Two Saturdays ago we arrived at the assigned meeting place and called Mama Fanuel, my knee-chafing friend from our fun busride. Rosanne kicked a football with some kids until our friend came running to greet us.
Down a dirt sideroad we were welcomed into a home of women and children, oddly void of men and thankfully so. We had freedom to visit openly with the women and spend time singing with children who had evidently pulled out their nice clothes for us. Otherwise they might well have been half naked. I printed the words of "Jesus M'aime" in a fresh notebook and we sang the first verse over and over with the children. Some caught on quick, others distractedly watched our mouths to mimic the shapes our lips made as we sang.
But even the youngest child had the rhythm down pat. Children as young as three can keep a complicated beat pounding their spoon on the bottom of their tin bowl. In the streets it's not odd to see someone dancing to a silent beat that's been bred into them as strong as their own heartbeat.
Only time will tell if the women are truly interested in the Gospel as the meetings won't start again until October. Apart from the Gospel the topic of interest was their royal ancestry. After our visit and big bottles of pop we crossed the road to the tomb of their grandfather where he and his many wives once lived. Rooms that were once occupied by his wives are now occupied by descendants.
We walked a little further to see the palace of the present "dah" or cheif of the large Quenum family. As we entered the courtyard our friends caught a glimpse of the king himself through a doorway and immediately slipped off their sandals. All we saw was a man proudly touting a big belly above a pagne. They bowed as they approached him then kneeled at his feet touching their heads to the ground. An amused smile appeared on the man who we soon learned was a well travelled, english-speaking businessman. He allowed us a tour of the grounds but when the ladies asked if we could take photos he gave a grunt that dropped them to their knees before he smiled again and gave permission.
Amy Marshall from Scotland and I recently took a trip into a setting again worthy of a National Geographic article. Ganvié is a stilt village built on one of Benin's three lakes. As we approached the heart of the village we saw through the stilts a cluster of dugouts tied together. Women sat relaxed with their market wares just inches from the water every so often scooping out the little water that had seeped into their boats.
Across from the waterborne market we were helped out of the boat and greeted by "M" the hostess at Hotel Chez "M". In the room we looked through gaps in the floorboards to see lilies floating in the water below us. The shuttered windows revealed dugouts silently gliding through an alley heading to the throughway in front of the hotel. We sat in the courtyard until sundown with a curious monkey and "M" who lazily burned the ends of nylon ropes with her mosquito coil to make trinkets for tourists.
As we paddled through the village the next day we caught a glimpse of hustling Cotonou on the edges of the lake. The roar of motors and horns seemed a world away as we heard only voices and laughter carrying across the water. It seemed like the pace of life for this village was only as fast as their boat would glide through the water. Old ladies sat low in their dugout, wisely working handmade paddles while youngsters, hardly old enough to read, pushed long poles into the earth below them, swiftly propelling themselves forward.
Would they be able to retreive their canoe if it sunk? A small dugout costs about the same price as a motorbike. Althought we were surrounded by water it is by no means potable and a filling station sits opposite the market. Women and children, riding high with empty barrels, arrived to pay 25cfa (5 cents) per 50L. As a lady approached with 4 barrels Amy and I betted that she wouldn't make it home. She poled away from the station with less than an inch of her dugout showing.
The next moment we saw barrels floating and the poor lady standing in waist-high water. She placed the barrels in a neighboring dugout and then reached into the water to lift her own dugout from the mud beneath her. Evidently she wasn't unaccustomed to the mishap. She pushed her boat back and forth stopping it abruptly to splash water out either end until it sat high again. M charged the man weilding the hose with filling not only her barrels but the dugout with water as well. Otherwise, I believe we would have lost the bet.
Now we are on the convention grounds again. It has a completely different feeling than when I first arrived a year ago. I can decipher some of the nuances of culture and tradition that I was once blind to. For the most part life in Benin has become normal although I still see things that baffle me. Driving past a construction site I noticed a man on the roof of a tall building hauling one lonely brick some 200 ft with a pulley and rope. Early mornings reveal street sweeping crews that make me think that human labour is cheap.
I once thought that babies necks must strengthen faster here because you see practically newborn babes on the backs of their mothers. But I was told that the wrap holds their head firmly until they are able to look around. Once or twice I have had the courage to pick up a small child by one arm. When I first arrived I thought the mother who carried her child out of meeting by the arm was a little incompetant.
