Thirteenth Impressions

Remembering the day that I offered 300cfa for two cucumbers when
the lady had already offered 3 cucumbers for 200cfa, I thought that by
now I had the market scene figured out. Sometimes cutting the offered
price in half is accepted, other times I receive a disgusted look, and
I try to laugh it off. A smile can diffuse just about any situation
here. When I get home Doreen asks me how much I paid and I half
whisper hoping I haven't overpaid.
But this time I really got stung, right on the lower lip. The lady
reassured me that green peppers simply aren't in season but are still
worth 500cfa for a handful. I took my bag of shriveled, light green
peppers home, dipped them in some bleach water and started cutting.
The sting of heat soon hit my nose and in disbeleif I took a nibble at
the corner of one. My mouth instantly caught fire and Doreen chuckled
as I bounced around the kitchen with my tongue sticking out. NOT bell
peppers at all! The trickster.
They're all tricksters, even the young ones with their
convincing smiles. When I know that they're taxing me I praise them
for their good selling skills but stick with my price. I think most of
the time I am happily oblivious to their trickery.

Days turn into weeks, turn into months and there is a lot that
hasn't been recorded. In August a week was spent at Gbetagbo preparing
for convention. Circumstances had Rosanne, Kaarina and myself sitting
across from a line of bright black faces at meal time. "Brothers" is a
very loose term in these countries, including anyone from a neighbor
to the man who just lent you something, but these Beninois and
Togolese brothers have more than just circumstances to bond them.
Their teamwork spilled over into meal time when they all added to the
jokes until roaring laughter carried out into the schoolyard.
Four of us were invited to Ghana convention the next week. A
highlight was greeting a toothless Mrs. Ananavié everyday. She has
been faithful for decades although she lives in a secluded village in
the north of Ghana and rarely has fellowship.
We heard about Satan, if he were human, being a 'plausable old
gentleman' who manipulates our nature with the things of the
world. ...And that he becomes more and more cross the more we talk
about him. The convention ended with a Sunday night sing that echoed
into the evening sky. The poor neighbors -my lungs took a couple of
weeks to really recover.

Our uneventful Monday travels across the Ghana-Togo and Togo-
Benin borders led into a Tuesday trek to Parakou. Later the visitors
arrived and soon another shorter convention was under way.
The French West Africa list came out the week of Gbetagbo
convention. My name, this time, is at the top with Doreen Maynard
(it's at the bottom on the Ontario list) with Borgou / Donga beside
it. I had to think about where I would be going for a moment before
remembering good days spent in beloved Parakou. The convention went by
in a flash and the meetings and visits between have left lasting
memories.

When I first went to Nigeria I thought there was nothing better.
Then a few months later I went to sparkling, friendly Ghana. Returning
again to Nigeria I was won again by a group of wonderful friends
amidst a fury of western comforts and African realities. And if I were
to return to Ghana...?
It wasn't originally planned for me to attend the Nigeria
convention but an Irish sister wasn't able to get her visa which left
a gap. Part of what endeared Nigeria to me so was the unexpected 5
days I spent in the country after convention. The Ukegbu's welcomed me
into their home as family while most of the workers spent a couple of
nights there as well. I have now met all the English West African
staff and after cleanup day, feel like I know them pretty well also.
The young friends were a pleasure to be with, taking me back to
the glitzy mall with it's coffeeshops, leather upholstry and English
bookstore. Possibly because of Nigeria's prosperity and abundant
education initiatives the young ones are less timid than many Beninois
young people. The struggles that young people face seem to be the same
no matter the language or setting. And the source of strength will
never change either.

Last week, as Doreen and I weaved our way north from Cotonou I
watched the people, living spaces and animals on display with a
slightly different sentiment than one year ago.
I notice nuances now that I was once blind to. The wealthy homes
in a village stand out beside poorly maintained homes. Shiny tin roofs
glare in the sun, supported by perfectly strait mud walls beside a
neighboring thatch roof that matches the decaying fence. Yet at the
doors of even the nicer homes short brooms made of grass lean against
the wall and charcoal stoves sit out front. Taptaps, (French for the
sound that flipflops make) worn through at the heals, sit at the
threshhold, as if the dirt floors inside will be kept clean that way.
A few small windows are placed here and there, no more than one
per wall, many walls without. I realized that if the village were to
be evacuated, these haphazard windows would bear witness to lives
lived outside under the sun. Few short hours are spent asleep in the
cool that the mud holds onto during the hot days.

