Photos: My House

My home, entirely obscured by the neighbor's cornfield. Everything to the left of the visible pillar is my house, and everything to the right is a vacant dwelling.

The view from my porch of the neighbors' homes. They cook outside near the tree.

The outhouses, which are a good walk from my house. The silver door is mine and the red door is the neighbors'.

My bathroom/kitchen. I bathe in the shower area on the right out of the bucket (bottom right). I currently also cook in this room until I can find a better solution.

My living room. I use the yellow/orange water jugs (formerly cooking oil jugs) near the door to fetch water and as chairs or as a table.

My bedroom

No Longer a Yovo

Here in the north, I'm not a yovo anymore. The local term for white person is 'batoure' (bah-TWO-ray). Children and adults alike call me "batoure" as I pass through the village. However, those in the know call me "Bake" (Bah-KAY), my local name, meaning 'third daughter'. Only three people in the village actually know my real name, but they call me Bake as well. Today, humorously, my colleague yelled at some children who had addressed me as Bake and told them to call me Batoure instead. She had assumed I was offended at being call by my first name by children.

Since the youngest children in the village have never seen a batoure before, many of them are scared of me. This includes all of the neighbor children who live in houses around my courtyard. Their mothers take a perverse delight in dragging their children towards the scary batoure, knowing the children will run away screaming in fear. I don't think they've considered that I am perhaps not particularly flattered at being the local monster who terrorizes the children.

Today, one neighbor mother was chasing a child around with a live bat on the end of a stick, enjoying watching him scream in fear. Then she saw me walking by and told the child about the scary batoure who was near, forcing the child to choose to run from either the bat or the batoure. Which is more frightening?

All things considered, I suppose my blog title would be more accurate as "Two Months as a Yovo, Two Years as a Batoure". Yesterday, however, I did hear a child call me "Yovo". It turns out it was the shopkeeper's daughter, who knows the term because her father is from the south. There is something comforting about being a yovo again, if only for a moment.

The Feeding Frenzy Continues

I thought my days of enormous quantities of food would be over when I left my host family in Dangbo and moved into a house of my own in Sonsoro.

I was wrong. I had underestimated the generosity and kindness of the Beninese.

Let's take today as an example. One colleague bought me lunch (rice and beans with boiled yams, local cheese, and sauce) at 11 am. A few hours later, I was walking around the market with two other colleagues and one of them asked if I'd like to eat some yam pilee with an egg. I declined, but then she informed me that she had already ordered it for me and handed me the plate. At 5 pm, I stopped by the local shop to pick up some ingredients. The shopkeeper invited me to eat dinner (rice with sauce) with her. I declined three times, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I also tried to decline the local cheese she offered with my meal, but she insisted. Then she insisted that I take an extra helping of cheese, just as she had insisted I take more rice. Afterwards, I went to my colleague's house to help him with a computer project. It was pouring rain when we finished, so he insisted that I join him for dinner (boiled yams with sauce and an omelet) as we waited out the rain.

Luckily, my neighbors didn't offer me lunch today, as they have every other day since I returned to Sonsoro.

And this isn't counting all the cadeaux (gifts) I have been offered. The bread seller always gives me a free loaf, the seamstress threw in a hand fan today with my purchase, and even the taxi driver who drove me to Sonsoro gave me ten oranges as a welcome gift (my colleagues also gave me four). Not to mention all the food my colleagues share with me...

Perhaps Sonsoro will succeed in fattening me up as my host family in Dangbo so desired. I actually continued losing weight during my last month in Dangbo, though my host family tried their hardest to stop that.

Even the day of my departure, my host sister very sweetly woke up at 4:30 am to make me rice and an egg for breakfast before my 6 am departure. Then she packed me up with enough rice and egg to feed me for the whole day. In addition to food, my host family sent me off with another of items (shoes, cloth, etc) that I had left in my room, assuming they had merely intended to lend them to me during my stay in Dangbo. Turns out they were also gifts.

The Beninese really are so sweet. Especially my host family.

It's Official!