Children don't stay children long. The babying stage lasts only as long as there is no younger sibling, and younger siblings often come fast. I think every mother must secretly wish for a girl first to help her look after the rest of the children, although boys seem to be valued more.
It is interesting to watch the family that lives here on the grounds. Often undernourished, children can lack personality into their teen years but here even the newest, called Juste David, at 9 months is vibrant! Mabelia is eight going on fourteen and Marjorelle is the three year old that shook her behind while banging out a beat on her tin bowl.
Until next time, friends... Alize
7.29.2010
7.16.2010
Eleventh Impressions
My impressions are rarely laden with abundant feild news. Because our lives since February have been saturated with the 200km that our friends occupy west and north of Cotonou it's been hard to complete another impression. It has not been for a lack of stirring, amusing or baffling experiences.
After our Wednesday evening study this week Rosanne and I stood for a while on the side of the highway yelling at the bright headlights that zoomed by, "Ouidah, Ouidah!!". All the taxis were full. The only other option was the minibus already full of market ladies, their goods bundled high on the roof. Just as they were taking off we ran up and found a space big enough for one of us and we both sqeezed in. As the engine revved the chatter got louder.
Immediately the lady whose knees were chafing with mine declared that we would pay everyones fare. I told her that if we were rich we would be riding in a shiny SUV -not in a minibus!
The conversation carried on in Fon with lots of laughter, the only word recognizable to our ears being "yovo", which means "white person". We laughed with them until they stopped with serious looks and asked "You understand Fon???" So we pulled out all the Fon we know and evidently impressed them... Their chatter turned into French and we were the subject of interest. Questions about husbands, children, and earrings made their way into coversations about recipes, favorite foods etc.
After a lull in the conversation my knee-chafing friend told me to sing them something. I came up with "Jesus m'aime, je le sais..." To our surprise the ladies joined in for the chorus clapping and swaying "Oui, Jesus m'aime. Oui, Jesus m'aime..." and we dissolved into bemused laughter.
By the end of the busride we had 3 phonenumbers and a visit planned for Saturday with my knee-chafing friend. She wants to learn the rest of "Jesus m'aime". We called out "Odabo", Fon for goodbye, as they trundled on after letting us out.
Our Gospel meetings have ended for now as we are getting ready for preps and conventions. Sundays brought some 80 people to each meeting, at least 10 of those being contacts. The Tuesday meetings were smaller, around 10 people, up to 5 of them being contacts. Kaarina and I closed our Saturday meetings a while ago as the interest there dwindled. Rosanne only returned from conventions in Great Britain this week. Today is the last meeting in the village with the lady who used to walk 4 hours to get to the Saturday Gospel meetings.
Our weeks have been filled with long trips in taxis or on the motorbike heading either to or from a few nights in the friends' homes. I drive the motorbike now. The mob of revving motors that pushes into the flow of the roundabout somehow seems less angry to me as I find my own path through it all. I find courage in the horn as I weave around various obstacles.
A while ago I was 9th person to pack into an old Volkswagen Golf. Three adults and a child in the front and four adults and a child in the back. The taxi is one of my favorite ways to travel here. You get the real feel of the people. Chubby, boney, sticky, damp, jovial, sweet smelling, rank, drunk, kind, tired, malnourished, proud and so on...
In the friends homes we are treated both as respected guests and family. Often a room has to be vacated to accomodate us. A mosquito net hangs above a double matress covered with a faded but clean sheet likely bought at the second hand market. Two of mama's colourful wraps sit atop our pillows, to be used as sheets. We count it a luxury if there is a cord strung across the room to hang our clothes on or a mirror hanging against the bare brick wall.
The evening meal is served anywhere between 7pm and 10pm. If it is any earlier it is only because foreigners eat early. Only once have we sat down to eat at 11:30pm. That evening we walked into the yard to find a surprised Mama covered in white cornflour from working in her mill all day. There had been a misunderstanding when making the plans but she refused to let us stay elsewhere.
Some of the phrases I used on our minibus trip are what I have learnt at the tables of our friends. "Nyiwanu wo" means I love pâte which is a thick corn meal, southern Benin's favorite dish by far. In the morning, fresh Benin baguettes and oily omelettes await us.
