Photos: A Sunday in Dangbo

Trash is discarded on the ground. The goats and chickens eat what they want before the courtyard is swept up and the trash is hauled off to a dump area.

My host sister preparing a pineapple in her Sunday best

My oldest host sister has just arrived home with vegetables for a sauce

On the way to fetch water from the well with my host sisters

My host brother-from-another-mother had told me a different day that cooking was women's work, so I challenged him to make dinner on Sunday. This photo is dim and smoky, just like cooking here is. Without my camera flash, he only had the light of the oil lamp.

Photos: Around the House

The view from my house of the sister-in-law's kitchen. It is entirely outdoors, but part of the area is covered in case of rain.

The view of my house from the kitchen, which is the base of our U. The red building at the end is the neighbor's house. Our courtyard is usually full of people, but when I took this picture, nearly everyone had left for a social event elsewhere.

The neighbor girl and her mom heading out to sell tapioca dessert in town. Please note that they are each balancing their loads on their heads and not using hands to help balance it. That's standard here, but still, what a feat!

My Village-to-Be: Sonsoro

Today was the day of our Post Announcement. In September, I will be moving to the village of Sonsoro.

Sonsoro, population 13,000, is 11 miles from Kandi, a major city. In my terms, that is a bike ride away. On the map below, you can see that Kandi (and thus Sonsoro) is in northwestern Benin.

The predominant language in Sonsoro is Bariba, which I have been learning since I arrived.

This part of the country is known for weather extremes. In the hot season, temperatures easily top 100 degrees. At other times of the year, it can be chilly by Beninese standards. When I arrive, it will be the rainy season, which lasts six months.

Theoretically, the village does not have electricity. I do not know if generators will be available.

My community is near one of the major national parks, which boasts an interesting assortment of wildlife. Even in my village, I have been told that I can expect to occasionally see elephants.

However, this is just cursory information. In one week, I will go to my village for a two week visit and will learn much more.

Another Recipe: Concada

On Saturday, as part of the Peace Corps Benin Iron Chef competition, I joined six other Peace Corps trainees to make fried bananas and concada (similar to peanut brittle), both of which are favorites amongst the Peace Corps trainees. One trainee's host mom, who sells concada on the market, guided us in the cooking process. Here is the recipe for concada:

Ingredients:
- Two measures (2 kg or 4.5 lbs) of shelled peanuts
- 1/4 kg of sugar (whatever the quantity, the peanut to sugar ratio should be 8:1)
- Water
- 1 tsp lime juice

1. If your peanuts are not already shelled, do so first.
2. Set the shelled peanuts out in the sun for three hours to dry.
3. Roast the peanuts with sand in a large pot over a fire.
4. Put the roasted peanuts in a basket and shake to remove the sand (a strainer could also work). Save the sand for future use.
5. Rub the peanuts to remove the skin and split them into their two halves.
6. Separate out the peanut skins from the peanut halves by shaking them up and down in a basket (with the right basket, the skins pass through the holes, but the peanuts stay).
7. Sort out any bad peanuts that you can find.
8. Start the caramel by putting the sugar and enough water to cover it in a pot over the fire.
9. Add the lime juice and continue stirring until the mixture is caramelized.
10. Stir in the peanuts.
11. Form the concada by taking a "spoonful" of the mixture and pressing it into a flattened ball.
12. Continue until done.

These quantities produce more than 100 concada, but they were devoured quickly by the 10+ chefs on hand and our large families.

If not immediately consumed, concada has a shelf-life of six months to a year when stored in an air-tight container.

Fᴐᴐ! An Introduction to Bariba

My Bariba classmate and teacher

 

Since I already speak French fluently, I spend my 30 weekly hours of language class learning Bariba, the predominant language in northwestern Benin, which is where I will eventually live and work.

While all languages are difficult, there are a few aspects of Bariba that make it particularly challenging.

For instance...

• There are at least four different ways to say 'is'. The same is true for 'and'.

• There are a half dozen (or more!) 'wa's (or 'waa' or 'wã') and they all mean different things. The same is true for 'ma'.

• 'Wiru' means 'head', 'wĩru' means 'nose', and 'wiĩru' means 'neck'.

• Bariba scarcely exists as a written language and is usually not taught, so there are no reference materials (other than one created by the Peace Corps) and my teacher has never taught the language before. This also means there are no dictionaries.

• There seems to be no particular rule as to how to spell a verb in a given tense (past, future, past habit, etc.). Essentially, as far as our teacher knows, every verb is an irregular verb, meaning we just have to memorize half a dozen different spellings for each verb. Note that there are tenses that do not exist in English, such as a separate spelling for verbs in negative sentences (eg, "I do not like chicken").

