Jessamyjoy's travel blogs:
- Senegal 2007
- Two months translating, interpreting and... 2005
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"The Bush"
Entry 24 of 33 | show all | print this entry |
"O God, in mercy bless us; let your face beam with joy as you look down at us. Send us around the world with news of your saving power and your eternal plan for mankind. How everyone throughout the earth will praise the Lord! How glad the nations will be, singing for joy because you are their King and will give true justice to their people! Praise God, O world! May all the peoples of the earth give thanks to you. For the earth has yielded abundant harvests. God, even our own God, will bless us. And peoples from remotest lands will worship him." (Paraphrase of Psalm 67)
I apologize in advance for the length of this entry...in writing it I realized I had a lot more to digest than I had at first imagined. Please feel free to take it in stages and please don't take what I'm saying as having any fragment at all of authority. It's just the experience of one sand-grain soul in the midst of a universe of innumerable wonders.
Happy Independence Day! (For you Americans out there.) This year, no downtown parade, no buffalo BBQ in the park, no Granddaddy of 'Em All rodeo and no fireworks for me. In fact, I don't believe we even wished each other happy 4th, even though I was with other Americans. No, my day was the farthest thing from any other 4th and I'm sure from any of yours. This weekend I was privileged to get to go with the Bankes (Jon Banke being my immediate supervisor and the Deputy Area Director for SIM Benin-Togo) to the north of Benin, to visit a place they had been stationed a few years ago.
On Saturday morning, after saying good-bye to STA Ted and the Interim Area Director Jim, who were both headed back to Canada, we piled into the Trooper (we being Jon, wife Christine, kids Collin (13) and Mariah (9), and Katrin, a German Swiss missionary and I) and headed off. We made a quick stop at a pharmacy where each of us bought just in case malaria medicine to take home where it is harder to find and definitely more expensive. (I emphasize "just in case" for my case. Literally everyone I know has suffered some effects and varying degrees of malaria since I've been here, but by God's grace thus far I am unscathed...three weeks and counting!) I also bought another medicine which made me laugh when it was handed across the counter without a flinch, its "Under medical prescription only" blaring in English and French and totally ignored. Several times in subsequent conversations since that stop, we've marveled, "Ah, self medication." (Note that my "self" medication was taken at the advice of a friend who is a doctor and had a handy pharmaceutical book to look in.) Without doctors and the necessary tests, procedures, verifications and equipment, everyone does the best they can. For us, at least we have the money to do the best we can, but for so many others, even the best they can is far from sufficient...
Not ten minutes had elapsed when the "slalom", as Jon laughingly called it, of humongous pot holes, unwakeable road sleeping goats, oh yes, and other vehicles, brought me to a state of carsickness that on the smooth, uninterrupted roads of home takes several hours. I popped some pills and after our lunch stop when they'd finally taken effect, I was good to go. Which is a good thing, considering that after swapping Katrin for a Béninois pastor, Adamé, we left the "paved" road. Adamé turned to ask me if I'd ever been on such a road before. I have to admit, I was proud to say that, yes, indeed I had. I spared him the harrowing details of learning to drive a gigantic standard transmission truck on roads in worse condition than this, but I did tell him that I live in the mountains and we have many an unpaved road. For those of you who know these nostalgic hunting roads, this road we were on was actually quite normal. Wider than those roads, and if we hadn't been traveling at maximum speed without bumping the vehicle to pieces, it wouldn't have been too bad. Even two hours later I still maintained that the road wasn't all that bad!
The details of the majority of the weekend are quick in the telling as I spent the majority of the weekend in bed! I did read two great books though! The funny thing is, and I thought this immediately after...I wasn't miserable sick, but I wasn't overly happy either, but in my memory of the weekend, that aspect is so minimized it's as if I'd felt just fine. I love how memory molds itself to not just something more digestible in the worst circumstances but also something more enjoyable in those less than ideal. Maybe it's not "reality", but isn't that relative anyway? In any case, there is a part of the weekend that merits every sight, sound and smell recounted, however, and that's what I'm getting to momentarily. Just for the sake of exactitude, we were in Sempérou, a village in northern Benin, staying at the Banke's house, which three years ago was on the outskirts, but has seen houses pop up all around. On this night, Monday the 4th, we went to greet their good friends at their home "in the bush". Now, you may all imagine that I have a diatribe all prepared about the political and social implications of the term "bush", but I'll leave this as my statement and leave it to your discretion if you'd like to approach this subject with me in further detail at your own risk. Be that as it may, these wonderful people are good friends with the Bankes as they had immensely helped them in their study of the Fulfulde language and Fulani culture. Not only that, but they had invited them to build a house right next to their own! And so, several years ago, the Bankes built a one room, rectangular mud house next to their good friends and lived in one of the most African of styles for 3 days a week over several months.
