TravelStream™ news feed for member kelleyinafrica on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/kelleyinafrica en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sun, 08 May 2005 14:01:24 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1115574540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1115574540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1115574540/tpod.html Sun, 08 May 2005 14:01:24 -0400 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Bembereke, Benin

This entry is basically a manner to preserve digital images that others have taken with digital cameras and emailed to me. The photos here are of my best friend and her daughter, Clarisse who is a little over two years old now... so I have known her for her entire life and love her to pieces. They are both incredible. Hadiza, my friend, in a story too long for a travel blog lived in the U.S. for twelve years. I am in the process of trying to obtain a visitors visa for her and Clarisse(her daughter) to visit the United States...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1115563080/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1115563080/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1115563080/tpod.html Sun, 08 May 2005 13:48:58 -0400 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Bembereke, Benin

Well, considering I haven't updated my travelpod in what seems like centuries, and as it seems I rarely write about Bembereke itself, I have today a few thoughts...albeit a bit late.
March 8th is International Women's Day, and while not so important in the U.S. where women have a lot of rights, it is a very important in places like Benin where women's importance is continually downplayed and denied. Hence, I helped organize my second women's day celebration in Bembereke and this year, it was an amazing success. We's advertised on the radio, put up fliers all over town, had t-shirts made... I was so proud of my community mostly because so many showed up and women of all different ethnic backgrounds came- Peulh, Ibo, Yoruba, Fon, and Bariba were all there. Women belonging to different groups (coiffures, cleaners, teachers, etc) all participated in the parade, dancing, sketches, and presentations. It was a great day and it felt incredible.
The other photos I am including are of the mountain in Bembereke and of myself hanging out in Bembereke. It really is a beautiful place. The rain has just started after a seven month break... and it is welcome...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1105385640/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1105385640/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1105385640/tpod.html Fri, 14 Jan 2005 15:01:35 -0500 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Bohicon, Benin

January tenth marks the new year on the calendar of the cult of voodoo in Benin, and as such, is a national holiday. I made arrangements to attend a traditional ceremony in Bohicon, near Abomey, the cultural capitol of Benin.
Met by Dah, the son of the voodoo chief and a traditional healer, I was brought to a ceremony in which people, all dressed in white, prayed and made offerings to the gods and to their ancestors for a safe new year.
Interestingly, it is said that the white is worn due to the proximity of the holiday to the winter solstace. After this day, days grow longer and longer, thus it is sign of light. In addition, the white symbolizes the cult of mamiwata (the gods of water) worshippers.
In the center of the room was a pool of water around which money and bottles of alcohol were offered as sacrifices to the gods. People went one by one to pray for the gods blessings in the new year and then danced away. We all prayed head, knees and hands to the ground several times while people played drums, rattles, and sang songs. It was an incredibly intense and interesting experience.
At one point, we went outside to call all the spirits of the world into the building. Then we prayed to send away all the bad ones. In the end, the ceremony was to bring blessings to all present in the new year.
After the ceremony, we ate lunch with the voodoo chief and his son. We also went to the ancestors house, a house kept especially for ancestors, where the chiefs son, the traditional healer, performed divinations ie: told peoples fortunes.
I asked two questions, only one of which I will share here and vaguely at that. I asked about my future, a certain situation --oh-- and it could be anyone,anything alas... Dah told me that it is not fate that we I should do this thing, but that it is in my power to make it my fate.
But, does one force destiny?
No.
And thus begins another year of trusting the universe instead.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1096449420/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1096449420/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1096449420/tpod.html Sat, 23 Oct 2004 05:54:22 -0400 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Agadez, Niger

