Live the Adventure

A Sunny Day on the Soccer Pitch

2010-05-11T12:53:00.002+01:00

So, what exactly does teaching girls’ soccer in Benin look like? Well, to the untrained eye it may appear to be utter mayhem; girls flailing their limbs in attempt to connect with the ball; boys on the sidelines chasing after the wayward balls; the pitch surrounded by dozens of onlookers young and old, all giving a steady commentary on the quality of the practice and coaching techniques; and a single white girl at the centre of the chaos, using a whistle and her astonishingly loud voice to direct traffic.

My sports mornings start at 6:30am; after finishing my cup of coffee, I grab the hockey bag full of soccer balls and pylons, plus the duffel bag with first aid supplies and water, and finally my helmet and sunglasses, and race out the door. This morning I only had one hockey bag of equipment, which is fairly simple to balance over my shoulder on my scooter – it gets tricky with two bags and the 1x1M whiteboard! Unfortunately my scooter’s gas tank was nearly empty and the school is on the outskirts of town, so I decided to make a quick fill up at one of the many “gas ‘n’ go” stops along the way. I have never run out of gas on my scooter, but if I ever do, I don’t think I’ll have to walk far to find fuel because there are little “gas ‘n’ go” stands set up every couple hundred meters along even the most obscure routes. These entrepreneurs purchase the fuel in large barrels, and sell it by the liter, measured into many whisky and coke bottles. I normally fuel up at the pumps, to ensure the quality of fuel being poured into my bike, but on the rare occasion, it is simply more convenient to fill up at the local “gas ‘n’ go”.

Another 2 liters in my gas tank, and I’m on the road again, balancing my oversized bags and dodging the potholes, chickens, and goats along the way. I’m greeted/assaulted (depending on the tone) with the usual calls of “Yovo!” or “Baturi!” (white person) from the many kids and adults that I pass along the way, and every so often I’ll hear the familiar “Coach!” called out by one of the many kids who come out to Saturday soccer, and I try to wave back without endangering the balance of the load on my bike.

I arrive at the soccer field at 7am and park under the “coach’s tree” to wait for the other sports teacher to arrive. This morning I was to be assisting with a small co-ed class (10-15 students) from a nearby private school. The private school uses a section of the public school’s sports field, and earlier in the week I had taught a class of girls in the public school on the same soccer field, so several of the public school students recognized me and came over to greet as they were on their way to class. The sports teacher from the private school showed up shortly after I arrived, and we quickly reviewed the practice we had planned out together the day before.

It is good to make plans, but one must learn not to depend on any such wonderful plans…

I noticed more and more young spectators gathering around the tree as we were talking, and finally the sports teacher turned to the girls gathering and told them to go to class (they were from the public school). The girls replied that they had come for class, soccer class, just as their sports teacher had instructed them to. I asked them where their sports teacher was, because I had talked with him earlier in the week and we had both agreed that soccer would only be once a week with the public school, on Tuesday mornings, not Thursdays. Well, the public school sports teacher was at the stadium with the boys’ soccer team for a tournament, and I now had a dozen barefoot girls, dressed and ready to play soccer.

Change of plans, the private school kids can stay with their teacher, and I’m taking the public school sports class for the morning.

Thankfully I came with a half dozen balls and one set of practice pinnies, because as the girls finished their laps and gathered around me, I discovered that the “dozen girls” had somehow multiplied during the five laps, and I now had 60 girls!

Change is good, change is good, change is GOOD. I am flexible, adaptable and totally ready for anything, even if it involves tearing up my practice plan and tossing it aside.

After introducing myself and explaining why I am teaching soccer for girls, I start off with names to break the ice, tossing the ball to each girl to catch as she calls out her name. Unfortunately the soccer pitch is already occupied by the 10^th grade boys’ class, and they are playing a full soccer game since their sports teacher is absent, so we are relegated to the washed out sidelines. All of the girls are in 6^th grade, but there are some noticeable size and age differences, so I quickly line them up according the age and split the group into 10-13 years and 14-16 year olds. Quite an age range for one grade, but fairly typical as class attendance is low and the pass ratio is poor.

Form two circles with the groups, and demonstrate basic passing in each group; simple, right? It could be, but the area we are using is scattered with broken bits of bricks, dissected by several sandy stream beds, and the term “large circle” does not seem to translate very well for this group. I begin picking up the broken bricks and tossing them to the side, and suddenly the girls jump into action and within seconds the area is cleared of bricks, mango pits, plastic bags, and pebbles. Next, I trace a circle for each of the two groups, indicating precisely how large the circle should be and where they stand. Ok, now to introduce the ball and see if the circle maintains its form… It doesn’t help matters that we are constantly surrounding by a pressing and growing crowd of curious onlookers, mostly young boys who are enviously eying the bag of soccer balls by my feet that I am carefully guarding.

After demonstrating the basic passing technique to both groups, I have the girls split into smaller groups so they continue working with the balls. It is now 8am and the school yard is packed with students coming and going, the crowd of boys around our soccer practice has grown substantially, and I need to keep a steady eye on the six balls that are now flying here and there, to make sure that none of the balls suddenly disappear into some lucky kid’s backpack.

In the middle of training I had a surprise visit from the school director, so I quickly excused myself from the chaos and ran over to greet him. He asked me to come see him in his office after the class – brings back memories of my own high school days and the many times I was “invited” to the principal’s office, some things never change…

Ok, 8:30am and the 10^th grade boys have finally relinquished the field, so now to create teams with 60 girls who have never played a soccer game before! I was about to ask the girls to split into teams based on their birthday month, but then realized that might not be very effective because birthdays are not exactly marked or celebrated much, so I divided the girls according their first names and the alphabet (A-G; H-P; Q-Z) – that was more or less effective, except for the girls who weren’t too clear on the alphabet order... Also surprising to find out how many first names begin with the letter Z! Zouwératou, Zoubérnatou, Zouliatou, Zouléhatou, Zoubératou, Zénabou, Zoulfaou… the list goes on! Try calling out that roster, trust me, it’s tricky, and normally results in lots of giggles from the girls as I repeatedly mispronounce and mix up their names!