Our Gospel Meetings will start this Friday and Sunday and
hopefully the trips out to the mango tree will start again soon. The
brothers mentioned continuing interest there. The dirt track to Dogué
is closed to cars and trucks due to the state of the bridges. Only
motorbikes and walkers cross the rivers at the risk of being swept
away by the current. So our handful of friends there may be without
contact for some time to come. A trip to mosque abundant Djougou is
being planned for next week. Who knows, maybe we'll learn some more
patience from the turtle that shuttled us around that sunny afternoon
months ago.

Until next time...Alize

Twelfth Impressions

  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

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

Tenth Impressions

I learnt to keep my upper body still as I climbed the stairs to our bach so as not to spill the basin of water perched on my head. The city cuts the water from 7am to midnight everyday and that night we had company from SK arriving.  Usually we get up to fill our numerous water reserves but the night before was spent at the Adjaffon home.
  Remember the spots of light that shined on Granamaman Adjaffon in the bamboo hut as her son told us of her choice to serve God? Rosanne and I slept in the room adjascent to hers with a mosquito net dropped around us to protect us from flying and crawling pests.
"Kwabo." Granamaman welcomed us from her peice of cloth splayed on the cement floor everytime we entered the living room. I get the feeling that she would love to talk, to tell us her stories glad and sad of living in a village in the heart of Africa. Papa tells us that she has been freed from the weight of her lifetime spent in the village, forsaking her previous ties to witchcraft to beleive in the true God who has eyes that see and ears that hear. She has a peace now that she has never known in all her years on the earth and we see again the look of a joyful child under a cap of curly grey hair.
The busy lanes of traffic on our way to Gospel Meeting on Sunday are breifly separated by an island. I was told recently that a voodoo God lives in the tiny tin shack in the middle of the island. A peek inside reveals a few pots, cracked and dusty, sitting amongst litter and stones. That is the God.
  The voodoo faith holds 17% of Benin's population captive. Small compared to Christianity's 42% and Muslim's 24% yet the reality is that most Muslims practice voodoo and many Christian religions have incorperated voodoo beleifs into their doctrine. The fear of the spirit world and dark power grips these people, binding them to often costly ceremonies and practices. It has touched the lives of many of our friends in various ways but their faith in God frees them from the bondage of fear they once knew.

We have opened a bach in Ouidah, the nations voodoo capital, and we hope to be moved in before the rainy season. An early morning walk behind the bach revealed quiet paths that reminded us of convention walks. Rosanne and I spent one night there on mats very concious of the cool cement under us. That night was almost more pleasant than most nights here spent sweating on a foam matress.  Sweat beads on our upper lips even as we sit still and most of the day our clothes are damp with sweat. This is the hot season and it will last until the April/May rains come.

Next month another native brother will be starting in the work. Gildas Bewa recently returned from six years of study and work in Calgary, AB. He will be with Medard in Bohicon and Medards present companion, Serge, will go north with Yves to be in Parakou until preps in July. Adebayu will remain with Ed in Cotonou.

Until next time... Alize

Togo Slideshow

Lagos, Nigeria Slideshow

Benin Slideshow

Accra, Ghana and the Latest From F.W. Africa

Monday, February 1, 2010

Drivah, give us some Gospel music!!

So started my journey back to Benin from Accra, Ghana where people
love church. Accra's tidy appearance with painted walls and abundant
green space surpassed my appreciation for Lagos' secluded glitzy areas
separated by sprawling tin roofs and swarms of frenzied people in
transit. Accra is an exception to the West African norm. Commercial
construction is booming with cranes towering over multiple-story
buildings. The north side with it's new highway, shopping mall, and
pleasant residential areas reminded me of the nicer areas of
Australian cities.
I found that poeple can be incredibly sweet or incredibly sour.
Before arriving in Accra we had asked another passenger how much it
should cost to get to the area of the sisters Bach. She said she would
help us. When we arrived she flagged a taxi, discussed the price and
then paid the fare before waving us off!!

