Harmitan, Ramadan, a folk tale and School
Trip Start
Jun 02, 2003
1
15
41
Trip End
Dec 31, 2006
Parakou,
Benin
Sunday, November 30, 2003
There's a large brush fire hissing and popping in the field just on the other side of my house. It's light was a bright orange glow, much like the orange gatorade Peace Corps Volunteers are supposed to choke down with oral rehydration salts when we've got a healthy parasite - sometimes nicknamed Amelia, the Amoeba or Gerry Giardia - creating a havoc similar to a terrible two-year-old in our stomachs. Anyway, the fire, while beautiful, leaves long feathery black ash all over my neighbors' and my front porches and back outdoor work areas. I sat outside to read just before the sun came down the other day, and I looked up to see the feathery former grass fluttering down like black snow flurries. Last night, when I came home from an evening out on the "town" with my friend and neighbor Colette, I entered my dark house and wondered if there had been a fire in it while I was gone
6eme class
! The smoke inside was THAT thick! I will be happy when the yearly field burnings are over, sometime by the beginning of January, they say. The field burnings commence after the rainy season ends. The Harmatan has begun now. Every day around noon until about the end of the siesta time, the winds from the Sahara blow full-force, slamming my metal doors shut (if they are not secured properly) and making my curtains dance in the windows. The Harmatan also kicks up dust on the dirt roads like a bush taxi blowing past at top speed. In addition to the desert wind, the Harmatan season brings desert-like temperatures - hot during the day and cool at night and in the early morning. Now, I wake up in the middle of the night and have to reach for my sweatshirt and then snuggle down under my sheet (I'll have to buy a blanket soon, I think).
Ramadan, the Muslim holiday that entails fasting during daylight hours for one month, ends next Monday. I'm going to attend the big celebration with my friend Mama Rabiatou. Mama Rabiatou is a big woman (she wants to lose weight and has decided to exercise with me after the end of Ramadan) who sells beans and fish sauce near the market. She has been one of my Bariba teachers (informally), and she is lots of fun, always laughing, grinning, and dancing around her cooking pots
CEG N'Dali
. Ramadan has been pretty tough on her, though. Imagine having to wake up at 4 o'clock every morning to cook breakfast and then not be able to eat or drink (even water!) again until 7 p.m. Yet, she must be enticed by the smells of her own cooking all day as she prepares food to sell on the street. During Ramadan, sometimes kids come by houses to sing, sort of like carrolling. They do this to show off their talents and to make a little money. They frequently came to my concession, as there are many houses inside, and I would listen to their voices and drums as I graded papers. On night I heard my neighbors outside talking as they listened to them, so I decided to take a break and go join them. I wanted to give the children something because they were so good, but I don't like to give money (although that is what everyone else does). Instead, I went inside to get some cherished apples I had bought a while back on a trip down to Parakou. Apples, I must note, are actually quite expensive here and a rare treat, so I thought I was being quite nice and generous giving them away. I had plenty, though, and was worried I may not have been able to finish them before they went bad. I went outside, rinsed them off under the faucet on my porch, and presented them to the young singers, expecting them to be overjoyed by such a treat!
Instead, they looked quite confused and began to chatter amongst themselves in Bariba, holding the apples like they were plotting over them. They asked me what they were. They had never seen apples before! I went over to stand with my neighbors, Mama and Papa Isbath, who were laughing and told me the kids were talking about the "food of the white woman." The next thing I knew, they were SELLING my apples to Mama Isbath for 20 francs each right in front of my face! Apples are normally 150 francs each! I couldn't believe it! My neighbors just laughed, and I had to, too. I, myself, ran over to the kids to see if I could buy my own apples back (if they weren't going to enjoy the apples' juiciness, I sure wanted to!), but it was too late. They had sold them all off to my neighbors who were jumping for joy at such a deal! Mama Isbath just giggled, excited about her purchase, and told me that I had better just give them 10 or 20 francs the next time. And the kids certainly came back and pounded (literally) on this white woman's door, hoping for some more apples they could sell, but I had already learned my lesson.
After this happened and I was so shocked that the kids would sell a gift right in front of the gift-giver, Papa Isbath told me a story. I am not sure where this story comes from, but I will do my best to share it with you anyway because I think it is a good story. So, as all stories begin: Once upon a time...
There were three brothers, two of whom were very, very rich, and one of whom ws very, very poor. The two rich brothers wanted to help their poor brother. But they thought that if they gave him money outright, he would refuse. The rich brothers thought and thought until they finally came up with a plan they were sure would be successful.