Most of the girls got to play during the next 45 minutes, only a few incidents with toes kicking shins, and we ended with the always popular shoot-out to break the tie game. Wrap up practice with a cool down lap and stretching, sign up the girls who intend to come next week, quick count to confirm all balls and jerseys are back in the bag, load up my scooter, and off I go!

Ah, 10am back at home for a shower and my long awaited second cup of coffee with breakfast. Next week I’ll be bringing reinforcements, enlisting the assistance of my senior soccer players as junior coaches!

(Sorry the photos are from prior events; no time to take photos when I'm the only coach on the field!!)

Football Féminin au Bénin!

2010-03-02T14:43:00.000+01:00

Quick post to link you to the photos on my FB from the recent girls' soccer camp/tournament that we hosted here in Parakou, Bénin.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=188497&id=500044121&l=74b3699abf

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/album.php?id=500044121&aid=188531

Hopefully more details to follow as time allows, still recovering from the activities and following up with sponsors and media coverage. All in all, event was a success, the purpose was to promote soccer for young women, to build relationships and network with existing female soccer teams, and to generate an interest for girls' sports in the local community.

Stay tuned for more!

Running in the New Year

2010-01-03T14:43:00.008+01:00

Happy 2010! I hope you all rang in the New Year with friends & family around the globe.

I celebrated the New Year by participating in a track competition on Jan 2^nd, organized by the local track club. I have said this before, and I’ll say it again, I am not a track athlete. I enjoy jogging up and down forested paths along riversides, going on long wandering runs through the hills and mountains, I run to keep in shape for other team sports; but running for competition has never been my thing. Nevertheless, I am in a country where any form of exercise seems to qualify as a spectator-sport, and so my weekly jogging at the local stadium has earned me the label of an “aspiring track athlete”, or perhaps the label of “silly-white-girl-clearly-delusional-about-her-fitness-and-speed” would be more accurate.

The other people running around the track actually are athletes; members of the local or national track team, premier division soccer players, high school track stars, etc.

The various track coaches and veteran athletes are constantly giving me very helpful tips on my running style (or lack thereof), and I do appreciate it, but I always feel bad because I think they are hoping that my technique will actually improve and that I’ll become faster at some point. I know the truth; that I will never be able to run like a deer or a cheetah, and I’m ok with that.

Back to the January 2^nd track meet; while I do NOT aspire to become the first Canadian member of Benin’s National Track team, I do have many friends here in Parakou who already compete at an international level or are aspiring young athletes hoping to make the National team. Other than premier level men’s soccer, sports in northern Benin do not receive much support or publicity, and it is difficult to organize competitions because of the lack of local interest or support. As a coach of girls’ soccer here in Parakou, I sympathize with the track clubs, and I do my best to participate in and support any efforts to encourage local competition, whether it is in track events, volleyball, soccer, or even rugby. So when my friend, a retired track athlete, invited me to support and participate in this small track meet, I happily signed up, knowing that I would suffer a likely embarrassing defeat as I would be racing against adults and youth who actually TRAIN as runners, not to mention that most of the athletes here seem genetically predisposed to run with the speed and grace of gazelles (and often barefoot)!

I signed up for the women’s 3000 meter race, thinking that over a greater distance my lack of speed would be less obvious. As the race official called out the names of my fellow competitors, it became clear that I would not be able to escape a humiliating loss. There were only three of us participating in the race, and I recognized the other two girls as proper athletes who seem to run without ever breaking a sweat, or breathing for that matter. On the upside, I knew that I was shoe-in for the bronze medal...

3000 meters is not very far, it is 3 kilometers, less than two miles, only 7.5 laps of the track. However, as I tried to match the pace set by my fellow runners, it suddenly felt like an impossibly far distance, especially at 7:30am on a Saturday morning. I finished the race, a full 200 meters behind the other two girls, and while I was more than happy just to still be standing and breathing (or wheezing); I could see that my track coaches were less than impressed with my performance. My goal was to not let the other girls lap me, and in that much, I succeeded, so goal accomplished. J

(Note that I represented Niger in the race.)

Thankfully my race was the first event and then I got to enjoy the rest of the competition, acting as the official photographer.

The competition wrapped up with an official awards ceremony, complete with a podium for the top three runners from each event. I was pleasantly surprised to be awarded with the 3^rd place (bronze) prize, presented in a “Just Say YES” bag promoting a brand of cigarettes. Hm... I can't imagine that a similar campaign would be very popular in your typical sports events in North America. The prizes were very modest and simple (cookies, macaroni noodles, and OMO laundry soap), but they were presented by various local sports officials and celebrities (myself included), complete with official speeches of recognition and so on.

(I represented Calgary, Canada on the podium - and had to explain that no, it is not close to Quebec...)

I don’t expect to be qualifying for any National level track meets this year, but it was still fun to participate in the first track meet of the decade here in Parakou. I hope that this year will include many more photos and stories of similar sports tournaments and competitions, as we gain additional local support and interest. If I continue to choose my races carefully, maybe I'll even win a few more "medals" - trick is to compete in races with three or less participants... ;)

Flashback to Dec 2008

2009-12-18T23:19:00.003+01:00

A year ago, on Dec 20, 2008, I left wintery Calgary to come to Parakou Benin with SIM as the field treasurer (aka: finance manager) for Benin & Togo. Hard to believe that a year has already gone by, but when I cleaning out an old travel attaché, I came across some notes I had scribbled down while I was flying from Paris to Tripoli (en route to Benin). The notes were scribbled on airlines napkins and the back of my itinerary, I had intended to post them to my blog when I arrived in Benin, but I guess I forgot about them until I cleaned out my bag just the other day. So here it is, a year later, I finally got around to posting the notes on my blog.

WRITTEN ON 21 DEC 2008 (en route to Benin, flying from Paris to Tripoli)

Psalm 20 – pretty fitting for the day that I travel across the ocean, leaving behind my friends, my job; all that I’ve gained, earned, and grown accustomed to; leaving it all behind to come to the unknown. People say that I’m returning home, but it doesn’t feel like home, sure it’s closer to Niger (where I grew up) than Calgary, but it’s still foreign and undiscovered by me. Wherever I am, I suppose that’s home, anything else is just extra.