It has been eleven months since I arrived in West Africa. The Ontario list has come out and my name is where I expected it to be, at the bottom with "West Africa pro tem" beside it. After Dorothy went home to care for her health I was asked to stay on to fill in for her until something else works out. Gbetagbo preps start August 2. I have been invited with 3 others to Ghana for their August 12-15 convention. Parakou convention is August 21-22 and Gbetagbo convention is August 26-29.
Until next time... Alize
After our Wednesday evening study this week Rosanne and I stood for a while on the side of the highway yelling at the bright headlights that zoomed by, "Ouidah, Ouidah!!". All the taxis were full. The only other option was the minibus already full of market ladies, their goods bundled high on the roof. Just as they were taking off we ran up and found a space big enough for one of us and we both sqeezed in. As the engine revved the chatter got louder.
Immediately the lady whose knees were chafing with mine declared that we would pay everyones fare. I told her that if we were rich we would be riding in a shiny SUV -not in a minibus!
The conversation carried on in Fon with lots of laughter, the only word recognizable to our ears being "yovo", which means "white person". We laughed with them until they stopped with serious looks and asked "You understand Fon???" So we pulled out all the Fon we know and evidently impressed them... Their chatter turned into French and we were the subject of interest. Questions about husbands, children, and earrings made their way into coversations about recipes, favorite foods etc.
After a lull in the conversation my knee-chafing friend told me to sing them something. I came up with "Jesus m'aime, je le sais..." To our surprise the ladies joined in for the chorus clapping and swaying "Oui, Jesus m'aime. Oui, Jesus m'aime..." and we dissolved into bemused laughter.
By the end of the busride we had 3 phonenumbers and a visit planned for Saturday with my knee-chafing friend. She wants to learn the rest of "Jesus m'aime". We called out "Odabo", Fon for goodbye, as they trundled on after letting us out.
Our Gospel meetings have ended for now as we are getting ready for preps and conventions. Sundays brought some 80 people to each meeting, at least 10 of those being contacts. The Tuesday meetings were smaller, around 10 people, up to 5 of them being contacts. Kaarina and I closed our Saturday meetings a while ago as the interest there dwindled. Rosanne only returned from conventions in Great Britain this week. Today is the last meeting in the village with the lady who used to walk 4 hours to get to the Saturday Gospel meetings.
Our weeks have been filled with long trips in taxis or on the motorbike heading either to or from a few nights in the friends' homes. I drive the motorbike now. The mob of revving motors that pushes into the flow of the roundabout somehow seems less angry to me as I find my own path through it all. I find courage in the horn as I weave around various obstacles.
A while ago I was 9th person to pack into an old Volkswagen Golf. Three adults and a child in the front and four adults and a child in the back. The taxi is one of my favorite ways to travel here. You get the real feel of the people. Chubby, boney, sticky, damp, jovial, sweet smelling, rank, drunk, kind, tired, malnourished, proud and so on...
In the friends homes we are treated both as respected guests and family. Often a room has to be vacated to accomodate us. A mosquito net hangs above a double matress covered with a faded but clean sheet likely bought at the second hand market. Two of mama's colourful wraps sit atop our pillows, to be used as sheets. We count it a luxury if there is a cord strung across the room to hang our clothes on or a mirror hanging against the bare brick wall.
The evening meal is served anywhere between 7pm and 10pm. If it is any earlier it is only because foreigners eat early. Only once have we sat down to eat at 11:30pm. That evening we walked into the yard to find a surprised Mama covered in white cornflour from working in her mill all day. There had been a misunderstanding when making the plans but she refused to let us stay elsewhere.
Some of the phrases I used on our minibus trip are what I have learnt at the tables of our friends. "Nyiwanu wo" means I love pâte which is a thick corn meal, southern Benin's favorite dish by far. In the morning, fresh Benin baguettes and oily omelettes await us.
It has been eleven months since I arrived in West Africa. The Ontario list has come out and my name is where I expected it to be, at the bottom with "West Africa pro tem" beside it. After Dorothy went home to care for her health I was asked to stay on to fill in for her until something else works out. Gbetagbo preps start August 2. I have been invited with 3 others to Ghana for their August 12-15 convention. Parakou convention is August 21-22 and Gbetagbo convention is August 26-29.
Until next time... Alize
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