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