The ReMatch

As promised, I’m back to report on the rematch from last week’s cancelled game. The game was rescheduled for the following weekend, and so on Sunday afternoon, the crowds gathered in full force to support their respective teams. I came armed with my camera and umbrella, as I could already see the dark storm clouds billowing on the horizon. The match was scheduled to start at 4pm sharp, and so I adjusted my arrival time accordingly and showed up at 4:30pm, knowing that I would be early. The two teams were still warming up on the sidelines, I easily found my “reserved” spot on the referees’ bench, and we waited for the match to begin.

Many of the fans recognized me from last week’s game – it’s not often that a white girl attends a local soccer match – so they came over to greet me. My friends enjoyed telling everyone around us at last week’s game that I am learning Dendi, so of course now everyone is chatting away at me in Dendi. Beyond the greetings, I have no idea what they’re saying, so I just smile and respond with a few “Alafia’s”, that seems to do the trick. Unfortunately the past week has kept me busy catching up in the office and I haven’t spent as much time practicing my language skills. Oh well, that’s what the weekend is for!

By 5:15pm, the storm clouds were closing in and the crowd was getting restless as the match had still not begun. The referees refused to start the game until the police security force arrived. I noted that all of the referees had been replaced from last week’s match, but the new referees were not taking any chances and remained on the sidelines with their arms crossed, waiting for their security to arrive.

The referees’ determined resolve lasted another 10 minutes until they were again at risk of being lynched by the crowd, and this time before the match had even begun! Various loud men came over to the referees and swore up and down that no would dare to lift a finger against the officials; these of course were the very same men who had swarmed the referees last week, the same men who had hurled insults and shaken their fists in outrage. Finally the president of the referees’ association came over and advised the officiating referees that they should start the match in hopes that the police force would show up shortly. Tweet, let the battle begin!

The two policemen showed up with their night sticks at half-time.

I was again cheering for the Red Team (wearing white this time), and I found out that the Black Team is a neighboring district, and apparently these two districts have quite a history of contention between them. Needless to say, the opposing fans weren’t getting along very well this afternoon. After half-time, the thunderstorm finally arrived with gusting winds and a brief but heavy downpour, dispersing the crowd for a few minutes. Many of us huddled under umbrellas and the small canvas tent set up for the local celebrities, but I still got soaked as the rain blew in from all sides. The game went on, not even stopping for the booming thunder and cracking lightening, and the score was tied up during the rain storm, it was now 1-1.

The sun was quickly setting behind the dark clouds, and the crowds were pushing closer in anticipation of the next goal or penalty. I was doing my best to record the action with my camera, but since I was focused on the narrow view of the field, I couldn’t see what was happening along the sidelines next to me. The crowd suddenly shifted and scrambled around me, and as I was just trying to keep my balance, I stumbled backward with them, barely dodging the whipping assault of a man wielding a leather belt to beat the crowds back from the sidelines.

During the 2^nd half, it didn’t seem to matter what happened on the field, whether a goal was scored, a penalty called, a player tripped, or a goal saved; a number of fans would react by racing onto the field, taunting and jeering the players and opposing fans. I would imagine that you have to attend training for spectator sports here; you can hardly show up and expect to sit on the sidelines, watching soccer is a highly interactive sport.

My comfortable bench disappeared during the rain, and now standing on the sidelines, armed only with my camera (my umbrella had also vanished into the crowd), I had to keep an eye open for the roaming “bouncers” wielding sticks, belts, and car antennas. Yes, car antennas. Another reason why you should pay that 100 CFA fee to the little boy promising to “guard” your parked vehicle while you grocery shop. As it happens, the belts and car antennas proved more effective in dispersing the rowdy fans than the two observing police officers.

Finally, after many crowd uproars, several sideline scrimmages, and even a few scuffles between the players on the field… I was starting to feel right at home, it was like attending a regular Canadian small-town hockey game! J Ha, not quite, but after surviving the Red Mile, I can definitely see some clear similarities between the Flames fans and the Parakou soccer fans.

Unfortunately the combination of the delayed start and many interruptions resulted in the match being whistled to a close with only 10 minutes left, tied 1-1, and the sun had long since set on the dark horizon. The two policemen agreed to escort the referees off the field in their police truck, and the fans soon faded into the night, still no closer to celebrating their team’s victory.

The Champions’ Cup remains unclaimed, and will be safely stored away until the final is once again rescheduled.

Yes, I plan to report on the triquel, or is it trequel (no wait, treacle is a British pudding, isn’t it)? Anyway, goodbye until the third, and hopefully FINAL rematch – how many times can a Final be played?!