I’ve met some interesting people on this trip so far. A Canadian oil & gas engineer destined for business meetings in Nigeria; and in his words, not mine, he was hand-selected for the job by senior management because the color of his skin makes him a less likely target for the rampant kidnappings of foreign oil & gas employees in Nigeria.

On the train into Paris, I met a middle-aged man and his 14 month old daughter. He’s a single father, his wife split just days after giving birth, disappeared from the hospital, abandoning her daughter in the hospital nursery. The only way he knows to calm his daughter and keep her from screaming is to play music for her on his i-phone (it didn’t seem to be very effective on the train). He had just moved to Paris from Italy for work, was on his way home from the day care with his daughter.

In Paris airport, departure lobby for Tripoli, Libya, I sat next to an African business man with graying hair. He’s a lawyer in Cote D’Ivoire, most dangerous profession after politicians in Africa (his words). He’s been a lawyer for 15 years now in Abidjan, traveling to Europe/Canada frequently for studies or to escape the local political turmoil. He has a young family, three boys, and his dream is to be able to send them all to Concordia University in Montreal.

There seem to be a few prerequisite skills for airline attendants on flights destined for Africa:

- First, they must have a permanent look of annoyance and disgust, complete with a presence that would discourage any passenger from requesting assistance of any sort.

- Second, I think they draw straws over who has to board the passengers; because they almost need a taser to keep pushy passengers from plowing through the elastic barricades.

- Third, it is best if they are not able to speak French or English; I think these ones speak Russian or Polish, maybe German, but I can’t understand their French or English!

- Last, but not least, they must be willing to physically restrain any passengers who do not adhere to the “1 carry-on per passenger” rule.

Yes, there was a wealthy African lady with many designer label bags that had to be restrained because she insisted on attempting to force her way onto the plane with 4+ bags. Perhaps she could not understand the accent of the flight attendant (I couldn’t either), or misinterpreted the wiry flight attendant’s attempt to bar her access to the plane, and loud angry shouting of “Non Madame!”. Thankfully the lady with the flashy bags created such a commotion that I was able to gracefully glide through with my TWO pieces (each weighing in excess of 20 lbs). Bah hahaha…

As I am rather familiar with the circus surrounding flights to/from Africa, I stood in line early, anticipating that the plane’s overhead compartments would quickly fill up with all of the excess carry-on pieces that travelers “smuggle” on (myself included), and I did not want my heavy luggage sitting on my lap for 6 hours. They had not yet called my row number, and the wiry flight attendant (speaking some incomprehensible form of Franglais) was quite insistent on forcing passengers to sit down if their row number had not yet been called. As she was coming through the herd of passengers checking seat numbers; I hesitated, feeling guilty, and I was about to go sit down. I showed my ticket to the other passengers standing around me and said, “I’d better sit down, I’m not in rows 30-40.” The other passengers all laughed and replied “Neither are we! Don’t sit down, you’ll lose your spot!” Thankfully the flight attendant was distracted by some other unruly passengers and she never made it to where I was standing. I stuck to my guns, stayed in line, and scored an overhead compartment for my very heavy carry-on luggage. The overhead compartments filled up long before the seats filled; I guess I’m not the only one who managed to sneak on an extra piece….

That’s all I could find, I think I had other notes somewhere, but I probably threw them out by accident, or maybe submitted them with my expense claim (as I scribbled on the back of receipts/tickets).

PSALM 20 (For the director of music. A psalm of David)

¹May the LORD answer you when you are in distress;

may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.

²May He send you help from the sanctuary

and grant you support from Zion.

³May He remember all your sacrifices

and accept your burnt offerings.

⁴May He give you the desire of your heart

and make all your plans succeed.

⁵We will shout for joy when you are victorious

and will lift up banners in the name of our God.

May the LORD grant all your requests.

⁶Now I know that the LORD saves His anointed;

He answers him from His holy heaven

with the saving power of His right hand.

⁷Some trust in chariots and some in horses,

but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.

⁸They are brought to their knees and fall,

but we rise up and stand firm.

⁹O LORD, save the king!

Answer us when we call!

The ReMatch

2009-09-30T14:00:00.002+01:00

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

2009-09-27T22:43:00.002+01:00

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

2009-09-11T11:43:00.001+01:00

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

2009-07-04T11:39:00.004+01:00

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

2009-05-28T15:44:00.003+01:00

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...

2009-04-23T10:49:00.004+01:00

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

2009-03-31T11:24:00.010+01:00

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.

Safari MIS-Adventures

2009-03-02T09:47:00.004+01:00

It all began with an invitation to go on a bus tour to the Pendjari Game Reserve in northern Benin. The trip was short-notice, but since I had no plans for the upcoming weekend, I decided to chance it and signed up with two of my Beninese friends. The bus tour was organized by a local radio station, and for a cost of only $20 USD the overnight trip included meals, water, lodging (tents), transport, and a full safari tour at the park – what a deal! I’ve been on enough safaris in West Africa to know that these trips are usually less about seeing wild animals and more about the time spent with your traveling companions, so I was quite content to go along for the ride, thinking that this would be a great opportunity to get out of the city, visit with my friends, and maybe see a few wild animals along the way.

I knew that this safari would be slightly different, but I thought it would be interesting to experience a truly “local” safari, not the typical high maintenance, tourists’ safari. Quite honestly, I have always been under the impression that Africans don’t like camping or going on safaris. My Nigerien friends always thought we were crazy when we talked about our camping treks into the hot, dusty, remote bush, just to take a few blurry pictures of the stark landscape, and if you looked close enough, you could identify the silhouette of some deer, gazelle, no wait, a goat(?), on the dusty horizon. However, this time I was going on a local safari with my Beninese friends, and I knew there would be no air-conditioned 4x4, no fancy tourist bungalow, and probably not any cold drinks or picnic lunches. I didn’t really know what too expect, but I packed my overnight bag with a few basic essentials, including a first-aid kit, bug spray, lightweight sleeping bag, dried fruit, coffee, and 2 liters of water. I figured I would be the only foreigner on the bus tour, so I should pack light and be prepared to put up with whatever the eating/sleeping arrangements might be.

