Another quick note
Trip Start
Jun 02, 2003
1
4
41
Trip End
Dec 31, 2006
Lokossa,
Benin
Thursday, June 19, 2003
So, the story continues...
All 24 of us stagiaires made it through staging and began the LOOOOOONG voyage to Benin. On the way to JFK, we anticipated our future bowel movement problems and nervously giggled our way through the Diarrhea song ("When you're sliding into first, and you feel you're gonna burst..."). Hope I'm not offending anyone here. I think we spent more time in airports than airplanes. Did you know that JFK Airport has quite an extensive collection of old video games? My skills at Ms. Pac Man and Galaga have not improved with age. From Charles de Gaulle in Paris, I made some final phone calls to friends there before stretching out in the spacious Air France plane and watching my last American film for the next two years (so I thought), About Schmidt
Kékéno! Kékéno!
. Funny film but quite depressing. Hey, if a child in Africa can save Schmidt, maybe I am on my way to having a meaningful life. No Ms. Pac Man games waiting for us in Benin. We stepped into the heat and were greeted by a few Peace Corps folks who warned us about the men in yellow coats who would offer to take our luggage. After collecting our million pounds of luggage, we made our way out to the very posh Land Cruisers and van that would take us to the Centre Paul VI, a monastery. I certainly never expected to climb into an air-conditioned SUV upon arrival.
SUVs were MADE for Benin. No environmental nut would complain about them here, and car companies should seriously consider filming their commercials in Cotonou or Lokossa. Some of the roads here make the ones on a Texas ranch look like heaven. And Peugots! Man, I am really shocked by what those cars can do! Forget SUVs! My host mama's peugot can take on any road with no problems!
We pulled into the parking lot of Paul VI and felt like celebrities (a common theme here in Benin). Current Peace Corps volunteers (PCVs)lined the driveway and clapped, whooped and hollered for us as though we were cyclists in the Tour de France arriving at the finish line, yet it was only just the beginning
Mama Monique
. They helped us lug our bags upstairs and then met us after our introductions and first Beninese dinner at a buvette (bar) nearby to tell us the secrets of surviving Peace Corps Benin.Paul VI is a blur now. I remember waking up in the morning to beautiful singing from the church nearby. I remember seeing the crowds of people who showed up at the monastery for the quite raucous (is this the right word?) exorcisms performed there by the local priest. I remember laughing as we taught Blandine, one of the caterers, how to play frisbee.
In Cotonou, Nevar, a current PCV, Mary Kate, another PCT, and I met Mama Monique, a coiffeuse on a street corner. She braided Nevar's and my hair as we sat outdoors on low stools surrounded by little kids and two women. We were the spectacle. The little kids came up and gently pulled on our noses, wondering why they were so long. (Apparently, local lore states that white people don't breastfeed as long, which accounts for our longer noses). They were entranced by Mary Kate's red hair. At the end of our excursion, my head was covered in little free-waving braids, and Nevar had cornrows. Mama Monique made a pretty penny off of us, we later discovered, but it was well worth the experience.
Let's see...what can I say about Cotonou. Peace Corps Benin Headquarters is located here, on the edge of the red light district, actually. It is a big city. Zemidjans, the local moped/moto taxis, rule the roads, as does the exhaust these vehicles create. I am seriously considering wearing a mask at all times on future visits to Cotonou. Some say Mexico City has the worst pollution in the world; I beg to differ. I will try not to spend much time in this city. I much prefer the rolling green, palm-covered hills of the countryside.
I mentioned zemidjans earlier. They are the principal mode of public transportation in Cotonou and many other Beninese cities. Before we were allowed to use these pollution creating machines, we had to receive formal lessons. The zemidjan drivers Peace Corps hired to take us on our first taxi moto rides were quite amused as we went through the obligatory roleplay:
PCT: "I want to go to _____________. How much is it?"
Zemidjan: "One thousand francs."
PCT: "One thousand francs!!! That's the American price! No, 100 francs!"
Anyway, you get the picture. Then, we all put on our helmets, hiked up our skirts (if necessary), and climbed onto the back of the moto trying to remember not to hold onto the driver's shoulders as we performed this manoeuver. We were certainly the neighborhood enterntainment: 20 zemidjans carrying cruising in circles around the block and carrying white-knuckled yovos gripping the bottoms of the seats, holding on for dear life.
I better go off to class now. Next update: Ganvie and the stilt towns and Lokossa!