Oh, and my umbrella showed up once the crowds and chaos subsided; it was safely returned to me, unharmed and undamaged. J

Language Learning Level 2: Participating in Local Events

I had hoped to post this blog last weekend, but in the busy-ness of work/life, it didn’t quite happen! So here are the events from Sunday afternoon, September 20^th, as reported by me.

My three weeks of language learning in Djougou passed quickly, and I’m now back in Parakou just in time for the end of Ramadan celebrations. On Sunday afternoon, I knew that everyone was out in town, enjoying the “end of fast,” so I decided to go for a walk around the neighborhood and see if I could catch up with some of my friends in the area. I ran into a few friends from the local running club and after they all had a good laugh over my newly acquired language skills, I agreed to go watch a soccer match with them. It was the club-level city final, being played on the field just across from the mission compound, so I could easily leave early if it wasn’t an interesting match.

The field is just a local high school field, no bleachers or stadium lights, and standing room only with the exception of a few chairs for some local big shots. Lucky for me, my friends are tight with the referees, so we got prime seats on the refs’ bench. Seems like a safe place to view a soccer match from, right? Hm, that’s what I thought.

The game was ho-hum for the first 20 minutes, the crowd was pretty calm, it was still hard to judge which team had more fans and who was cheering for which side, and I was more interesting in practicing my Dendi-listening skills, trying to make out what people were saying around me. I didn’t catch the names of the teams, they represented different city districts, but for simplicity’s sake, we’ll call them the Red (& white) team and the Black team. I was cheering for the Red team; this time I chose to support my friends’ team because I figured that they would at least protect me if a crowd riot broke out.

Team Red had a break-away, and as the guy was about to shoot, he tripped on a mound of sand. The defenseman was close, but hardly touched him, and it was at that unfortunate moment that the referee made a gesture with his arm, indicating the penalty. Well, the crowd erupted, and whether the ref was planning on blowing his whistle or not, he never got the chance because as the crowd surged onto the field toward him, he sprinted for the safety of the referee bench.

Yes, that is where I was so comfortably seated, on the referee bench. The four referees stood back to back, forced into a tight circle as the Team Black fans roared and yelled around us. We all jumped up as the referees and crowd came toward the bench, but thankfully the Team Red fans stepped in and formed a protective circle around the referees (and me). Not that I needed to know Dendi to understand what was going on, but I managed to pick up a few phrases, including “Can’t you see?!”, “Get off the field!”, “It’s not right, not right!” There were a few more phrases I picked up, but unsure of their meaning, I don’t think I should repeat them until l confirm the meaning with another Dendi-speaker… This went on for another 15-20 minutes, the referees wisely chose to remain quiet as they sat looking at their shoes, waiting for the noise and threats to subside. Various “important” men would come over and demand to speak to the senior referee, to council him on the poor call that was made, to tell him that he was a disgrace to Benin’s national sport, etc. I was sitting beside the referees, so the various angry men would deliver their threats and insults, and then turn and politely greet me. Well that was reassuring to know that they didn’t hold me responsible for the referee’s bad call. Finally the captains of both teams came to the referees and pleaded for them to come back on the field, they assured the referees that the fans would leave the field, and nobody would do them bodily harm. How nice.

Now into the second half, we were again seated comfortably on the bench, and behind us the fans formed a solid 15 foot thick wall surrounding the entire soccer field. There was even another level of fans being formed, as they parked their motorbikes and many were now standing on the seat of their bikes in order to get a clear view of the field. Black Team had already scored a goal, and the fans had made their rounds, taunting the Red Team, parading back and forth in front of the Trophy (replica of World Cup trophy) sitting on the table to my right. I surprised at how sedate the rest of the crowd was, no one was really reacting to the jeers and calls from the Team Black fans, perhaps because they knew 35 minutes was plenty of time for the score to change. It wasn’t until Red Team scored the tying goal with only 5 minutes left that the war really broke out.

At this point we were all standing again, the bench was no longer beneath me as the crowd surged forward. My common-sense finally kicked in, and I turned to tell my friends that I was going to “sneak” out, but they were no longer beside me, and the dude behind me was now standing much too close and was definitely blocking my escape. The fans were now racing back and forth waving their shirts and fists in the air, and I managed to hear a Dendi-phrase being repeated over and over again, “I will hit you!! I will hit you!!” Again, I didn’t need three weeks of language study to figure that one out; the intentions were made quite clear by the speakers’ actions. Finally several men intervened with belts and tree branches and began beating back the fans now engaged in a neighborhood brawl in the middle of the soccer field. My friends showed up again out of the crowd, and we all waited as the war slowly subsided.