The bus was scheduled to leave at 5:30am, so we arrived at 6:30am because my friends assured me that Benin time is always at least 1 to 2 hours behind real time. I was surprised to see a group of four other white girls waiting for the bus, but as my African friends pointed out, they must be tourists because they had showed up at 5am thinking the bus would actually leave on time! 7:30am, the transit bus (ie: greyhound) pulled up and everyone quickly jumped up to push onto the bus and secure their seats. I should have suspected from the moment I registered, but this trip seemed destined for disaster from the outset. No one had receipts or tickets for the trip, but that didn’t matter because the organizers weren’t even checking passenger names or seats, I don’t think they had even counted the number of seats available, so it was really a first come, first serve. Thankfully Noelie was quick to jump in line and save three seats, because it was soon “standing room only”, and even then some late-comers were forced to stay behind because the seats, aisles, and stairwells were full.

Pendjari Park is typically a four hour drive; we arrived in just over eight hours. I was a little tired at this point, traveling in a hot, crowded bus, in the heat of the day, squashed between two other equally warm and sticky bodies, but I was still smiling and enjoying the ride. There was already a slight wrinkle in the plans, as the tour organizers announced mid-route they would not be providing food or water and we would have to purchase our own along the way (so much for the all-inclusive). I was a bit curious as to how we were going to tour the park, normally you travel in 4x4 Land cruisers, or a 15 passenger mini-bus at the most, because the condition of roads makes them very tricky to navigate with anything larger than a mini-bus. Well, it was when we nearly got stuck in the entry gate of the park that I realized that this large, 60-seat bus was going to be our safari vehicle! Yes, the bus was too large to fit through the cement archway, but thankfully the driver found a detour and off we went rumbling down the dusty road into the park. At this point, I was certain that the only thing I would be seeing for the next 24 hours would be the back of the seat in front of me…

but then my neighbors quickly cheered me up by informing me that they had a wild animal I could photograph!

La petite souris was the most exciting animal I saw for the first couple of hours, but as the mid-day sun cooled, we saw many deer, gazelle, monkeys, and various other wild animals from the discomfort of our bus.

We arrived at the camp around 6:30pm, and the bus driver informed us we could get out or ride to a nearby lake to watch for the animals coming out at dusk. We were all exhausted and feeling somewhat sick from spending the day in the hot, sticky, airless bus; so my friends stayed the camp, but since I was armed with my camera and had come all this way to see animals, I was going to stick with it to the bitter end. I was thankful I did, because we came across two female lions just a kilometer outside the camp! Unfortunately the dusty low light made it difficult to get a clear picture from the safety of the bus, but if you look closely you’ll see the blurry outline of the lion in the grass.

That completed the trip as far as I was concerned. I had photographed gazelle, deer, wild ox, baboons, “Pumba” (wild pig), birds, crocodiles, hippos, elephants, and a lion! Safari mission accomplished, now let’s go home.

Not quite home time, we arrived back in camp and it was already very dark. I wandered around trying to find my two friends, but they seemed to have disappeared into the dark night, so I joined the other “baturi” (white folk) in the thatched-roof restaurant for a fantastically cold Coke (ah, the pause that refreshes…). I discovered that the four French girls were not tourists, but rather physiotherapy students from France finishing up their six week practicum in Benin. This was there last weekend in Africa so they jumped at the opportunity to go to the game park and see some wildlife. As I mentioned earlier, the “all-inclusive” bus tour was no longer providing meals, so we decided to enjoy an over-priced meal at the camp restaurant, and then we’d worry about finding the tents and showers.

It was 11pm before we realized that we were not going to have a tent. After several extensive and somewhat threatening inquisitions by some very tired and irritated white girls (who me..?), the bus tour organizers sheepishly admitted that they had only brought a few 4-person tents (for 60 passengers!!) and not only could they not figure out how to set them up, but the tents were filled with scorpions. Hm. That presents a problem. Two of us went back to the bus to scout out the situation, only to discover that all the other passengers were already soundly asleep either on the bus, or on the ground around the bus, and sleeping on the tent canvases as ground mats. The tents were no longer an option. Normally I have no problem with sleeping on the ground, however remember that we are in the middle of a wildlife park, with at least two lions circling the open camp, it is pitch black dark, with various creepy crawlies on the ground, and we are many miles away from medical attention for scorpion/snake venom treatment. I’ve had enough close encounters with wildlife, including snakes, scorpions, and large carnivorous cats, so I vetoed the idea of sleeping on the ground in the dark. Where were my two friends that I came with? Good question, I assumed that they must have already gone to sleep, but I couldn’t find them among the dozens of dark sleeping figures in the night. So the five of us tent-less baturis banded together and set up camp on the couches under the thatched roof – at least it was well lit and off the ground (no scorpions or snakes!).

I got maybe 1 or 2 hours of uninterrupted sleep as I kept waking up to suspicious noises around us; I couldn’t tell if it was a person or animal sneaking around, but there was definitely something in the bushes over the wall!! We woke at 4am per the bus drivers’ instructions that the tour would be leaving at 4:30am. The bus did not leave until 7am, giving me plenty of time to prepare the one necessity item I had brought with me: a hot cup of Tim Horton’s coffee.

Ah, this day was off to a good start already, I was once again revived and feeling good about the trip ahead.

Oh, and we found out in the morning that the “suspicious sounds” were in fact the two lions that decided to come visit our camp – they had been seen circling the pool just 20 yards from where we were sleeping!!

The bus felt much hotter, perhaps because I was pinched between the hot bus panel which was burning my arm, a warm body on the other side, and the sweat continued to pour, like an internal spring. My water supply had been graciously used up by the other bus passengers during the night, so now I had only half a liter of water for the remainder of the day. I wasn’t too concerned because the bus driver had assured us we would be out of the park and in a city with water by noon.