After Niamey, we headed to Agadez, which is a full day away from Niamey... a very long trip. It has the feeling of a forgotten tourist town. Each child knows one French phrase, "Bon jour! Donne-moi cadeau." (Good morning, give me a gift). Agadez also hosts an ancient mosque constructed from sticks and mud- a very beautiful site. We were also lucky to be received by the Sultan of Agadez. We sat and drank cold water (which is better than gold in the desert), and he reminisced about his travels in the United States and Europe. We saw all his photos with the royal family of Holland and ambassadors from all over the world. He was remarkably down-to-earth for royalty, which seems to be the case here in Africa. I have now met two Kings, countless princes, and one sultan, and with the exception of some cocky princes, they have all seemed very grounded.
The highlight of the trip was our trip into the desert with the nomadic people of Niger known as Wadabi or Bororo. The name means outsider or those left-behind because of all the Peulh tribes in Niger, they were the last to convert to Islam. We arrived at their camp the last night of a huge meeting of different groups. The young men dressed up in beautiful African cloths and beads, painted their faces red, and wore a turban topped by a peacock feather. Then, they stood in a circle singing and dancing for hours. They were such a mystical, beautiful sight. It seemed unreal being there.
We had gone to their camp hoping to witness a Garawal, which is the marriage ritual of the Wadabi. What we saw upon arrival was incredible, but it was not the Garawal. We were told that Garawal would take place somewhere else in a few days... so we went to the nearest town and waited... A few days later, we rented a four by four and set out again into the desert. The first night we drove for ten hours, but could not find the festival... We slept on the desert floor until the next morning. In the afternoon, we found a Wadabi camp and they were holding their Garawal that night. But, first, they were moving camp, so up on camels we went. We moved to an area with a watering hole nearby and set up camp.
That night we saw a Garawal- a real Garawal, not an orchestrated tourist event, but the real festival. Their preparation before the dance was intense- they preened and prodded, applying make-up, looking in the mirror again and again. It was rather funny watching such vain young men; it is their belief that they are God's chosen beautiful people and they take that burden very seriously. During the ceremony, a row of nine young men dressed in their colorful beads and face paint, danced in a line with a fire dividing them from the young girls. They sang and danced for hours and then the girls came and chose the 'prettiest' from among them.
What is most amazing to me is that these people live year round in what has to be the harshest environment I have ever experienced. After dying of thirst in the burning sun, you just want a little shade, but there are no trees. After miles of traveling, you want to sit down and rest, but there are evil sticker bushes everywhere. They have no homes, no huts, only blankets and camels. There was a time when I romanticized the nomad lifestyle, that whole wandering soul idea. Well, I have decided, I only enjoy nomadism when it doesn't involve deserts, endless emptiness, and an angry sun. That anyone can live that way and maintain such a unique culture is incredible... and that is what made Niger worthwhile.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1096362720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1096362720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1096362720/tpod.html Sat, 23 Oct 2004 05:43:41 -0400 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Niamey, Niger

Aside from having the dubious honor of being the poorest nation on earth (Burkina Faso dukes it out with Niger each year), I knew little about the country to my north here in Benin. Niger conjured images of desert and camels, turbaned people, and thirst... yes thirst... In that regard, Niger met all my expectations- there was desert, there were camels, there were turbaned folk... and I was terribly thirsty the entire trip.
The trip began with an eight hour ride up to Niamey from my home in Northern Benin. Bembereke (my village) is a particularly lush place, so the contrast in Niger was immediate and stark. Slowly, trees give way to shrubs, shrubs give way to rocks, rocks give way to sand. And, the houses... In Benin, many houses are cement structures with tin roofs. There are also some mud huts with thatch roofs. In Niger, there are no cement buildings- everything is mud and everything is poorly constructed. The difference between the sixth poorest nation on earth (Benin) and the first (Niger) was astute. In Benin, people are needy, but in Niger, they are desperate. It was an extremely difficult trip as the begging was non-stop; there was no peace from it. All that being said, the experience was incredibe. Niger is truly a wild place. Having fiercely resisted colonialisation, native culture and language has thrived. It was much more difficult to find people who spoke French in Niger.
Niamey is a strange city simply because it is smack dab in the middle of nowhere. It is not so unlike Cotonou except there are less paved roads and the desert continually encroaches. The highlight of Niamey was a day trip out to see the giraffes who live nearby. We rented a taxi and headed out into the blazing sun. When we arrived, as we had been told, a million people were waiting on the side of the road to be our guide. We, being sucker Americans, decided to take a young boy as our guide. Needless to say, he wasn't much help so we drove around the bush in a taxi when we needed a freakin 4 by 4. Eventually, we ran in to some nomad kids who had seen the giraffes earlier in the day, so they jumped in the car and off we went.
When we found the giraffes, our 'guides' promptly began a strange whistling sound. At first, we were afraid that they would scare the giraffes away, but to our surprise, the opposite occurred. They came out of the bush and watched us, their ears perked up. They were a beautiful and graceful sight- about twelve giraffes standing over the trees watching us. It seemed unreal that these creatures, like everything else in Niger, exist in such a rugged place. They were out of place there, as though they belonged in a storybook of a long-ago paradise. Here, in the midst of sand and nothingness were these strangely quiet survivers- the last tribe of giraffe in West Africa.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095020880/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095020880/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095020880/tpod.html Thu, 16 Sep 2004 10:56:46 -0400 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Accra, Ghana