Today, after 2.5 months of training, my fellow trainees and I were officially sworn in as Peace Corps volunteers at the ambassador's residence. I will leave Dangbo tomorrow at 5:30 am and should be in my new house in Sonsoro by nightfall.

Per the Beninese tradition for celebrations, all of the health trainees had their swear-in outfits made from the same fabric.

The volunteer in the middle is wearing a traditional Peuhl outfit. Such clothing is common in Sonsoro because Baribas and Peuhls are the two major ethnic groups there.

A Weighty Issue

A few weeks ago, my host mom confronted me with a problem that has been weighing on her heavily: I have lost weight since arriving in Dangbo. This has become a subject of conversation in the village and has prompted some villagers to suggest that my family hasn't been taking good care of me. In the Beninese mind, being heavy is associated with well-being, so losing weight is an indication that my family is not doing a good job. Since the villagers have observed that most of the other Americans have been gaining weight nicely, my weight loss tarnishes my family's reputation.

My host mom has been pleading with me to eat more and has offered to buy me any food I desire. Since she knows I like tapioca, one of my first dinners after our talk was a large quantity of tapioca. For the same reason, I have been given lots of fruit. I have declined to tell them that fruit is not particularly effective for weight gain.

My host mom's general strategy is to feed me more, more, more. I am usually given a quantity of food that would be suitable for two or three people. Every time I clear the table, I have to face my host mom's disappointment over how much I ate. No matter what I eat, it is never enough. My family harps on it so much that I have turned their favorite complaints into an English lesson, teaching my sister to say, "Alexandra doesn't eat well. Alexandra doesn't eat enough. She eats like a baby."

I got in trouble again last night for foiling my family's plans to fatten me up. My family gave me two bananas when I got home at 5, then a full plate of rice and beans for a "snack". I only ate half, earning my host mom's disappointment. At 8, we ate tapioca; my portion was three times the standard serving. The tapioca was followed by another banana and a chapoti. By this point, I was full, but in my family's mind, I hadn't eaten dinner yet. I warned my host sister that I wasn't hungry for dinner, but she pushed me to eat it anyway. I declined, knowing that even if I tried to cram a little extra food in, my family would still be upset that I hadn't eaten more.

And so the battle continues: my host family versus my stomach. While I have been hoping my stomach will win, sometimes I wonder if I should just surrender.

Y-O-V-O

I wrote these lyrics for today's Peace Corps talent show. This song is sung to the tune of "YMCA".

Young man, there's no need to feel down.
I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.
I said, young man, 'cause you're in a new town
There's no need to feel unhappy.

Young man, when you live in Dangbo,
Also if you are in Porto-Novo,
There's a name there that the locals will say
Every time you pass by their way.

They're gonna call you a Y-O-V-O.
Bonsoir, ca va to you, Y-O-V-O.
Though you have a real name, it means nothing to them
'Cause whenever they see your skin...

They're gonna call you a Y-O-V-O.
Donne-moi cadeau, you rich Y-O-V-O.
You can tell them to stop, you can throw a big fit,
But it will not change things one bit.

Young man, are you listening to me?
I said, young man, who do you want to be?
Doesn't matter, to them we're all the same.
They don't need to know your real name.

No man picks his own name himself.
I said, young man, put your pride on the shelf
'Cause you'll never change the name that they say.
You've got to let them have their way.

Just let them call you a Y-O-V-O.
No point denying it, Y-O-V-O.
Put your wishes aside and accept it today
'Cause it ain't gonna go away.

Shout it out loud and proud: Y-O-V-O.
Rejoice in it aloud, Y-O-V-O.
If you're called a yovo as you walk down the street,
Just respond gladly, "Yep, that's me."

Young man, I was once in your shoes.
I said, I was ready to blow a fuse.
I felt no one cared to call me by name
As if all white folks were the same.

That's when someone came up to me
And said, young man, you're as stressed as can be.
You must accept your new reality.
Take pride in this identity.

Embrace it, now you're a Y-O-V-O.
Just face it, now you're a Y-O-V-O.
Lift your arms up in joy and welcome your new fate.
Don't deny it, don't hesitate.

Y-O-V-O. I love to say I'm a Y-O-V-O.