The day was still bright as we turned off the dirt road onto a dirt trail, more of a bike, moto or pedestrian path than anything, certainly not for the four wheel drive monster we road that, somehow, despite its foreignness and out-of-place noise and power, still had to honk to push lazy clusters of sheep and goats out of the path, not even causing a stir among the long-horned grazing cattle. Fields of tall grasses and the most ideal outstretched shade trees stretched in every direction. In the distance, here and there, round mud huts with straw roofs quietly sat in tiny clusters. We broke into a clearing after scattering numerous domestic animals and came to an abrupt stop in front of an immaculately swept dirt circle about 30 yards in diameter. Two rectangular mud huts with sheet metal roofs and three round huts with straw roofs encircled the cleared area where a small fire pit with a big black kettle awaited. Against a large tree leaned smiling Mama whose excited children timidly ran to and fro, peeking out from behind the several wooden chairs set up in expectation of our arrival. (For the moment I'm going with Mama and Boni because I can't remember the wife's name and can't spell the dad's right anyway... eventually this blog will be updated with the correct info.)
Jon and Christine met the warm greetings with their own, shook hands, rubbed the tops of little heads, took in their former home with a mix of nostalgia and the bittersweetness that accompanies preparations for furlough. With some prompting, Mariah and Collin whispered replies to the greetings and the happy, if oddly metamorphosed in pronunciation, calling of their names. Three years had passed, everyone was taller, but friends are friends and never forgotten. Jon made a feeble attempt to introduce me which was basically ignored and thus leaned over to excuse, "They don't really do introductions." No problem there, but how interesting that they'd do an entire evening, including a meal, with a complete stranger...
We were prompted to sit in the couple wooden chairs, mats were rolled out on the dirt, and those that had more curiosity than fear, settled in to quietly stare. I smiled, waved once in a while, enjoyed seeing the open space all around. Jon chatted a bit with the older kids and Mama, since Boni wasn't home yet. Jon commented on the second to youngest daughter in comparison to Mariah and the last time they'd seen each other and her mom replied, "So how many years does that give her?" I considered-no reason to know how old you are really. There are no forms to fill out, no immunization records or social security cards...if you know, you know and that's it. And so they don't know.
Soon Collin decided to climb the big tree whose nuts were being dried to later be ground into a sweet, sticky sauce. He hiked up, receiving big eyes and nervous laughs all around. No one seemed to know what to think. He jumped down onto the roof of the car and then headed back up. Everyone watched in wonder. Apparently, little boys in Africa don't climb trees. Soon, however, one did! Gingerly, he put one foot and arm on hold after hold and hoisted himself up beside Collin. The two threw branches and nuts at each other and down on the laughing audience. Mama looked quiet concerned but didn't say a word, alternating between breast feeding the persistent little one in her arms and chatting sporadically with Christine.
Eventually a small entourage from the next cluster of huts arrived. Smiles and joyful greetings ensued. A stormy-eyed little guy of three of four was dragged reluctantly by the hand, crying and gesturing our way. Not the first child I've made cry just by living in my white skin. They settled onto the mat, bringing the number to two women and about ten kids from babies up to a teenage girl who gave me the most thoughtful regard which flitted away when I glanced her direction.
Mariah had brought three jump ropes (she'd been working on breaking the record of 63 jumps in a row). She got one out and at the coaxing of Christine, went at it. At first the kids exchanged confused looks as if to say, "What in the world is this baturé (white skin) doing?" Then giggles and outright outbursts brought them to their feet to watch in wonder. Mariah smiled and carried on, oblivious, until it was suggested that she let them try. She handed a rope to the girl closest her age who giggled and tried to hand it back! Mariah gave it to the sister just younger, and slightly braver, who thought about it and chickened out. Christine took matters into her own hands and tried to show the girls how to hold the handles and flip the rope over their heads. Eventually, a boy of about 10 decided to show them how it was done. At this point, I had to get out my camera 'cause he was having a fair measure of success. You can imagine what happened then...