At 11am the bus finally succumbed to the abusive driving of the chauffeur and refused to move. Everybody climbed off the bus, and the driver and several other amateur mechanics began to work on repairing our only ride to safety. A sign indicated 44km to the park entrance, or 94 km to return to the camp. At this point, we had no food, no water, tempers were flaring, and the passengers’ patience was running low. We sat in the shade of a tree for nearly two hours and watched as the rear wheels were removed, rotated, lots of banging with wrenches and crowbar, etc. It was certainly no Indy 500 pit stop, but whatever they did was enough to coax a few more kilometers out of the tortured bus.

The dirt trails in the park are not designed for high speeds or a large bus, but that did not seem to deter the driver as he maintained a branch-snapping speed, careening off the sides of the trail, bouncing over rocks and logs. The best way to describe the bus ride would be to imagine popcorn kernels in an old-fashioned kettle over the fire, with oil… Yes, it was hot, bumpy, and I’m still recovering from the whiplash. Oh, and when someone would happen to catch a glimpse of a wild animal in the distance, the driver would slam on the brakes, everyone would lean out the windows with their cameras ready, only to be engulfed by the billowing cloud of dust following the bus and obscuring any photographic opportunities.

The bus protested at every hill, and so we were frequently herded off the bus and forced to walked to the bottom of the hill to meet the bus as it sputtered and jerked its way over the top, or sometimes backed down and plowed a detour through the valley. The driver did not seem familiar with the concept of “gearing-down”, so at every hill the bus would continue to climb in 4^th gear, with the engine jerking and complaining, until finally it would come to a stalling halt. We spent much of the afternoon walking down the long dusty trail in the scorching sun, in the middle of a game reserve, miles from water or shelter. The French girls flagged down a passing motorbike and gave the two men instructions to alert the park authorities that we were stranded 20 km from the park entrance, without water, food, and a broke-down bus. Much to my surprise, the park authorities arrived just an hour later with jerry cans of water for the bus passengers, hurrah! If you’ve ever seen video footage of humanitarian agencies distributing food in refugee camps or in famine-stricken villages, you’ll have an idea of the ensuing chaos as 60 passengers scrambled and pushed to fill their water bottles from the limited water supply. I shouldered my way into the masses and managed to procure a liter of water for myself; and relieved to finally have hydration, I gulped it down, not even hesitating to question the source or quality of the water I was consuming.

It was only a short few hours later that I began to regret my decision to drink the cloudy water from who-knows-what-stagnant-pond. Yes, I had come down with every travelers’ worst nightmare – diarrhea. In all my years of traveling and living overseas, this is the first time I have suffered from this unpleasant illness while travelling; I now understand why Imodium is such a popular medication for travelers. Every time the bus stopped, I had the great displeasure of searching for suitable bushes and walls to give a bit of privacy for my “condition.” Have you ever tried to find a quiet corner in a bustling African city?! Public restrooms consist of open fields, garbage piles, alleys; really it’s just a “go-where-you-please” policy in most towns.

Finally the bus arrived in Parakou at 2:30am, in spite of the driver’s best attempts to kill us all with his suicidal tactics of dodging pot holes and other motorists at high speeds. There were no taxis to be found at this time of night, so I walked the kilometer home armed with my canister of pepper spray. I debated using it on a couple of drunken teenagers that were harassing me, but then decided that it probably wasn’t worth the trouble. Maybe another night, but for now all I was thinking about was my toilet, a cold shower, clean water, and my bed – in that order.

Check out my picasa web album for more photos of the safari, http://picasaweb.google.com/rjevans99/ParkPendjariSafari

I don’t think I’ll be going on anymore safaris in the near future, unless they are in Kenya or South Africa, but I’ve experienced enough of the “great outdoors” for now…

Running Wild

2009-01-25T21:53:00.001+01:00

This weekend I ran my very first (short) long distance race! Six of us “baturi” (white people) ran the 5km race, and with over 1500 runners racing down the narrow strip of dusty pavement, it was certainly a memorable “first race” experience.

My running partner from the local stadium encouraged me to run the 5km race, as she and the other athletes were running either 10km or 21km. I have never run in an official race, I usually just run in team sports; such as in soccer, where I run after the ball; or in rugby, where I run after the person carrying the ball, or away from the person wanting to tackle me. So yes, I can run, but I have always managed to avoid organized running or races, the idea of running with masses of people on pavement has never really appealed to me.

Well, as it happens, I have quickly become friends with a group of athletes at the local stadium where I’ve started jogging several times a week. Now these are not recreational athletes like me; but rather professional athletes who compete across Africa and Europe in various short or long distance running events. So, I am definitely not about to challenge any one of them in a foot race, but the “marathon” I participated in yesterday was just a fun community event, so I decided to run my first race with 1500 other natural-born runners (not so smart, I know).

We woke up bright and early Sat morning, drove our scooters out to the race grounds in the very dark morning, and quickly lined up to collect our t-shirts and race numbers. The race officials had previously informed all participants that there was a limited number of t-shirts; so to ensure we would get a t-shirt, they encouraged us to arrive no later than 5am for the 7am race, ugh… In any case, with the help of a strong cup of coffee, I managed to get myself there on time (I am NOT a morning person).

7:00 AM – The race is supposed to start at 7AM sharp, so everyone has already gathered at the edge of the road (starting line), and you can feel the excitement buzzing through the air as runners of all ages and sizes begin jostling for the best starting position. Many children are participating in the 5km race, most are barefoot or wearing flip flops, and the privileged are wearing well used second-hand runners, men and women of all shapes and sizes in shorts, tights, pants, and even skirts. As the only group of white people participating in the race, we quickly became unlikely celebrities and we provided some great pre-race entertainment for the other runners as we stretched out our cold, morning muscles. I’m sure the kids next to me were taking bets on how quick the white girl was going to drop out of the race! White people can’t jump, and I’m pretty sure they don’t run either…

7:30 AM – After several false starts, close encounters with the stampeding mob, we were still waiting impatiently behind the starting line. Initially, my competitive nature got the better of me, and I thought it would be best to get as close to the front of this mob as possible, but thankfully some common sense kicked in (and the voice of reason from my running buddies), so we fell back to the middle of the pack to avoid the pushing and shoving that was bound to happen as soon as the horn sounded.