Here I am, in my hotel room, fifteen minutes after arriving from a six hour journey from Benin to Ghana. I have noticed the food courts, the promises of pizza and real coffee and my heart is ready to give into this surreal dream when I realize that the book I have been reading is gone... Worse yet, I was marking my place in this book with my passport, immunization records, and Peace Corps ID.
Rewind three hours. Suzy and Kelley are at the border of Togo and Ghana hitchhiking in the rain. We walk up and down the street trying to flag down nice cars heading to Accra, avoiding mud puddles pulling down on worn sandals like sink holes. Exasperated, we decide to give it five more minutes before giving up and paying for a damned taxi.
And then came Fred. Fred was a very nice Nigerian man who picked us up and gave us a lift all the way to Accra. Sleepy after the long trip, I kept nodding off in the back seat and as we passed border check points, I sleepily handed my passport to the policemen again and again- a seemingly simple gesture. But, my half-concious mind placed the book between the back seat and the back seat window after the latest interruption in sleep...
After a friendly goodbye with Fred, we made our way to the salvation army started to unpack, and yes, back to the beginning...
There I was without a passport, without an identity, and without a plan. All we knew was: The driver was a Nigerian named Fred who drove a red volvo, and that he would return the next day to Nigeria. Many schemes were hatched in the next 24 hours. I would go to the radio and make an announcement asking a Nigerian named Fred to please bring my passport to the salvation army. We went to the police who called the border to ask them to stop a Nigerian named Fred if he passed on his way back to Nigeria. All possible scenarios passed my mind: He could take my information to the embassy, they will call Peace Corps Benin, I am on the next plane home. He could take my information to the Peace Corps Bureau in Accra, they would call Benin- again, next plane home. He could just not give a rat's ass and do nothing in which case I could try to go into Ghana's interior and cross the borders illegally into Togo and Benin- then report my passport lost. Possible endings: Happy Kelley back in Bembereke, Sad Kelley in jail in Togo. Alas, it seemed I would have to bite the bullet and call Peace Corps myself... next plane out?
Then, we hatched out a great plan- we would wait at the first border check point leaving Accra towards Togo. He would have to pass this point on his way to Nigeria. So, we arrived before the sun to this checkpoint, spent the day with friendly Ghana police officers hour after excruciating hour. Around 11 A.M., I began losing hope because Fred would have had to leave early to make it to Nigeria by nightfall... The police were stopping every Volvo with Nigerian plates (Turns out that almost every Nigerian car is a Volvo)... Life was bleak.
And then, a red Volvo flashed its headlights from the line of cars waiting to go through the checkpoint-- and a tiny crack of salvation opened up in the sky. Yes, Fred from Nigeria was a good man as my intuition had told me all along. He had been searching for us all morning he said, which was why he was late getting to the checkpoint.
So, all is well that ends well, it is said: but, it also must be added that each good deed must be reciprocated in this universe of possibilities... and how I will do that, I do not know. Moral of the story: Only here, in this place so often lacking hope does it rise and expose itself so strongly: Belief brings into being.
Another: Don't not claim vacation days because you are strangely adverse to beaurocratic paper pushing...
...UNLESS the stars are aligned... as they evidently are over Ghana this week.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095244620/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095244620/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095244620/tpod.html Thu, 16 Sep 2004 10:52:04 -0400 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Accra, Ghana

If only Elvis had known: Not only can you live and drive a pink cadillac, but you can also die (or at least be buried) in one. Yes, it's true. Ghana has mastered the art of 'specialty' coffins- it's a tradition, you see. If you're a fisherman, you can get the shrimp coffin; a pilot: they've got an airplane to take you to the great hereafter; a bartender: yep, that's right, a beer bottle.
It seems a bit bizarre that one would be buried encapsulated in their profession here in West Africa where it seems what you do for a livigng takes a backseat to who you are as a person. It seems far more appropriate in America where what we do for a living often defines us. But, I suppose our somber funerals would not respond well to a colorful airplane amongst dark wardrobes and somber prayers. But, here where funerals are a celebration, a night of dancing and drumming, perhaps the elephant in the middle of the room really does go unnoticed. Here, where no one ever REALLY dies (they just kinds cross over, as it were), why not affirm life by taunting death a bit?
Maybe it's a little refreshing to see fun poked at this vicious thing called death. Recalling the story to a friend, they asked in a shocked tone, "You crawled inside a coffin?" And, I thought... no, it was a beer bottle. So, you see, it's all a matter of perspective- death as the great mystery or death as the big avion to the great beyond...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095245220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095245220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1095245220/tpod.html Thu, 16 Sep 2004 10:50:09 -0400 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Kumasi, Ghana

