say, we're not white we're clear.)
• Sitting and Watching. Not to be confused with Sitting and Waiting, because I’m usually not waiting when I’m S&W-ing. My favorite place to do this is the garden, leaning against the cistern in the shade. You get to watch all kinds of extraordinarily normal things this way - the other day I watched a couple of cows bumble good-naturedly into the garden, and the melee that followed when their young cowherds had to chase them out. It was all quite amusing.
• Not being able to tell if that slide of something under my shirt, across my ankle, down my leg, is sweat or a bug. It is equally likely to be the bug or the sweat, unfortunately, though I’m not sure which one is better or worse. 
• The smell of kerosene. I’m starting to find that I have more in common with the heroines of Jane Austen/sexy historical novels than my formal life. Also, I must write more letters than Elizabeth Bennet ever did. 

Of course there are a million other things, pantomiming and just-say-yes-ing and children touching me and people asking me when I’m going to get married and have kids (or pantomiming it, which is rather amusing) and eating as little pate as possible. But here’s one last thing for tonight, a kismet welcoming present from the fm gods on my first night in my village: I was sitting in my room, taking a break from packing, when I hear from my window... “All I need... is a beauty and a beat... who can make my life compleeeeeeete.” In the middle of the smallest village of this nobody’s-ever-heard-of-it country on this lightyears-behind-any-progressive-culture continent, I hear Justin Bieber singing one of my all time favorite Bieber jams. Welcome to Angaradebou, Pamudo. 

A teut a l'huere, my cheries!

Work Station Days and Nights

oh my god, my life here is so ridiculous. Last night I was flipping through a month old Rolling Stone and I didn't recognize any of the top 10 songs on iTunes right now, so I made another volunteer who had just returned from America sing them for me. I want everyone who reads this to take a private moment to be grateful for the following things: cold water whenever you want it; fall weather; the fact that your feet are probably clean right now (mine haven't been clean since I got here); salad whenever you want it; fried pickles; fans that actually work (I have a ceiling fan in my house but no electricity, someone explain that to me please); the ability, and reason, to look cute; TACOS.

"It's because white people always look lost and hungry, which is usually true."

First of all, I would just like to explain to you how I got to have internet today. I took a twenty minute ride on the back of a zem, or one of the taxi-motorcycles that are the only forms of transport, piled three people deep. Then I went to one cyber cafe, whose internet was down. Then I zemmed to another internet cafe and negotiated the price of internet in French. Altogether, it probably took an hour and a half to find internet. I say that not in a bitter way, because it was kind of a hilarious adventure and I managed to find some lebanese food along the way; instead I say that as an excuse for why you I have been silent as a church mouse, and for that I am sorry and have this one excuse: I LIVE IN AFRICA NOW! And I really rather like it...

Africa is so many things, all fighting and scrambling to be the first impression on your mind: hot, then vibrant, then loud, beautiful, impossibly old, wonderfully kind, dirty, alive, practical, tired, full of growing things, skinny children, the freshest fruit, trash, laughter, moto upon moto upon taxi moto. Every moment is divided into two things: first the vision with American eyes, in which I look upon the event/person/task with unfamiliar eyes and compare it to America; and then there is the realization that of all the things I know, these capable women know how to do everything better than I (except perheps be idle or make compost). I say women because, although this society is incredibly, heart-breakingly patriarchal, while the men are off looking for second wives or driving cars, the women are running and feeding and washing this entire country.

And speaking of women, I went from being an only chid to gaining five sisters, a little brother, three darling little nieces, a princess mama, a jolly old papa, three chickens, two skeptical guard dogs, a skinny little kitten, and innumerable lizards. I’ve never been very girly, which my sister’s have picked up on, and they have taken on the task of fussing over my fluffy hair (all the more fluffy for the incessant humidity), gifting me with earrings and hair bows, and making sure all my new dresses are as kick-ass as possible. (Rest-assured this is true - every dress I’ve had made is better than the last, and this is a country that knows how to do clothes. Maybe they got that, as well as their language and their school system, from the French.) My little brother likes to boss me around in french and promenade me around the village, showing off his yovo to all his neighbors and friends. (Yovo is the term for white person, which is shouted from packs of wild children every where I go, as well as from uncles and neighbors and, occasionally, the other volunteers in various shades of irony and humor. The humor is slowly being seeped out of the term, however there is no malice - the villagers just like the novelty of white people.)

I live in the village of Misserete, which is posh in that it has electricity, and some of my comrades even have running water and televisions! Imagine coming to Africa only to watch James Bond in French! My family, with it’s gaggle of women, has a television, whose sole purpose seems to hold up the sullen photos of my family. For such an alive culture, the Beninois like to present themselves as stoic and mean in their photos, which can’t be farther from the truth as I’ve never met so many women constantly shouting laughter and jokes in a language I don’t understand. (My family, along with their scraps of French, speaks Fon and Goon. I know about 5 words in either language.) For you googlers out there, Misserete is about 10 miles outside of Porto Nove, the largest city in Benin and the place where you can find hamburgers and olive oil if you know where to go; otherwise its pate blanche and palm oil, all day everyday. (Pate blanche is kinda like grits without all the butter and salt and cheese that makes it good, and more solid.) There’s actually quite a few yovos in Misserete also, which is nice. All of the Environmental Action volunteers, like me, are in Misserete for training, so we got to school for nine hours a day and learn french, french, french, some stuff about gardening, french, and french, and then we’ll go grab a beer at the local buvette (the bar) and sit under the mango tree, gossiping and unwinding and talking about how EA volunteers are the best. 