I showed him and his eyes grew with his determination to get it right. He'd jump a bit, run to look, jump a bit, see the rope caught in the air in the little box, and get to jumping again. I don't think anyone ever got more than one jump at a time, but soon the attention was permanently diverted with this little box that showed you yourself moments ago. I tried to get each one individually, but it didn't matter who was in the photo or what they were doing, everyone smiled, shouted out their name, what they were doing, and wanted to touch the tiny screen with their tiny fingers. There was no, "Moi! Moi!" (Partly because it was Fulfulde and I wouldn't have known anyway, but mostly because it was fun no matter who was in the box.) The teenage girl who'd given me such thought, tugged my clothes and gestured for me to take a photo of her with this baby, with this pose, with her pagne (skirt) wrapped his way. My attention would stray and she'd get it back again. There is no dying out of this game without the intentions of the initiator (me) and in the case of this initiator, as much fun is being had on my end as theirs, so we continued in generally cacophony and confusion until Christine said she was going to greet the family who had just moments ago come to greet us. She wanted some pictures over there and I wanted to greet, so we headed out, taking part of the gaggle with us.
We walked down a winding path through the whispering brush and a calm herd of cattle, the pride and wealth of the semi-nomadic Fulfulde. The neighboring cluster of huts belonging to one family looked much the same and some colorful clothes blew on a clothes line. We were brought large bowls turned upside down to sit on and Mama laughed at the small size of her bowl with a whole in the bottom but sat down in gratitude all the same. We were brought bouillie, which, is more or less a really thin porridge, and Christine told me they knew I was sick since our plans had been shifted from the day before, so it would be okay if I didn't take much, considering that it had milk from their cows and possible unboiled water in it. I had a couple sips from the same big bowl and spoon as everyone else and called it good. The drinking, not the bouillie, which wasn't really good. Sort of like drinking papier mâché water. Then Mama told me to show her friend the camera and the teenage girl got in a few more poses as well. The neighbor, whose face bore the blue-green tattooing still found among some Fulfulde, giggled and refused to be photographed but was happy to push her many-necklace wearing children forward to have theirs taken. Eventually, the teen girl and a couple kids headed off home, but I didn't know why until they came back a bit later wearing their finest clothes. Mama told Christine to tell her enough's enough and not take too many more. When the neighbor's husband came home, we scrolled through every one of some 50 or more photos, saying each name of each person, even if they'd been in the 10 photos before, and recounting the excitement of the jump rope incident. I gestured to the camera and then to him, but he wanted to have some bouillie first. Then, he went and got his best clothes, a bright blue traditional shirt, worn for weddings and naming ceremonies, and, my favorite, his sunglasses. After some family photos (the reluctant mother had given in when I snuck one of her and everyone liked it), we headed back to Boni's.
A tall, gentle man with smiling eyes, I could tell he and Jon were good friends and counselors. He spoke to me in choppy French and throughout the night occasionally repeated, "Good morning!" in a chipper voice, it being the only English he'd learned when his niece was given a free surgery aboard the Mercy Ship Anastasia when it had docked in Benin a year ago. He loved my camera as well and asked for various combinations of pictures to be taken. There was never a question of keeping these photos, it was enough to see them once or twice and laugh and show somebody else.
As darkness descended, no candles were lit, no lanterns brought out. The darkness settled in like a long-time friend sitting beside you in the comfortable silence. Mama tended her large black kettle, walking to and fro in the pitch dark to the flickering flames beneath it, eventually bringing the men one little pot and the women one little pot and settling next to us-to our surprise, as guests usually are given the honor of eating alone-with her own little pot. The pots were full of tightly packed rice with a little pool of dark, salty sauce in the middle. At least, I supposed it was dark from experience, because I couldn't see it but enough to know where to reach out a cautious hand and quickly attempt to dislodge a chunk of steaming rice without scalding my freshly sanitized fingers. It was extremely hot and our conversation centered around this fact while the three of us shifted bits around in hopes of cooling them. We were the only ones talking, as meals are usually quickly eaten in silence before the visiting continues. Upon rinsing my fingers with my water bottle, I discovered they were slightly burned and tender-and I'd given up before feeling anywhere near full. When everyone had had enough, the dishes were taken away.