• Since Bariba is not a written language, there is no fixed spelling. Our teacher will teach us a word as 'dwe' one day and the same word as 'due' the next day.

• There are sounds that do not exist in English and are hard for a Westerner to pronounce, such as 'kp' (sounds somewhat like a 'B' or 'P') and 'gb' (a special sort of 'B').

• With the exception of people, all plurals are irregular (as far as my teacher knows), meaning there is a different plural to memorize for every word.

• There is no simple translation of the words brother and sister. The terms are dependent on the gender of the person who has the siblings and the respective age (older or younger) of the siblings. Since I am a female, my older sister is called 'mᴐᴐ' (with accents on the vowels), my younger sister is called 'wᴐbu' (with an accent on the first vowel), and my brother is called 'sesu'. However, for my brother, since he is male, 'mᴐᴐ' is an older brother, 'wᴐbu' is a younger brother, and 'sesu' is for sisters.

And the crazy part? The Peace Corps Benin Language Director told us that all of the above is the easy part of learning this language. Apparently, the hard part is yet to come: it is a tonal language.

A Comment on Comments

I found a problem in my comment settings.

I have now fixed the settings so that anyone can post comments, including anonymously.

Happy commenting.

Photos

My host mom and me (in my first African outfit) outside our home

My host sisters preparing lunch in the kitchen

Grandma on a motorcycle

My Beninese Family - Take 2

I'm just writing this small note to illustrate my earlier point that it is hard to sort out who's who in my host family.

As it turns out, my host dad has five wives, not three.

I also learned that my host mom has only had six children. I know that the grandchildren who live with us have deceased parents, but they must be the grandchildren of a different one of my host dad's wives.

The quest to understand who all these people are continues...

My Beninese Family

My house here in Dangbo is full of life. So full, in fact, that it has taken me two weeks to figure out who actually lives here. Here is what I have finally put together.

My host family consists of the parents, the grandma, six children (ages 22, 22, 18, 12, 8, and 4), a daughter-in-law, three grandchildren, and three aunts. We all live in one U-shaped house, except for the daughter-in-law and her two children, who live in an extension of the house. To this, add the constant stream of visitors, at least ten per day. The father has a polygamous marriage and thus has at least two other wives, but they live in different homes. However, his children from these other wives often come by our house and occasionally spend the night. Surely you can understand, then, why it took me so long to sort things out.

Our U-shaped house has no interior hallways but instead has seven doors that open to the courtyard. There are parts of the house that I have never entered. Through my door, there is a sitting room through which you reach my bedroom or the grandma's bedroom. The bend of the U contains the kitchen, which has a doorway but no door; the chickens, who roost inside, enter and exit as they desire.

The house has electricity but no running water. There are two latrines and two outdoor, walled areas to take bucket baths. While there is a living room with a television, we spend nearly all of our time outdoors in the courtyard, socializing and playing games. The courtyard is also home to many goats and chickens, as well as the occasional cat.

I apologize for the lack of photos, but I don't think my internet connection is capable of uploading photos right now.

Voodoo

As Benin is the birthplace of Voodooism, our training today included an introduction to Voodoo led by a Voodoo priestess. 65% of Beninese practice Voodoo, including many people who consider themselves Christian or Muslim.

While all Voodoo worldwide is derived from Beninese Voodoo, the priestess explained that the Voodoo of Haiti or New Orleans is a distorted form. In Benin, the primary purpose of Voodoo is to cure people. There are Voodoo temples throughout Benin, including Dangbo, and you can buy Voodoo items in the marketplace. The Voodoo doll does not exist here as we know it in the US, but you can buy a doll, take it to a temple, surround it by evil ingredients, and try to use it to do harm to someone. You can also use Voodoo to try to kill someone, but the priestess cautioned against it as it can easily backfire.

Several people in our group had seen strangely dressed people walking the streets asking for money. The priestess explained that these are spirits and that it is a good idea to give them money. She told the story of a European in the 19th century who encountered such a spirit and did not believe he was such. He made the spirit take off layer upon layer upon layer of clothing until there was nothing to show but bones.

For those of you who are inclined to dismiss Voodoo, let me share with you the closing words of the Peace Corps language coordinator. Even if you do not believe in Voodoo, do not say that it is not true. If you do, some misfortune will come upon you. Even the priestess was raised Catholic. She ignored the call to become a Voodoo priestess until she had so many bad events in her life that she realized she needed to follow her calling.

Church in Dangbo

[This post was written on July 1 but not posted until later due to lack of internet access.]

By the time we reached the church the first Sunday in the village, we were already an hour late. I had spent that hour sitting around in the African dress I had been lent (the family deemed my own clothes inadequate) while my host sister got ready and put on her Sunday best. Like all women in the church, she wore a skirt, matching top, and a cloth wrapped around her head. She tied a handkerchief around my hair to cover my head as well so that I would be decent for the service.