The score was tied 1-1, and with only minutes left in the match, the crowd was already gathering around the goal in anticipation of the shoot-out to follow. It was already dusk, the sun was setting, the crowd was getting more agitated, and the referees had the look of hunted animals, because they sensed they would be lynched by the fans no matter what the outcome of the match. The shoot-out began, and after the first five players of each team went through, the score was still even, and the sun had set. The referees huddled together for a few minutes and then signaled that the match would have to be re-scheduled; today’s results were cancelled as incomplete. It’s really no surprise, the many interruptions delayed the game by more than an hour, and without any police security, I’m sure the referees knew that they could never survive the wild fans’ attacks in the shadows of dusk.

My friends and I agreed that we would definitely plan to attend the rescheduled match, and I promised to bring my camera for the sequel. Normally I’m not very interested in attending sports events, I prefer to play sports rather than simply watch them. But I’m finding that I quite enjoy “spectator sports” in Benin, because as a fan you can actually interact with the match, and as I witnessed in today’s game, fans can even go so far as to change the outcome of the match!

Stayed tuned for the re-match, hopefully along with a few action photos as well! J

Language Learning 101

Are you looking for a chance to express your inner child, feel young at heart, and act like a kid again? Well then language immersion is your chance to sound out your inner child’s voice in a foreign culture.

The first week of language learning was fun as I quickly picked up the laundry list of greetings, “Good morning; How is your home; How are your children; How is your health; How is your fatigue; How is your thirst (Ramadan fast); etc…” and closing with a few “I’m doing well; Thanks; See you later.” I diligently practiced with my language helper, wrote down all of the phrases phonetically as she repeatedly sounded them out for me. After my very first morning lesson I decided that I was ready to put my newly acquired language skills into play. I set out on my afternoon walk, looking for my first conversational victim.

I came across Buddy* doing yard work in front of his home, so I called out the appropriate greeting of “Good work!” He looked up and returned my greeting with a “Good afternoon.” After completing the extensive list of greetings, I decided to bravely attempt the next phrase on my list; “I am learning the language of Djougou.” (no kidding) He smiled and replied “Why?” Ah… huh. That’s not on my list; Buddy’s reply was supposed to be “That’s great!” and then I can close with a “See you later!” This question “Why?” was NOT part of my meticulously prepared dialogue! Hm, and I don’t know even know how to say “I don’t understand”; but I’m pretty sure the stupefied expression on my face communicated that message well enough. I have discovered that my carefully scripted dialogues don’t always play out as they are supposed to; maybe I should give a copy of my script to my conversational targets so they know how to respond…

Another thing I’ve learned, little pauses like “ah”, “oh”, “uh”, “eh”, “hm”, “huh” – these all communicate something different in the various local languages and can mean a “yes”, “no”, “I/me/my”, “you/yours/them” or something else depending on the tone. So other than improving your public-speaking skills, that is another good reason for eliminating those “uh’s” from your speech; you never know what you might be saying or agreeing to when immersed in a foreign language!!

I have since learned how to say “I don’t understand” and it is one of my more frequently-used phrases. Oh, but I also discovered that if I stutter or hesitate when I’m saying “ah na mah” (I don’t understand), it becomes “My name is not…” Dendi is tonal language, so while a word might be spelled and pronounced exactly the same way, it is the tone (low/mid/high) that gives the word a completely different meaning. For example, when I visited the main market with my language helper last week, I was going through the list of market phrases I had learned, and one of which is “Nayrah chenai?” (Have you sold a little bit?). Simple enough phrase, it’s only two words, and is the equivalent of asking “How’s business?” I practiced it with several shop keepers, and of course I received the usual big smiles, laughter, and incomprehensible chatter in reply, but I assumed that they were simply expressing their appreciation/approval of my attempts to learn their language. It wasn’t until we were leaving the market when my language helper explained that because I had used the wrong tone (low to high), I was actually asking the shopkeepers “Have you sold your little brother?” Eh bien…

I’m at the end of my second week of learning now and I can comfortably run through the greetings, respond to a few “Where” and “Why” questions, and even barter for veggies in the market. Now I have to figure out how to extend my limited conversation of 30 seconds, but I’m quickly running out of subjects to discuss with Buddy* next door, Al-Hadji* at the local canteen, or Fati* the bread lady. I have come across several subjects which I do NOT want to discuss, including: marrying Buddy’s son, marrying Fati’s son, and becoming Al-Hadji’s third wife. Thankfully my language skills are still severely limited, so I can usually escape with a smile and a “That’s nice”, or “Peace out!” (rough translation).

Other than the several people I’ve inadvertently agreed to marry and the countless individuals I’ve insulted by abusing the pronunciation of their language, I think my language learning is progressing fairly well. By the end of each day, I’m worn out and sun burnt from walking around town visiting with people, my feet are sore and filthy, and I can’t even produce an intelligible phrase in English, let alone Dendi!! A good day’s work; na gbé!