7:45 AM – The 21KM and 10KM runners were off, the 5KM group was supposed to wait, but of course, mob mentality set in and we were off!! Pounding down the pavement, the runners were off at fast run, trying to secure a position in front of the melee, women and children were knocked to the ground as the crowd pushed forward, and I did my best to maintain my balance as I ran with my elbows out. The first 200 metres were pure chaos, but as the rhythm of feet and flip flops slapping the pavement set in, I was quite enjoying the feeling of running a race in the crisp, clean, morning air, ah… so exhilarating! I found myself thinking “I could do this more often, this is kind of fun!” That was after the first 500 metres. By the time I reached the first kilometer marker, the harmattan (fine dust) had filled my lungs and cloaked my airway, my mouth was dry and my eyes were tearing as I tried to keep my contacts moist in the dusty and smoke polluted morning air. At the second kilometer, I nearly lost my footing as I tripped over several young boys who had stopped suddenly, but focused only on the finish line, I regained my balance and did not dare to stop and check on the boys – I’m sure they were fine…

8:00AM – I am still running, I can see the finish line in the distance, but it’s up hill and I think there are several hundred runners that have already crossed it – those must have been the pushy ones at the front. I rounded the corner, and now at a fast run I am focused on the finish line, trying to hold off the 10 year old boy gaining on me from behind, suddenly I am stopped in my tracks about a 100 meters BEFORE the finish line, as a race official directs me to stand in the growing line of race contestants. What’s this? I don’t get to break across a finish line with my arms out wide and head flung back as I expel every last bit of strength to cross that line in victory!? Well no, because the finish line is setup so that everyone must cross it single file, then collect your medal (the first 1000 runners), water, and breakfast baguette. Slightly disappointed that I couldn’t sprint across the finish line, but I did still beat the 10 year old boy the back of the line, AND I got a medal along with the other 66% of the participants, so all in all, the race was a success. J

My athletic friends from the stadium, well yes they did in fact win first place in their races (shown in picture with trophies), so I figure if I train with them all year maybe for the next race I’ll at least get to run across the finish line and not have to wait at the back of a single file line. The shorter girl in the picture, on the right, she set the record for the 21km run last year: 1 hr, 9 min. Wow. Ok, so I am at a bit of a disadvantage, both of these girls come from a mountainous area of Benin known best for its long-distance runners.

Great fun, I’ve never participated in an organized race in Canada, so I’m not sure what they are supposed to be like, but this was certainly an adrenaline pumping race and definitely worth doing again. I made quite a few friends through the other runners, shared some laughs, and I promised that the “baturi” would run again in next year’s race.

Achi densu!

(“Later” in Dendi)

Rules of the Road 101

2009-01-18T20:43:00.001+01:00

Greetings from sunny Parakou, where the dust never settles, the smoky cooking fires never cease, and the shouts of “Baturi!” (“white person”) greet you along every road.

I’ve lost track of time out here, as I’m in the African time zone where the hours, days, and weeks all melt together; but based on my calendar, I’ve been here nearly a month and am settling in nicely.

I moved into my apartment on the mission compound just after Christmas and was very thankful that my parents came to visit from Niger and helped me get set up and unpacked while I focused on learning my responsibilities in the office.

Outside of the office, I have dedicated my time to mastering the spiderweb-like roads of Parakou on my new “moto” (motorbike). I bought a shiny, red 100cc Yamaha scooter off the former treasurer, and after a minor altercation with the cement curb in the mission parking lot, I’ve been quite pleased with my moto. Parakou has many paved and cobblestone roads, complete with traffic lights and road signs, however I quickly learned that many of these “road signs” are really just for aesthetic purposes, and actually attempting to obey some of the signs could be downright hazardous. For example, the Pedestrian sign is rather misleading, because to the uninformed, it gives the false impression that Pedestrians have right-of-way.

Rules of the Road

Pedestrians Signs: Pedestrians NEVER have right-of-way; signs are only to alert drivers that they should be prepared to honk or swerve around foolish pedestrians attempting to cross the road.

Stop Signs: Could indicate a major intersection, but actually stopping would be suicidal, as the motorists following you would be forced to swerve around you, honking and gesturing angrily at your traffic “faux-pas.”

Signal Lights: The preferred method of signaling on a moto is using one’s hand to point. However, this should not be confused with moto drivers using their hands in conversation with their passenger(s), or waving to friend on the roadside, or just pointing into the distance for no apparent reason. The best way to determine whether a moto is turning or not, is to carefully scrutinize the lean or tilt of the driver’s upper body, indicating which direction he or she is planning to turn.

Speed Limits: There are speed limit signs posted around town, but the general rule of thumb for speed here, is to go as fast as your moto will allow, restricted only by pot holes, goats, chickens, and unmarked speed bumps. Speed “bumps” here are constructed in a manner that makes them similar to hitting a 6 inch cement curb, so it is best to quickly learn where these unmarked speed bumps exist and slow down accordingly.

Traffic Lights: These are my favorite, because depending on many variables, including power shortages, the traffic lights may or may not be functioning. So, when the lights are functioning, local traffic allows a period of grace for motos and some vehicles after the light turns red. Unless you are a foreigner, then you must stop at the orange light, otherwise risk a hefty fine from the police man resting under the tree. Once the first person stops, everyone following usually stops, and then the motos begin to line up, all jockeying for the front position, and soon the swarm of scooters is covering both lanes of the entire road. Amazingly enough, when the light turns green, the motos all move forward and funnel onto the right side of the road to avoid oncoming traffic.