Obviously, being two months in, there are a million other things to tell, gossip and food stories and funny language trip ups and long bus rides and always being sweaty and dirty and making vegetables with my hand, but I'm afraid there is just not enough time. But, my dearies, I'm getting the hang of it and having as many adventures as I can, all so you'll know these few things about Africa. A teut a l'huere!

FAQs

One big fat week before my big fat adventure begins! AHHHHH! And because everyone knows a little bit about the peace corps, but not a lot about Benin or what I'm doing or why I'm going or when they'll see me again or if the food is tasty, I'd like to enlighten all your wonderful selves in one fell swoop.

Q: How long will you be gone? WHAT??

A: My term of service is for 27 months. That includes three months of training in Porto Novo, the capital of the country, and two years of actual service. As for where I'll be once I begin my actual service, I have no idea. I'll be sure to fill you wonderful creatures in once I get the glorious news myself.

Q: Will you come home during your service?

A: Honestly, I have no idea. From what I've googled randomly, it is very expensive to fly to Cotonou, one of the largest cities in Benin, and the Peace Corps does not pay for weekend trips to the States for air conditioning and bacon cheeseburgers. They DO however fly me home for family emergencies, so you guys need to start pretending to be my cousins and maybe plan a "catastrophe" around Christmas. And I do have the option of coming home with my own money and vacation time (which I do earn!). So if you guys want to start donating to the Camille-wants-to-come-home fund, we are now accepting donations. But as of right now, I have no idea if I will a) be able to, or b) want to use my vacation time to come home or to go traveling or both, or whatever.

Q: How can I get in touch with you?

A: Oh you! I know I know, you already miss me and my wit and charm. Obviously my internet will be spotty, as bringing wi-fi to the rest of the world is kinda low down the priority list. But I do have this here blog and my Facebook (naturally). I will be sure to keep them updated on all my shenanigans. Also, once I get all settled, apparently you will be able to call my cell phone from a skype account. For the interested parties I will be happy to pass along my phone number for phone calls from the bush. And there are always letters! I'll post my address soon but I would love love love to receive some letters, especially the kind with stickers and trashy celebrity news and juicy gossip.

Q: What will you be doing?

A: Ummm... My official title will be Natural Resources Advisor in the Environment/Agriculture sector! Yay!

Q: What does that mean?

A: Ha! I'm not quite sure, and that's where that three months of training will come in. Obviously part of that will be language and cultural immersion but that also will clue me in on the environmental issues within the country, and from there I'll know what needs to be done and how I can help. From what I understand, mostly that will mean working in schools, with kids mostly, and teaching them good environmental and agricultural habits and creating a sustainable basis to grow the country towards the future. What a mouthful! Secondly through hundredly, I'll be teaching AIDS education, language training, healthy habits, progressive gender roles, et cetera, et cetera. I will definitely fill you lovelies in on all that once I get the deets as well.

Sound like I'm still not sure what exactly is going on? Yessiree! I'm flying by the seat of my quasi-français-speaking pantalons.

That's all for now my dears! Perhaps I'll follow up with a part two soon. 

Limbo

I find myself in a very strange kind of limbo these days. I have three weeks to go before I set off for Benin, and as I've (mostly) finished working, my life has taken on a very lethargic pattern: Game of Thrones, swim in the pool, lay in the hammock, drive all over the planet, google everything Benin, and read a thousand books until the next episode of Game of Thrones. I'm trying to strike a balance between Be-As-Lazy-As-Possible (since I imagine this brand of HBO and  cheez-it laziness will soon be a thing of the past) and See-Everyone-And-Do-Everything (since I'll be hard-pressed to find baseball games and picnics with my dad in the bush). I can only imagine how different my life will be once I get to Africa, and I know these cat-nap days are numbered, but my! how they are sweet.

Limbo definitely describes the doing, but also the thinking. I've definitely come to terms with the fact that it's happening, and I am looking towards it with a kind of reverence reserved for the actual and not merely the possible. This manifests itself in minor panic attacks ("How many ponytail holders should I bring? Is fifty too many?! What about BOBBY PINS??") to a small stockpile of toothpaste and granola bars. My mom jumped on the bandwagon today by being uncharacteristically worried about the durability of my hairbrush.

I suspect I'll have to store these moments up for those long African summers, and winters that feel like summers, as I struggle and succeed and sweat and teach and laugh and cry and eat strange things and wash laundry and plant seeds and speak français and everything else I couldn't even guess at.

that's all I have for you, lovelies. can't wait to tell you about the exciting things, I just have to get there first!