*Real names have been replaced with fictitious names.

La belle vie à Parakou

Some of you might be wondering what I keep busy with when I’m not traveling around the countryside or engaging in unruly spectator sports, so I thought I’d take a minute (or twenty) to describe my life in Parakou.

I am in the SIM office from 8am – 12:30pm and 3pm – 6:30pm, Monday through Friday. I live just 50 yards from the office, and the only morning rush-hour traffic I encounter are the snails, lizards, and smushed, rotting mangoes littering the path from my house to the office. The mission compound is very quiet, except for the many assorted birds squawking in the trees and the neighbors’ roosters and goats that wander into our yard now and then.

10am is “pause-café” (coffee break) under the main gazebo, and this is where you can find the best pancakes in Parakou, Monday through Friday! J I’m not sure how the tradition began, but pancakes and coffee have become quite popular, and the pause-café is open to the surrounding community with at least 50 people coming through for their daily coffee break. Instant Nescafé is the only blend offered, so I’ll often sneak back to my house to brew some “real” coffee before returning for pancakes. Although, in defense of Nescafé, I’ve found that it is almost tolerable when mixed with sugar, cocoa, milk, and more sugar – the local version of mocha café.

In West Africa, the businesses shut down from noon until 3pm for lunch/siesta. I’ve never been one for naps, so I often use this time to exercise, go to the market, read, or write emails. Ah yes, we do have our own “fitness facility” on the mission compound, and while the layers of dust on the equipment might indicate otherwise, I try to use it several times a week. The gym is a 10 x 20 ft room with cement walls, tin roof, and no ceiling (thus the layers of dust/leaves). During the hot season, even with a corner fan, the gym is like a solar sauna; so I could be sitting reading a book and still feel like I got a great workout because I’m dripping in sweat! Thankfully the rains have cooled things down and the gym is much more bearable during siesta, so I make good use of the stationary bike, exercise ball, jump rope, and free weights. It’s no Club Med, but it does the trick.

The afternoons in the office are generally quiet and uneventful as most people come by for meetings in the mornings, so I often try to finish up a bit early so that I can go for a run before it gets dark at 7pm. My running partner moved away a couple of months ago, but I still manage to find at least one other person to run with whenever I show up at the local track. I’m not as consistent as I should be in my running schedule, but I’m happy if I can get in a few runs a week. The local track club has tried to adopt me as their Canadian protégée, promising to train me into the next Canadian Olympic sprinter; and each week I find myself explaining yet again why I am not a sprinter nor do I ever wish to compete in any such track events. Nevertheless, I still end up participating in the sprint sessions, hopping up and down the cement bleachers, and providing a great deal of entertainment to the many spectators as I attempt to keep up with the local athletes. I put up with this several times a week because not only is it good for the health, but it’s also proving to be a rather good lesson in humility.

By the time I get home and shower, it’s usually 7:30pm and I have to think about what I’m going to eat for supper. I’m not good at planning ahead for meals; when I’m hungry I find the quickest and simplest thing to eat, and when I’m not hungry, I’m not thinking about food. This approach results in too many omelets and tuna sandwiches, sometimes yogurt and granola, if I remembered to make some during the week (yes I DO make my own yogurt). I try to cook a proper meal once a week, usually on Sundays when I have time to sit around and think about what I might want to eat. Nothing in Parakou is “instant” (except Nescafé), so meal preparation is a bit of an ordeal. Short of killing and plucking the chicken myself, it’s quite the process to prepare a simple chicken and rice meal with veggies. You can buy chicken at one store (across town), the rice at another shop (be sure to check for weevils), and then you have to brave the market to barter for your veggies. Oh, and my stove is outside, and while it is a great conversation piece, it does not get used very often. My Beninese friends are quite impressed with my oven that produces cakes and pizzas (only on weekends), because most of them just use charcoal or wood fires for cooking. I’m still trying to work out a recipe for baking brownies on a wood fire…

Saturday’s are full days for me, starting at 6:30am when I head to the track on my scooter. I spend an hour or so training with a few of my friends, then swing by the bakery to pick up fresh croissants for breakfast. I love my Saturday morning breakfast, because not only do I have fresh croissants with jam, but I also treat myself to freshly ground coffee, brewed in my French press (bodum). Yes, I still have a supply of coffee beans from Canada stashed in my freezer, but the supply is quickly dwindling, so if any of you feel compelled to send a care-package, dark roast coffee beans, Starbucks, or Tim Hortons are always appreciated… J (Address package to: (me) c/o SIM B.P. 15, Parakou, Rép. du Bénin) I spend the morning on my veranda sipping my coffee and journaling, listening to the birds chirping around me. There are a few birds that squawk and shriek more than they chirp, so when the noise becomes unbearable, I chase them with my slingshot. I’ve never actually hit anything with my slingshot, my aim isn’t very good, but I find that it’s a fairly effective scare tactic for birds, bats, lizards, and the neighbor’s crowing rooster.