Left Turns: Turning left is a bit of an art here, whether you’re driving a moto or a car. Signaling can be used, but not at all required, and is really misleading because the left turning signal means many different things in local traffic, so is rarely used for actually making a left turn. So, begin by easing into the middle of the road, however understand that traffic coming behind you will continue swarm around both sides of you, and even if you left signal is on, people will continue to pass you on the left hand side, so you must be very aware of the oncoming traffic and traffic behind you. To avoid stopping in the middle of the road, it’s best to cross over to the opposite lane whenever you can, and then continue driving on the shoulder into oncoming traffic until your left turn arrives. Once you have turned left, it’s perfectly acceptable to remain on the left side of the road for a while, continuing to drive on the shoulder of oncoming traffic and waiting for an opportunity to wander back onto the right-hand side of the road.

Pot Holes: These are objects that govern the flow and direction of traffic, it is important to swerve around these no matter what, ignoring oncoming traffic or other vehicles/motorbikes around you. Swerving around pot holes is most effective at high speeds, slowing down is only for the faint of heart.

Use of Horn: Honking rarely indicates driver frustration, but rather represents a complex road language, depending on the length or volume of the horn, and how many times it is repeated. Here are some examples of how the horn can be used to communicate with other motorists or pedestrians:

Single short horn: A friendly “Hello” or a notice to pedestrians/children to be aware of traffic.

Double short horn: Notify other motorists that you’re passing them on the left, or a zemi-jean (moto taxi) soliciting his services.

Single long horn: “Hey!” – could be an annoyed “hey”, or just a slight reprimand to another motorist not obeying any one of the 7 rules listed above.

Double short, then long horn (and repeat): “GET OUT OF THE WAY!!” (generally used by large trucks or buses). Either the driver’s brakes do not work, or they are in a hurry, or just a very important person who wants to know that he or she is important and traffic should give way (this is also signaled by the use of headlights during daylight or dusk hours).

Those are the general traffic rules I have observed so far, so I’m doing my best to adapt my driving skills avoid any collisions in the confusion.

Prior to my arrival in Parakou, I was quite excited about learning the local language in town, Bariba; however now that I’m here, I found out that not only is Bariba spoken in town, but also a mixture of about a dozen other languages! Everyone speaks French, but selecting a single local language to learn is difficult, because every person I meet speaks a different language. My new language plan is to at least learn “hello” in various local languages, and then I’ll have to decide which one I want to focus on learning in more detail. Learning a few key words in any local language is very helpful for bartering in the markets, but that’s a whole different subject for another day I think. So until next time, or in one of the many local languages, Yom: “gna-mu-seht!” (spelling unknown, wrote it like it sounds…)

Joyeux Noel de Parakou

2008-12-25T13:02:00.001+01:00

Merry Christmas to everyone around the world, whether it’s a white, brown, or green Christmas! It’s definitely a brown (with green patches) Christmas here in Benin, and instead of Christmas carols, I can hear the melodic Muslim calls to prayer several times a day. J

Yes, I made it safely to Parakou after a long delay in Tripoli; I arrived in Cotonou shortly after midnight Dec 22 (night) and was met by one of the mission staff at the airport. My only comment on Tripoli, would be to strongly discourage anyone from using Afriquay Airlines, akwai wahala sosai! Anyway, I made some friends along the way and so it made the delay in Tripoli feel much shorter, so that was nice.

Cotonou is the major coastal city of Benin and very humid, even at 7am I was sweating as I drank my morning cup of Nescafe (hm...). I was so grateful to have a ride with several church leaders in their air conditioned Toyota 4-Runner; especially after seeing many transit buses broke down or flipped over along the side of the road between Cotonou and Parakou.

This morning I enjoyed Christmas with my parents and good friend (ahem, also boss) Clara, we had Starbucks and Tim Hortons coffee (very special delicacies brought from Canada) along with our traditional cinnamon t-ring (like a cinnamon bun, in a ring), and the perfect Christmas weather at a balmy 26’C when I woke this morning. J The missionary team here in town is now preparing for our big Christmas dinner this afternoon, I think there will be about 26 of us altogether, so a great Christmas gathering.

Ok, I’ve included a few pictures below that tell a bit of a story about my first meal in Benin. Normally I try to ease myself into the local food, no need to risk my health too early on before I’ve adjusted, but this time as I was travelling with Beninese colleagues and I would felt it would be rude if I didn’t sit down and eat with them.

So, we stopped at a popular truck-stop about half way to Parakou, we had several little restaurant cafes to choose from, all complete with prime patio seating (hard to find in Calgary during the summer!). At first the pastors were quite concerned because they didn’t think that I could eat local food, but no I insisted I would be fine, I grew up in Niger and love African food!

We had a fantastic meal of “yam pili” (pounded yam) and peanut sauce with chicken (so they said – it had very thick skin). I diligently washed my hands with the soapy water provided, although now that I think about it, I have no idea where the water came from… The food was very tasty, just enough spice to make my eyes tear up, yum! I wisely chose to use the ladies’ room after eating, and it was there that I discovered the source of my “chicken”… hm (bonus points if you can identify the chicken in the picture below...).

The picture of the brick wall enclosure is only 3 foot high and was the ladies’ toilette. Oh well, the meal was very tasty, and I thankfully had no ill side-effects from the water used.

Well we’re getting the Christmas celebrations under way here and most of you will just be waking up this Christmas morning over in Canada, so merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all, God bless!

P.S. My internet connection is dial-up and infrequent, so if I don’t respond immediately to your emails, sorry!

Farewell cold Calgary, bonjour beau Paris!

2008-12-21T19:02:00.009+01:00

Ok, so just got the blog up and running, I'll fast forward through the last few months with just a few notable points.

First, my financial needs were more than met through many incredibly generous donations, I had to raise a significant amount of money in order to leave by December, but God provided it all through various sources in just 6 short weeks; truly amazing and a great affirmation.

Second, all the details of closing out my life in Calgary came together quite nicely, thanks to the fantastic support of friends and relatives in and around Calgary (you know who you all are -THANK YOU!!), so that was a huge blessing.

Third, my passport was lost by Canada Post just a few short weeks prior to my departure date, but thankfully I was able to report it lost and procure a new passport and visa in just 5 business days, wow! Thanks for your prayers on that one, what a relief!

Finally, the last cloud hanging over me as I was madly rushing from one day to the next, each day filled with appointments and visiting friends, still commuting to work - I still hadn't sold my car!! My car, Sparky, did not have a new owner, and with just 24 hours before I was to leave Calgary, I still did not really had a plan B in place, tough market to sell a newer "slightly" used car.