Kumasi, a five hour journey northwest of Accra is a sprawling West African metropolis daunting in its chaos, its absurdly clogged streets, its haphazard attempt at public transportation (AKA tro-tros). And yet, for all its chaos, it's heart was gentle, no meanness or ill-will to be found.
On our first tro-tro to Kumasi Market, our surroundings looked like a forgotten colonial city, stuck in time, dancing to the sound of progress with too many cars and a few internet cafes. As we crossed the bridge to the cultural center, the market sprawled on and on into some unseeable, undefineable distance, tin roofs reflecting the sun's heat under a smoggy sky. It pulsated with life, a freakin galaxy of life swirling around ready to inhale all those navigating its perimeter.
We continued past the market at first to the cultural center where we saw artisians making traditional fabric, drums, pots, and bronze figures. Unlike Benin, no one shouted, no one pushed us to buy their stuff. We just looked and moved on. No hassle, no hustle.
Outside the cultural center's gate, I purchased a Jesus framed picture with a Bible verse for my host family in Lokossa. Little did I know how popular this souvenir and our cameras would make us in the market. This 'intimidating' market became a faux celebrity experience. I took pictures with the marche mamas selling tomatos, fish, plates... and of course, Jesus joined us in each one.
All in all, what can be said is that folks in Ghana are really darned nice- very hospitable, friendly, and outgoing. We had a great time at the market, but once again, transport was our doom... We waited on a tro-tro back to the office for over an hour- this after a long day of walking around in the sun. I finally just sat my rear end down on the filthy street, but Suzy was less inclined to do so as she was wearing a brand new dress. Well, eventually, she got too tired and I agreed to let her sit on my Jesus picture because I thought it was plastic... But, no... Jesus shattered all over the place and the poor, super-religious people from Ghana were horrified. That set everything in motion: the station manager got us the next bus out of town. It took breaking Jesus to get out of Kumasi market... but, after all, we did make it out!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1094238900/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1094238900/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kelleyinafrica/benin/1094238900/tpod.html Sun, 05 Sep 2004 08:20:03 -0400 Travel dreams and dialogues of the sub- saharan variety...

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Lokossa, Benin

You wake up under the green haze of a mosquito net that has become almost an extension of your own body; in the morning, your feet press outwards, tugging the protective layer away from the mattress, explaining those mysterious bug bites on your stomach, underarms... Outside, the tropical air waits to soak you in its uncomfortable humidity, but the rainy season's clouds hold back the sun for now. Over this morning's breakfast- some beans and spicy piment, you sit on a fragile wooden bench covered by a tin roof held up by a skeleton of wood or perhaps bamboo. Children sit close by watching, smiling, waiting for you to do something interesting- or is it simply that you ARE interesting in your African clothes that do little to hide that American blood shining through your eyes, gestures, accent?
And then, down the street, three girls approach all in white, doused in baby powder, stopping before old women and men sitting under trees. They kneel, murmur prayers, move to the next person. They are Christian Celestes- a sect of "Christians" who succeeded in superficially adopting the coloniser's religion while continuing their own practices, which involve magic, animal sacrifices, evil spirits that live in the sea (the spirits of slaves?) They move away from each person after accepting a small price for their prayers, and they almost walk by you until you wave them over. After a year in Africa, you accept all prayers- and even sometimes believe them. The three girls circle in wearing their white robes, white head scarves, white powder, and whisper small prayers that are all the more beautiful for your lack of understanding. They hover just above the ground and look ahead into the air there, lips murmering words that hang precariously between mystery and cognition. Long strands of beads, glass, wood, green, blue, red against white against brown. A coin, a bill, your offerings laid on the sand before them, the youngest among them collects money for the prayers. Before the blessing has settled into the air, its messengers disappear like apparitions into a village that seems all the more unreal due to their presence.
A week earlier in the north of the country, you were at a Peulh camp, the only ethnic group in the country who seems to have fully resisted outside influence. You had to hike through the bush, take off you shoes to wade through flooded corn fields to find them. Underneath that sky that goes in every direction forever, the horizon stretched so far it seemed it should break, but instead it was the movie screen for clouds that raced past like ungraspable thoughts or dreams or both.
There, you learned how communication is gesture. In their throwing up of hands to show disbelief, wiggling of fingers to show rain, waving arms to show the reaping of the fields, the seasons take form. Why would you ever need a watch in this world where time is palpable, touchable? You see how much is mutually incomprehensible, how little your 'superior' culture is because in the faces of these people, you read: this corner of the world IS the world. And, they are right. In the eyes of the Peulh children, in the prayers of animists, in these small moments of meaning that sneak out from behind the long hours of hardship in Africa, you see that this, indeed,is the world, and you can't turn away from it now, not even in the dreams that pass over like clouds bringing the rains of home.
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