Saturday morning is grocery day, since I work during store hours the rest of the week. I usually zip around on my scooter, and come home balancing the bags of groceries over my arms and shoulders. I also try to do my laundry on Saturday’s, but the water cuts are so random that it’s hard to plan for laundry day. If the water is cut, then I have to hand-wash a couple pairs of shorts/socks and hope that they dry by the afternoon. I head out for soccer practice at 2:30pm, equipped with a bag of soccer balls over one shoulder, and a large dry-erase board strapped on the other shoulder. I usually pick up a passenger along the way, and she helps me balance the equipment on my scooter as I weave through traffic. By the time I get home from soccer at 6pm, I am a dirt-streaked, sweaty, and slightly sun-stroked; nothing that an ice cold coke with lime can’t fix. J Saturday evening is usually spent watching a movie either at my house or at my neighbor’s; pizza is also a Saturday night favorite.

The next morning I put on my Sunday best and zip across town for a lively 9am church service in French and Bariba. A regular service is about 2 hours long, which is really quite short for a local church service. I could add more about the Sunday morning services, but this blog is already too long, so I’ll save it for another time.

Sunday afternoon is when I practice my culinary skills (or lack thereof) and enjoy proper meal and prepare for the week to come.

That’s my week in a nutshell, with a few variations here and there, including pickup games of volleyball and soccer at the high school across the street, supper at friends’, and sleeping in on Saturday's (like today...). Oh, and if I hit the rooster with my slingshot (by accident of course), you’re all invited for chicken & rice! J

Ehi zandé!

(“until next time” in Fon, and I have no idea how to spell it…)

Dead Manchester Fan Walking

I really don’t follow professional sports at all. I know, it’s shocking, because I love playing and coaching sports, so you would think that I would take an interest in watching sports as well, but I don’t. I cheer for the Calgary Flames simply because I used to live 15 blocks from their home ice, so they are literally my “home” team. But even then, I never followed their games until play-off’s began, and even then, I’d only pay attention if I was actually in the Saddledome (in the 1^st or 2^nd tier of seating – I won’t bother for the “nosebleed” section). I don’t even own a Flames t-shirt, let alone a jersey.

In Africa, soccer is the ONLY professional sport, and it is watched religiously. The Champions League tournament has been going on for the past while; I have no idea how long or how often it takes place, but I assume many European club teams play in it. Seriously, I don’t follow sports, I can recognize names of teams and what sport they belong too (pat on the back), but I have no idea what their ranking is, who plays for them, or even what city they are from. Not a clue. I don’t have a TV, but that’s not an excuse here, because most people do not have TV’s.

So the great big Champions League Final was last night. I wouldn’t have known about it if the girls that I coach hadn’t been talking about it all through soccer practice. One girl invited me to come watch it in her neighborhood; as the coach, I decided I should feign interest in the professional level of this sport, so I agreed to swing by to watch the game after supper. Maybe it would be like a Grey Cup party; I don’t like watching football (neither NFL nor CFL), but I do enjoy a good party with munchies around a TV (go Riders go!).

It was not at all like a Grey Cup party.

I arrived at Sonia’s place, and the power was out for the entire neighborhood – scheduled 4-6 hour power cut, rotates by neighborhood. My friend was already on her phone finding a new location, she hopped on the back of my moto (scooter) and off we went into the dark night to find another spot to watch the soccer game. I was thinking that it might be at her friend’s house, or cousin’s compound, something small. Hm.

We pulled up to a compound with about 100 motorbikes jammed into the driveway. Her brother motioned us in and pushed us through the crowd toward the entrance of the shack. The bouncer at the entrance grabbed me by the shoulder and yelled “What team?” Caught off guard, and still trying to get my bearings in a very loud, crowded, and potentially riotous situation, I blurted out the first team name that came to mind: “Manchester United!” (Isn’t that Beckham’s team?)