We reached the church in time to attend the last 15 minutes of Sunday school. The children had their Sunday school outside while the adults - nearly all women (my host sister explained that men do Satan activities on Sunday) - attended class in the classroom-sized sanctuary. There were actually two different classes being conducted simultaneously in two different languages (French and Goun) in the same room, making my class quite hard to follow. The Beninese, however, seem to have an ability to filter out the extraneous noise.

The pastor had our class learn a Bible verse by repeating it to us chunk by chunk over and over again. Towards the end of Sunday school, someone came around with a plastic strainer to collect the offering. I had brought 500 francs CFA, which is far more than I should contribute (the total collection for our group was 1200 francs CFA), but it was the smallest coin I had. I discovered that the man passing around the offering strainer will actually make change for you out of the change already contributed, but he would not take mine because it was too big. My host sister ended up making change for me instead.

At 10, class ended and the service began. The children joined us and each Sunday school class recited the verse it had memorized earlier. Then the pastor made announcements and reviewed the Sunday school statistics, which were posted on a chalkboard behind the altar. The board listed the number of students in each class and how many had actually shown up on time, which was less than half. The pastor admonished the whole congregation for the tardiness, saying, "Don't be late for your salvation."

The next statistic was the morning's offering. The three Sunday school classes combined had contributed just over 2900 francs CFA ($60). The pastor told us that he wanted at least 3000 francs CFA, so he cajoled us until a few members of the congregation came forward to make the difference.

The remaining two statistics were the number of Bibles brought and the number of visitors. As one of two visitors, I had to stand up in front of the entire congregation to introduce myself to the 116 attendees.

The music portion of the service lasted an hour, if not more. There were no hymnals, so we relied on song leaders to teach us the words (easy enough in French, but hard for me in Goun!). The music became more and more animated. Some boys started pounding out rhythms on tall African drums while others had other percussion instruments. The congregation was singing, clapping, shaking, and eventually started really dancing.

During the singing, church members started coming up to the altar and adding more money to the offering. Eventually, I went up as well and added some more, though I wasn't positive about what I was doing. I gave money for the offering four times that morning, which was apparently expected every time but the last.

We ended the service with a sermon about salvation. Like the announcements, this was done in French with simultaneous interpretation in Goun. The mikes and speakers were so loud that it should have been a concert hall, not a small sanctuary. This was the last part of the service. Ultimately, the service was two hours long, not counting Sunday school. This will not be my last church experience in Dangbo because I committed before the entire congregation to attending for the next two months.

A Beninese Breakfast

Here is a Beninese breakfast for you all to try at home.

First, prepare your coffee as follows.

Ingredients (quantities are approximate):
- 2 cups lemongrass water (boil lemongrass in water until the flavor is fully impregnated, then remove lemongrass)
- 1/2 teaspoon of instant coffee
- 2 sugar cubes (brush off insects first)
- 1 mounded Tbs honey
- 2 Tbs powdered milk

Add the ingredients to a small bowl in this order. Stir after each ingredient.

Now that your coffee is ready, prepare your bread. Slice open a baguette and slather the insides with mayonnaise.

Your breakfast is ready! To eat it, tear off a hunk of your bread/mayonnaise, dip it in the coffee, and consume. Continue until you are out of bread, then simply drink the rest of your coffee.

My eyes were bulging in disbelief as I watched my host sister prepare it, but it is actually quite good.

Yovo, Yovo, Yovo

Yovo, as I knowingly didn't explain earlier, is the word that means "white person" in the local language.

I had been told well in advance that I would hear this term yelled and screamed at me on a daily basis. That was only too true during my first walk through my new village.

It started as I was saying "bonsoir" (used in Benin to mean good afternoon or good evening) to the local villagers I encountered on my walk with my host sister. A neighbor saw me and called out, "Yovo! Bonsoir, yovo!" Then he said something in Goun, which my host sister translated as "He says he's going to marry you." (It was my first of two marriage proposals that evening).

Then as we walked along, I kept hearing it over and over. "Yovo, yovo, yovo, yovo, yovo!" Some people just said it once, some turned it into a sing-song rhyme, or some just used it to talk about me. You can imagine how it feels to have the whole neighborhood screaming "white person!" as you pass. I heard it at least 100 times that evening.

That same evening, as I listened to my host sister's church choir practice, I felt a tap on my back. I turned around to see a little girl, who looked at me and simply said, "Yovo."

My host family doesn't call me a yovo to my face, but that is only because they were specifically warned not to. The Peace Corps had made sure to tell them that Americans prefer to be called by their first name rather than by yovo.