They gathered together a bunch of money and went to a bakery. They asked the baker if he could bake them a loaf of bread with the money inside. The baker agreed. The next day, the brothers went to their poor brother's house and gave him the loaf of bread. The poor brother thanked them profusely,and the brother's winked at each other, smiled and went on their way, eager to see what would happen in the coming days.
Once his brothers had left, the poor man gazed longingly at the loaf of bread. It was beautiful. He was just about to break off a piece when something occurred to him. He could either eat the bread, or he could sell it to make some money to pay his debts. He deliberated for quite a while, but finally decided that it would be better to sell the bread, and this is what he did.
Meanwhile, the rich brothers were curious. A few days later, they decided to pay their poor brother a visit, as they had not heard from him. They showed up at his house and were surprised that nothing seemed to have changed. They asked their brother, "How was the bread? Didn't you eat it?"
The poor brother looked at them and confessed that he had sold it because he needed money more than he needed the bread.
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So, I wrote all of that a week ago. Hope it is not too long. Now, I am in Parakou. I came down to get healed and to celebrate Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, as I was in the process of writing all of the above, Gerry Giardia DID decide to camp out in my stomach (along with the oh-so-friendly Barry Bacteria). Needless to say, last week was not too fun. I managed to get the correct medecine to calm down Gerry and Barry just in time to enjoy a Thanksgiving feast, complete with pumpkin pie ("FROM A CAN!!!" as my friend exclaimed!), yesterday.
School has been going fine. I am excited because I will be starting a girls club soon, and I got a huge plug from my director at an all school assembly (held under the trees on the school grounds) organized by an NGO to discuss Violence against Girls in School. The focus of the topic was teachers sleeping with female students. This actually happens quite a bit here, which is very frustrating and sad. I am hoping that the girls club will provide a space for girls to find support and discuss these sorts of issues. The percentage of girls in schools in Africa is SIGNIFICANTLY less than the percentage of boys in African schools. The education of girls is not considered to be a priority here.
Unlike in the United States, the first few days of a school year, often delayed for some reason or another, do not involve much time spent in classrooms. Instead, the students all arrive in their khaki uniforms, carrying their short hoes, and begin to clean the school grounds and the classrooms. They hoe away all overgrown grass until there is nothing but sand or dirt. They sweep the classrooms and clean the desks and blackboards. They do not begin classes until this work is finished.
School chores continue during the school year. The younger students must maintain the grounds and the classrooms. No janitors! The boys and girls must arrive to school early, before the classes begin, to sweep the dirt grounds and the classrooms. Sweeping dirt is actually quite important in Benin. Everyone sweeps the dirt in front of their houses every morning at dawn. In fact, I often wake up to the sounds of their brooms making beautiful arc patterns across the front yard.
My school lacks an administrative building. The Director's office doubles as the school bookroom, and the secretary's office is about the size of my bathroom in Corpus Christi. The Censeur (whose work is that of registrar, counselor, secretary, etc.) and the Surveillant General (the disciplinarian) share an old building that used to be where the "lunch ladies" would prepare and sell their food. Bats squeak and flitter around sometimes in the corners of their office. The Contable (the Cashier) uses a table set up in the not quite finished science laboratory as his office. Although the education is supposed to be free in Benin, the lack of money "requires" schools to charge two additional fees: the school contribution, and the "souscription," which is decided each year by the Parents' Association and the Director. The "souscription" pays for the improvements to the school, such as a new administrative building. The contribution helps pay the salaries of teachers. Many of the teachers, by the way, are not necessarily qualified to teach. In fact, in elementary school, many of the teachers may have only just finished elementary school themselves when they become a teacher there. Recently, the lack of money to pay teachers caused my school to combine several classes so that now, there are several classes that are comprised of about 98 students each.
The school bell is an old tire rim that hangs from a tree. The designated student bangs it with a stick to signal the beginning and end of each class. The Surveillant General will occasionally monitor the grounds with a whip in his hand. I asked him if he ever uses it, and he laughed and said, "No, it is only to scare the students." Well, whether he does or not, I don't know, but the Assistant Surveillant General DOES use the whip. While sitting in the Censeur's office one day, I heard him lashing students outside. NOT a pretty sound, I assure you.
My classes seem to be going well. My younger students sometimes drive me nuts. (Anyone who has any tips for controlling 78 11 to 16-year-olds in one classroom, feel free to share.) My favorite class is Seconde A. They are fun students who like to joke around but who can be very serious and enthusiastic about English. They often come to my tutoring sessions brewing with questions about the intricacies of the English language. What more could a teacher ask for?
Whew! I have certainly taxed your eyes this time! I will stop now, but stay tuned. Soon, I will be going to Ghana for a nice, relaxing Christmas break. I decided to forgo the 8 day camel trek in Niger for fear that my already sore derriere will not be able to handle it.