It wasn’t intentional. If I had taken a second to think before I spoke, I would have chosen differently (I think). My friends tell me that I do this sort of thing on purpose, I really don’t. You say white, I say black. You say right, and I’ll probably say left. If they say jump, I duck. I don’t know why, it’s just the way I am. I don’t go looking for trouble, it just finds me, honest! Friends call me a troublemaker (or worse), but sometimes I just happen to go against the popular decision. And once I’ve made my choice, well good luck changing my mind…

The bouncer grinned and pushed me into the shack, loudly announcing my allegiance as “MANCHESTAH!!” The 200+ spectators crammed into the 20x60’ shack responded with a unanimous “BARCA!!” Oops, my bad… For my Calgary readers, it’s like wearing an Oilers jersey on the Red Mile during playoff’s – generally a dumb idea. The Barcelona team, FC Barca, is revered in Benin, the star player Eto’o is more popular than Obama, and I would have remembered that if I had I paused to consider my response earlier, but oh well, I had chosen my fate and there was no going back.

It was a shack – 20 x 60 feet, 12 foot tin roof overhead and surrounded by cement/planked up walls, with no windows. At the front of this shack was a 60 inch flat screen TV, nice! My friend and I squeezed into some tight seats that were quickly cleared on the benches for us, seeing as we were the only female spectators! The air was so thick I could literally feel it move whenever a cheer went up, I had to breathe the hot and muggy air through my mouth, and sweat was already running down my back. Everyone was sweating profusely so most of the spectators had already removed their shirts, and the guy in front of me would clear the sweat from his forehead every few minutes by flicking it with his hand under his bench – onto my feet. :P Yuck, I would have been more disgusted if I wasn’t dripping in sweat myself, within 5 minutes I was drenched head to toe.

I figured I couldn’t possibly be the only Manchester supporter, so in order to get an idea of the fan base in the shack, the first chance I saw my team pushing into attack, I yelled out a very loud “MANCHESTAH!” three times, followed by an “ALLEZ! ALLEZ ALLEZ!” (Go! Go! Go!), and enthusiastically pumped my fists in the air.

I would like to clarify something at this point. I do not have a death wish. Contrary to the popular belief of my friends (and my mother), I do not have a death wish. I enjoy a good adventure now and then, I like to try new things, explore new trails, board in fresh powder outside the ski boundaries, but never do I wake up saying to myself, “Today I am going to purposefully endanger my life.” See, that even sounds ridiculous, of course I don’t have a death wish. Although sometimes I just find myself in “tight” situations.

There was a moment of dead silence after my loud “MANCHESTAH” cheer, and then the shack erupted in a roar of disapproval as the Barcelona fans raised their fists and voices in stronger support of “BARCA!!” Thankfully the shack was a “no food no drink” zone, otherwise I’m sure I would have had all sorts of things thrown at my head; even my friend sitting behind me was grabbing at my arms, trying desperately to make me disappear. I was clearly the sole Manchester fan in the shack, and this left me with only one course of action: to cheer more loudly and support my team with even more zeal, it was 1:200.

Unfortunately Manchester played very poorly; they weren’t worth cheering for after Barca scored the first goal 12 minutes into the game. No matter that I had merely picked Manchester off the top of my head, I took my responsibility as a fan very seriously, dedicating my voice & energy to cheering them on. I think I did a pretty good job of riling up the Barca fans; I even held my ground after the 2^nd goal was scored 20 min into the second half, I couldn’t forsake my team now! It wasn’t until the final 2 minutes of the game that I finally changed my chant to “MANCHESTAH, L’ANNEE PROCHAINE!” – next year…

It’s not as though I wasn’t already conspicuous enough, being the only white kid in the crowd, and a girl no less, but I also had to cheer loudly for the “other” team. What can I say, it’s just what I do. I received many thumping pats on the back, jeers, and even mock “radio interviewers” came looking for my response to my team’s poor performance. I would like to say that I stood brave and resolute even in the face of defeat, I smiled and assured the crowd that Manchester would indeed return to challenge for the cup next year (is it played every year?).

After watching last night’s game, I have a much greater appreciation for spectator sports, I think I make a pretty good sports fan.

I can’t wait until World Cup 2010… maybe I’ll pick Japan. J

Things that go bump in the night...

Bump. Bang. Crunch-crunch. Those are sounds that often wake me as I lay in my small tin-roofed house. I’m not really a light sleeper, so when I’m awakened in the night, it has to be a fairly significant noise to scare the sleep out of me.

So what sort of things might be landing on my roof, or scratching on my ceiling, that go “bump in the night”? Mangoes are the common offender, and since I have a lovely spreading mango tree next to my house, the fruit rain down on my roof quite ferociously during wind storms. I remember the first wind storm that woke me, the noise was so loud and completely filling my room that I jumped out of bed so fast I almost lost my balance – I was certain my home was under invasion by vandalizing thieves or worse! Thankfully once I figured out it was just a wind storm, my pulse slowly returned to normal, and after double-checking the locks on my doors, I went back to bed.