After offering it to me, Mama collapsed in a reclining wooden chair, grateful to rest for the first time that day. The deep, calm voices of the men in their serious conversation wafted the ten feet to our mat where Mariah asked Christine innocent questions like, "What are satellites for?" (as they made their silent way among the distant stars) and commented about the girls next to her, so excited that she'd accompanied them to the well, "They talk funny." The once curious, energetic kids slept in a pile beside them. I swatted the occasional mosquito, altering between hugging my knees and lying on my back, my head in the dirt off the edge of the mat, eyes always fixed on the infinite stars of the complete dark of African night. Soon Boni and Jon rose and moved their conversation inside where a single candle sent flickers out the open sheet metal door that punctuated the rise and fall of their Fulfulde speaking voices.
The night was peaceful in a strange busy, crowded way. Crickets and unknown insects battled to be heard the loudest. Bats squeaked from their fruitless trees, a disturbed goat bleated, shuffled and settled back in. In the distance, an occasional moto broke the natural noise with its bursting engine and sudden but brief spotlight of modernity into our humble, dark world. The twin white cows that had settled only feet away lowed to remind us they were there. I tried to capture every individual singing voice of creation, but too many greeted my ears in the nightly competition. It was only just 9 PM and I felt the weight of another day feeling sick and filled with newness drawing me to sleep.
Mariah and Collin became restless and Mariah went to ask Jon if it was "time to go yet". Soon, through the lit doorway, a little girl's shadow appeared against the orange mud wall and we heard the clapping of what seems a universal game drift our way as Mariah found a friend to play with and pass the time, the shadow hands pushing forward and back, meeting other shadow hands, in their blurry sameness despite all the vast differences that are so evident in the light of day.
Despite my upset stomach, aching back and heavy eye lids, I found myself wishing the moment could last forever. I wondered what it would be like to just pick up the mat, carry it into the hut, lay down and go to sleep. To wake up and go to the well, to cook everything in that one big pot, eat every meal from the shared dishes, sitting in the dirt, to never again hear the angry honks of the busy city, to leave behind the political debates and American Idols and make-up and sports stars. Life seemed simple and decisions seemed easy. I felt the weight of my massive school loans and the pressure to succeed drifting away, my worries about distant bombings and hostage takings seemed an illusion, drifting to me from another ridiculous box with people inside. How I longed for peace of mind and peace of environment and the peace of sleep after a tiring day of just living life and not being distracted by money and reputation and the inconsequential.
But...I'd be sleeping without a mosquito net. Malaria wouldn't be a possibility but an eventuality. The water from the well would give me typhoid, that same big pot would feed me rice after rice after beans after corn meal after corn meal after corn meal, the dirt would give my bare feet worms and jiggers. Angry honks and political debates and American Idols would be replaced with scorching heat in the hot season, stingy dirt with the winds from the Sahara, sloshing mud in the pounding rain. Life would be tiring and decisions could be life and death. The weight of malnutrition and the pressure to send the kids away to distant schools would create worries that they'd return talking about make-up and sports stars and that box with the people inside. Maybe they'd never return. My mind wouldn't be at peace because I'd be a woman in a country where four women die every day in childbirth. My environment wouldn't be at peace because of the conflict between old ways and new, tradition and "advancement", voodoo and the Living God. Sleep may or may not bring peace but living life would be tiring. No decision, no moment would be inconsequential. I'd long for the inconsequential.
In the end, we rose in that atmosphere that wants to avoid emotional good-byes when the next meeting is unknown and unforeseeable and the events that transpire between composed in such unfathomably different worlds. In the car, Christine leaned her head on her forearm on the seat in front of her. I asked if she was tired. It's just hard to say good-bye.
To me, everything seems so analyzable and then trivialized when you're faced with something that calls into question every fiber of the way you organize the universe in your mind. Nothing about this night surprised me or caught me off guard in the slightest. I honestly expected everything and thus...took it in stride. But it was only a few short hours. My utopian meanderings led to the harsh slap of reality and all of its wide, wide gaps and injustices and incomprehensibilities. I'm sorry to say that I have no conclusions to offer, no overarching political statements, not a notion on how to collapse my experience into a concise, shareable package that will give you more of a glimpse into this distant daily life. I almost feel like deleting everything I just wrote...all that thought and emotion and spirit that just poured into this keyboard through my darting fingers...with the simple push of a button could be gone. Could I even attempt to explain to them all of the wires and networks and...all of this, that connects me to all of you, in that fast-paced world of enough food to eat, available medicine...movies and swimming pools and cell phones...and, oddly, peace. Is explaining all of this to you comparable to explaining all of that to them? As if in my miniscule recent experiences I've somehow gained any right at all to comment on the strange and amazing variety of worlds that coexist in virtual ignorance one of the other...
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