I accompanied my parents to Accra to see them off on the plane
after three busy weeks together. Our time together began with doctor
visits as Dad arrived with a fever and fatigue that we decided must
have been malaria from a recent trip to another tropical country. He
took a cure and was feeling better a few days later and were able to
catch up with the rest of the special meeting crew in Bohicon. From
there we went north to beloved Parakou for the special meetings there.
I was proud to show my parents around the city on the back of
zemijahn's and was pleased with how well they fit into African life.
We had good meetings and enjoyed visits with workers and friends in
Cotonou, Bohicon and Parakou.

After Parakou my parents and I, along with Allyson, took a trip up
into Park W where we saw many animals and miles of barren flatland.
All kinds of deer, buffalo, antelopes, wild boars, monkeys, baboons,
crocodiles and the best was our last night there when two graceful
elephants came plodding out of the bush to take a drink at a nearby
wateringhole. We sat downwind watching from some 40 feet away as they
sucked water into their trunks and sprayed it into their mouths
twitching their big ears as they drank.

Weeks before we arrived in Parakou we heard that Papa Gomez, one of
the two elders in Parakou and the father of Fortunato, passed away.
The funeral was planned for the Saturday after special meetings and
was very simple compared to the typical Beninoise funeral. Papa Gomez
was the oldest professing man in Benin. A number of friends from
Cotonou came for the occasion. A few were relatives of Pascal who was
in prison and most everyone took the opportunity to go and visit him.

Great news came this past Wednesday that Pascal was freed from
prison. There was no warning and no reason given. After being proven
innocent of a crime that a coworker committed, he spent over 4 years
in prison waiting to be released. He has been with his wife and
children in Calavi since being released.

Kaarina and I have been asked to help Rosanne for a few months in
this southern field that takes in Gbetagbo, Calavi, Godomey (where our
bach is) and Ouidah. We started our first Gospel Meeting near our bach
last evening. Parakou, for now, is without workers.
On the other side of Cotonou the brothers started their mission as
well. It was wonderful to hear of Adebayu, from Togo, starting in the
work last week and speaking for the first time yesterday. That makes 9
native brother workers for French West Africa.

Until next time... Alize

Togo

Traffic police watch every busy corner in Lomé passively controlling
traffic. The moment the message comes through on their radio they
have the right to stop all the traffic to clear the road. Everyone
selling along the road is meant to move back from the road as the
president's convoy races past. I was on a tour of the city with
Adebayu, a young friend, when a man in a tan uniform waved for us not
to come any closer. The road was already clear and two armed policemen
were also patrolling. A marked police vehicle, two black suburbans,
then a beautiful black Mercedes followed by another 5 suburbans and
finally an armoured vehicle mounted with a man behind a machine gun
passed us, on the way to the president's estate.
Togo has had decades of trouble and the future is yet uncertain.
Elections are to be held on February 28th. President Faure Gnassingbe
has served the five year term since suspicously being elected to take
his fathers place. The major opposition party is led by the son of the
first president elected after Togo became independant in 1960. He was
assasinated in 1963 by Gnassingbe's father. As of yet there was no
feeling of tension amongst the people in the capital, rather an air of
celebration as the new year was rung in. Yet there is no freedom to
even send news like this by email from within the country.
We are on our way back to Cotonou after some very special days in
Togo. I was thankful to spend time with a native sister Lorpu from
Liberia. She has had five years in the work in Ghana and Nigeria. Not
long before I left for West Africa Allan, who has worked many years in
Liberia, told a story of when war came to the country. He told about
two girls from a professing family who were kidnapped by rebels.
Finally at the end of the story a shiver went down my spine when he
mentioned the name of one of the girls as being Lorpu. It seems that
no beleiver in God could come through such an experience without deep
convictions and faith in God. It is so evident in her service that
such is the case.
It was also special to spend time with Daniel and Nadia who live
on the convention grounds just outside of Lomé. Their homelife is
evidently rich as friends and workers are welcomed without hesitation
until beds are overflowing. Nadia runs a bakery in the yard and this
morning sitting around a long table in the sand we enjoyed plain,
beef, fish and sausage croissants fresh from the oven.
Now we will have the next week and some to visit around Cotonou.
My parents arrive on Saturday to spend about 3 weeks with us.

Until next time... Alize