I can now recognize the thumping sound of mangoes dropping on my tin roof, but there are still those “crunching” noises that concern me because I haven’t quite identified them yet. That’s the sound that comes from my ceiling, like a very large cat or bat walking overhead; it’s definitely larger than a lizard or a rat (perhaps a bush rat, a very large rat). Something large lives in my ceiling, I’m not sure what, but so long as it stay on THAT side of my ceiling and doesn’t die up there (that would smell very bad) I guess it can’t do too much harm.

There are many other noises that keep me from falling asleep, but they aren’t usually loud enough to wake me once I am sleeping. These noises include:

• Rhythmic pounding of yams at midnight (why is anyone pounding yams at midnight?!);


• The irritatingly repetitive songs of P-Square (popular African rapper) booming over the new sound-system of the neighborhood bar;


• The kids over the wall who never seem to sleep, but just scream and holler all night;


• The sleep-deprived rooster that crows all night (as opposed to when the sun is rising…);


• Random neighborhood house-parties lasting until 6am – I was tempted to give up on sleeping and just go join the party, but decided that I was too tired.


• And finally, my favorite, the melodic 5am call to prayer from the surrounding mosques. Thankfully I don’t have any loudspeakers pointed directly at my house, so the sound isn’t as overwhelming as some, but it’s just more of a daily (5 times a day) reminder that I am living in Parakou, Benin.

Good night, sleep tight, and hope the bed bugs (or roof rats) don’t bite!

Voyage au Village

A large woman pulled me through the crowd and pushed me through the entrance of a small mud house. It took several seconds for my eyes to adjust the sharp contrast in light, with the large figure of the woman blocking the light behind me, and more importantly my only escape. This woman was clearly a woman of power within the community, in more ways than her size, and I recognized that she must be one of the village witch doctors. She grabbed me by the shoulder and pointed to my camera, and while I could not understand the forceful words she was speaking, the meaning was made very clear by her gestures and facial expression. Even in the dusty light of the dark room, the fear in my eyes was surely visible, as I hurriedly stuffed my camera in my bag, trying to explain apologetically in French that I meant no offense.

Suddenly the woman let out a loud laugh as her face broke into a big smile, and now she motioned for me to bring my camera out again. Somewhat confused, I turned to look for my friend, hoping for a French translation of what had just taken place. Noelie poked her head through the hut’s entrance, squeezing around the large woman, and laughing she explained that the woman was just teasing me with her menacing threats, and she really wanted me to take her picture. I was still sweating profusely (hot hut), but I managed a nervous laugh as the large woman continued to chatter on and slap me on the back, clearly quite pleased with her practical joke. My pulse returned to normal.

The air was heavy, but I could now see that this was where the women elders (or witch doctors) of the village prepared the fetishes and bowls of potions for the burial ceremony and rituals taking place outside. The women were very happy to have me take their pictures, and then insisted I give them immediate prints of the photos. I could see that they were disappointed as I tried to explain that my camera was not a Polaroid, so I instead showed them the digital images on my camera screen. The women were as excited as young children seeing themselves in a mirror for the first time as they passed my camera around, pointing at each others’ images on the screen (and leaving large, smudged fingerprints all over the lens…). Successfully satisfying the women’s requests for pictures, I quickly exited the hut, relieved to step out into the scorching sun and bright air, ah…

A few weekends ago I had the honor of accompanying a friend to a local burial ceremony. Actually it was more of a memorial service I suppose, the body had been buried over a week ago in accordance with Muslim customs, and now the family was honoring her spirit through the traditional animistic rituals. It was certainly an interesting occasion to witness, especially as a guest of the family, this was definitely the first time I have ever attended something like this. At first I was hesitant to even pull out my camera, but the family members encouraged me to video the ceremonial dances and requested that I take pictures of the guests and family, so I gladly volunteered my amateur photography skills. The first thing I noted from the night that I arrived was that this ceremony was no somber or sad event, and even the immediate family of the deceased cheerfully referred to the event as a party. The day was filled with food, many different courses of pâte (porridge-like substance) and sauce, pounded yam, rice and sauce, fried chicken, roasted goat, etc. I couldn’t keep up with all the food, but it was truly amazing as more and more dishes were served to the many guests stopping to pay their respects.

I arrived in the village the night before the “fête”, and spent the night with the family as women prepared the food for the following day. I didn’t really have any skills to contribute to the food preparation, so I busied myself with learning the greetings and phrases in the local language, Bariba (or Baatonum). Interestingly enough, the father of the family is Bariba, but both of his wives are from different tribes, and so the family communicates in a mixture of Fon, Bialie, Bariba, and French – making it all very confusing to follow (even if I could understand any of the local languages)!! The region is Bariba-speaking, so I decided to focus on that language for the weekend so that I could at least make an attempt to greet the other guests and locals in their own language.

