Tags
Africa, alone, Benin, Case Western, chwarma, culture, Engineers WIthout Borders, French, L'Amicale, Ouidah, power outage, shwarma, solo travel, student, The Humanity Exchange, Zem
Ouidah, Benin, Africa
It was a hot night without a fan. Getting my own was going to be a process. I had to work just to get my own set of keys. Actually, I credit Ryan with wrangling them out of Aminata.
Aminata was on time today and we did four hours of verbal exercise, talking, reading, and writing. She gives me homework after everyone lesson, which is funny to me… I’m doing 6 to 7 hours of French for 10 days straight before taking a break in Cameroon… homework after each lesson is like non-stop French apart from meals. On top of that, going anywhere requires French. Almost no one knows English. In fact, most speak Fon still and sometimes only Fon. (I have yet to learn some words.)
After doing some essay writing, I took a nap. Class in the PM was 3-6. We did the same things and also corrected by entries I had just written. It’s hard to tell how much is me having errors or Aminata having a preferred style unlike mine. She makes a lot of edits each time…
For dinner, Ryan and Manon said we should try to get “chwarma” again at L’Amicale. First, we had to drop medicine off at Eud’s. His mother is a voodoo sorceress, so we were very weary. Manon and I waited outside while Ryan ran in to avoid conflict with Eud’s wife. Ryan came back out and drove us to L’Amicale. He later told us he went into Eud’s house to find a boy tied to the chair. He had dried tears on his face and his back was welted and shredded. Ryan asked what had passed and Eud explained, Don’t worry, he was a thief. They’ll let him go in probably an hour. Then Eud told Ryan the boy was lucky he’s not yet 12 or they would have burned him alive.
L’Amicale is such a nice place, just a little pricey… for Africa. The man and woman who run it, classic Maman and Pap, came out to the street seating to greet us. The shop is not far from the cultural center, so it’s buzzing all the time on the road in front. The woman emphatically embraced Manon and they exchanged theatrical kisses and greetings. We sat, ordered beer, frites, and wraps (mine sans viande) and engaged in conversation with those seated near u. The man in the group had a smooth accent and spoke clearly. He revealed that he is from Paris and it made sense because I could understand his French rather easily. One woman with him was clearly drunk, though, and she broke a glass coming over in a stumble to greet us.
One of the hardest parts for me about being in public is remembering that, if you want to whisper something about something or someone near you (or even right beside your group, talking to you), all you have to do is speak in English. For example, if we sit with Eud, Ryan will go exchange whispers with Eud then announce to me and Manon the secret in blunt, insulting English. Eud just smiles and has no idea what Ryan says, and Manon and I give facial expression s that don’t allow him to suspect it was his secret. At home, I’m used to speaking in vague French to my brother if I don’t want someone to hear. It’s funny having to adjust to the opposite and it can feel risky when some people randomly know a few words.
As we ate, children would run by with box buildings with candles in them, like little lit up churches and nativity scenes. They stand and stare until someone gives them money (and we don’t, usually, but it’s never enough even when you do) or until the man comes out of his shop and screams them away. “We said, Non, merci!!!” or “You’re bothering the customers!”
Dancing kids with drums also run around. It’s a holiday here. The one kid wears a mask in the group and has straws and scraps tied on his arms and sometimes socks pulled over his hands to his elbows. They dance for money, but they’re a nuisance to all. Ryan waited for one kid he saw early to come around because he liked the kid’s costume. They danced while we cheered, filmed, and took pictures. Then Ryan gave the costumed kid 100 Francs. The kid put his hand back out and a boy explained that Manon and I also had to pay. I told Ryan I didn’t even have coins and he said not to even consider giving a big paper. He shooed them away and explained the 100 francs were for all three of us. Then the man from Paris called the boy over with coins in his hand. The kids started pounding their drums again and he shouted, “ENOUGH!”, gave them the coins, and dismissed them. Manon cracked up. “He’s like, shut the f— up!” she mimicked him in a cruder interpretation of the scene. I don’t think he understood what she said, but the man looked up and laughed at the mockery of his aggression.
While eating, we experienced my first of frequent, classic, and random power outages in Ouidah. Well, in Africa in general, I suppose. Luckily, L’Amicale had its own generator, so it kicked on and we continued as usual. The rest of the city, however, becomes suddenly stifled. The motos race around but that is about the only thing that continues without interruption. Internet cafes are full of anxious guests, restaurants are opening windows and searching for candles, and dark dirt paths suddenly light up with flashlights bobbing up and down in the shadows. The people here blend into the night to a frightening degree. Unless they blink or smile, then can pass me without me even noticing they had been approaching. Nonetheless, the dark and questions of our safety doesn’t keep us inside.
It’s hard to get used to people hissing at you to get your attention. It’s a thing. If you want a Zem, you put up your hand, rub your fingers, and hiss at motos that pass, asking, “Zem?” To get a waiter’s attention in a restaurant, you hiss. When guys try to pester us, they hiss. They’ll also hiss just to talk politely. It’s extremely confusing because it always feels rude and aggressive, but it’s just a cultural thing. I’ve hissed a few time, but it’s difficult to generate the same volume as Africans who have had years of practice flagging people down in this manner.
It’s also hard remembering to tell people “Sorry, I’m married!” for all the times the men show interest in me. If you don’t tell them you’re married, it’s almost like they interpret that as an invitation for a marriage proposal. Everyone wants to marry a Yovo. But even if you tell them you’re married, they’ll still try to convince you that they’re a catch. Polygamy is on its way out in Benin, but it still exists with some profoundness in this region. I’m a terrible liar, so telling people I’m married when they try to pursue me is a challenge in and of itself.
The third thing particularly difficult for me to get used to in just my second day here is accepting that people in poverty, living in a shack under the palm trees, will whip out a phone, buy credits, charge it at a stand, then go to an internet café to check their Facebook pages… Yes, African villagers do have Facebook pages. I walked into a café and saw every computer booth filled with shoeless teenagers checking their photos and friend requests after school.
The power eventually kicked on and we said our goodbyes, hopped on Ryan’s moto, and took off for the house. I returned to my hot room, took my malaria pill, and went to sleep.