Some of us went to bed around midnight, being rather exhausted from the week and the trip to get to the village, but the compound and village was far from quiet at this time. The women were still pounding yams, singing and dancing as they prepared the food for the day to come, and the men eating, listening to the radio, and smoking tobacco (or some sort of local “weed”, I didn’t quite understand the description in French). We slept inside the cement walled, tin-roofed house (or solar oven) with only two slatted windows, which seemed to radiate more heat than fresh air. I lay down on the fleecy/wool blanket beside my friend, who of course fell asleep as soon as her head touched the floor. As I lay sweating on the hot cement floor, my body feverishly hot, I could almost feel the heat rash forming on my back and neck. My bare legs felt as though they were on fire, and I sat up several times to confirm that my legs were in fact not burning, and it was then that I realized I could create a breeze by moving my body. So I tried to cool myself by doing exaggerated sit-ups, flailing my arms and legs hoping to generate a breeze to douse the flaming heat, but of course this activity only made me sweat more. I’m not sure why, but everyone seemed to think it was ok to sleep with the lights on, but from my perspective even the single 60 watt light bulb was contributing to my hellishly hot and sleepless night, so I promptly turned the light out as soon as the others had fallen asleep. Now in the dark, I was still hot, and sweating profusely on the wool blanket with not a single breath of air movement. Ah yes, I even tried blowing on myself to cool down, but eventually had to quit as I started to feel light-headed.

Morning came too soon with the 5 AM call to prayer from the very nearby mosque. The call was so blaringly loud that at first I was certain that I was perhaps sleeping in the same courtyard in the mosque; was it possible that the family had their own personal mosque and prayer caller?! When I finally did wake up and venture outside, I noticed that the mosque wasn’t quite in the same compound, but just across the street with the surprisingly clear loudspeakers aimed directly into the courtyard.

I don’t think I slept more than an hour altogether, but thankfully with the morning came a refreshingly cold bucket shower and a steaming hot bowl of Tim Horton’s coffee. Hm, yes I still have my “emergency” travel packets of Tim Horton’s – oh what would I do without my Tim Hortons?! Well, I’d probably drink Nescafé, but I’d rather not think about that until I have to.

As we prepared for the ceremony, my friend told me that my usual wrap-skirt and t-shirt was not suitable for such an occasion, so she graciously provided me with a proper outfit (traditional “boubou”) – see picture below…

Apparently it was a hit because I got many marriage proposals (especially when they found out I could say “hello” in Bariba – big seller) and also many demands for the flashy accessories I was wearing. My friend loaned me the blue bracelets, and these were surprisingly popular among the village women. Thankfully since I didn’t technically own the bracelets, it was ok for me to say that I could not give them up; had I actually owned the bracelets, it would have been culturally-appropriate to give the bracelets to the women when they asked for them. Even the witch doctor did a “song and dance” (literally) asking for my bracelets, but thankfully my friend was able to explain that the bracelets belonged to her and no, she would not give them up (phew!). That seemed to appease the witch doctor and I think she left in good spirits, I couldn’t understand what she was saying to me, but it was happy-sounding and she was smiling, so I don’t think she put a curse on me for not giving the bracelets to her…!

This trip I had managed to bring enough bottled water with me for the overnight trip, so didn’t risk drinking the local water. I did get to sample various delicacies during my stay, being a guest of the family, I was privileged enough to be offered goat’s head and hoofs… hm. I gingerly tore off a strip of tough, leathery meat from the shrunken skull of the goat, and the men of the village nodded in encouragement as I smiled and began to chew the meat. If you’ve ever tasted goat meat, you’ll know that it has a rather strong and distinct taste, and the skull meat is no different just much stronger, like chewing the actual hide of the animal. My stomach was literally doing flip flops in protest of the overpowering odor and taste of the meat, as I concentrated on chewing and swallowing the meat, praying that my stomach would accept it without further upheaval. It was on my second helping that I noticed that my friend was not eating any meat from the goat’s head, so I asked her why, and to my astonishment she shook her head in disgust and said that she didn’t like the taste! What?! Well, had I known that was an option…! After a few more polite samplings (and what felt like HOURS of chewing), I decided that I also preferred to eat only the flesh part of the goat (not its head, hoofs, tail, or hide). Actually I don’t think I’ll be eating any sort of goat meat for awhile, maybe just stick to vegetable dishes if I can…

All in all, a very enjoyable weekend in the village, the family was very hospitable and it was a real treat to take part in the preparations and festivities.

My friend and I made it back to the city in yet another dilapidated, overcrowded Peugeot taxi, and I collapsed into my soft bed under the cool breeze of my ceiling fan.