Friday, Dec 19th, was my last day of work, so I had driven and parked in the company parkade like usual, and by 10am I had two callers inquiring about my car. The first couple came downtown, test drove my car in the underground parkade, said they wanted it, and returned an hour later with certified cheque and I handed them the keys!! Crazy! I hadn't had a single call on my car listing (in several classifieds) in two weeks, and then my car sells for a decent price in just 2 hours! So Sparky is now adjusting to his new owners, and given the city road conditions, I hope they invest in winter tires...!

December was very, very cold and icy in Calgary, and sad too as I had to say goodbye to so many of my friends and family across western Canada. Not only will I be missing my friends and family, but I'll miss playing ice hockey late on week nights; indoor soccer games in the stuffy soccer dome; rugby in the rain, sleet, and scorching sun on the Irish pitch; wandering aimlessly on bike trails in Kananaskis; snowboard tree-runs at Lake Louise; and Starbucks "runs" at lunch hour. Sniff...

I've been up for about 48 hours now, so lots of time to reminisce. Well, I slept a bit on the flight to Frankfurt, but not properly, and since it's only 7pm local time here in Paris, I'm trying to keep up with the time change. Ok, now we're up to real-time, Sunday, December 21st, and I'm in a low budget hotel room at Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris. Low budget, think university dorm room, it has a strange permeating smell that I can't quite identify... The hair blower plays music though, so I'll it an extra 1/4 of a star for that.

Paris shopping at Christmas time - I think it should qualify as an extreme sport. I only did it because I had an afternoon to kill and I felt obligated to the walk the shops, but yikes, there were moments in the Louis Vutton store that I feared I would be the victim of the stampeding women rushing the sale table (I caught a glimpse - the items on "sale" were NOT cheap). My luggage is already full to the limit, so I stuck with buying consumables, such as Starbucks coffee and some sort of deepfried donut sticks covered in sugar (taste like mini donuts, but look like French Fries on steroids).

Tomorrow I fly on Afriquay Airlines (don't ask) to Tripoli, Libya (3 hrs) and then to Cotonou, Benin (7 hrs), arriving at midnight Monday night. Tues morning I was planning to take the bus in country to Parakou, but good news via email today indicates that I might be able to hitch a ride with a church leader returning to Parakou. I'll find out more details when I arrive in Cotonou, but as long as my luggage arrives, I should make it to Parakou by Tues evening, Dec 23rd. Phew!

Alright, this is a very long blog, and I'm exhausted... Donc a tous, bonne nuit et a la prochaine! (too difficult to figure out the French accents on my laptop keyboard, sorry).

Peace,

Rebecca

Is this a rally of "British-Bulldog"? No, just Parisians crossing the street during downtown Christmas shopping chaos...

Bénin Facts & Stats

2008-12-15T19:43:00.006+01:00

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Borders: Togo, Nigeria, Niger, and Burkina Faso

Population: 8.7 million

Languages: French (offical), Fon, Bariba, Yoruba; 54 spoken languages in total.

Religions: Traditional (50%), Islam (20%), Catholic (27%), and Christian (3%)

Life expectancy at birth: 36 (1960), 55 (2005)

Mortality rate under 5 years old(per 1,000): 296 (1960), 150 (2005)

Adult Literacy: 35% (Women: 23%)

Human development index (HDI) ranking: 163rd of 177 countries

Percentage of Population living on less than $2 a day: 74%

Interesting Details:
Bénin is known as the cradle of Voodoo; from here Voodoo spread to the Americas through slave ships and has continued to play a strong role in Bénin.

SIM’s partnering church, UEEB, has over 396 congregations in 9 languages, led by 250 pastors across Bénin.

Going where?!

2008-12-15T19:08:00.011+01:00

There I was, sitting in my office, a glass tower of concrete and steel; and as I stared out the window over the Calgary downtown core, my mind was already racing with the implications of my decision. I had just applied for a two year assignment with SIM (Serving In Mission) in Parakou, Benin, West Africa, for the Bénin/Togo Area Treasurer and Project Coordinator vacancy. Yes, I’m returning to Africa!!

It all began with a few emails from SIM friends mentioning the upcoming need for an accountant in Bénin. Clara Klassen, Director of SIM Bénin & Togo, and long-time family friend, sent me an email to ask if I would be open to considering the Treasurer position. I decided that it couldn’t hurt to consider it, so replied to Clara that I would take the weekend to pray and think about it. Ten days later, after many hours on my knees in prayer, dialoguing with close friends and family, I found myself on the phone with SIM asking “What next?”

At the time it seemed like an overwhelming mountain to prepare for a two year overseas assignment in just a few short months, but as I quickly discovered, no concern is too big or too small for God to handle and I have been amazed to see Him go before me each step of the way. So here I am, just three months after making the decision to go with SIM, and I'm flying for Bénin on Sat, December 20th, yaay!!

SIM is an interdenominational Christian mission, with over 1600 associates from around the world volunteering in over 50 countries across Africa, South America, and Asia. SIM strives to meet the needs of the poor in developing countries through health, nutrition, agricultural, and educational programs, and holistic sustainable community development. The SIM Bénin/Togo field is a team of approximately 30 missionaries from around the globe, and partners with the local church in many of its projects, including: Bembéréké Hospital in northern Bénin, Radio Gospel broadcasting, Bible translation, pastoral training and teaching, and HIV/AIDS prevention and assistance for urban and rural communities.

My main role will be to ensure accurate and timely financial reporting for field personnel and SIM International; provide financial guidance to the SIM Bénin/Togo leadership team; supervise and train the cash office staff; and liaise with other field and SIM sending offices. As the interim Projects Coordinator I will be reviewing new project funding proposals and ongoing activity reports; networking with the national project managers, local churches, and international donors; and traveling to field sites to visit the projects and report on the progress.

There are many other exciting opportunities for me to be involved with in the local community, including assisting with the youth sports programs and promoting sports for young women, and teaching conversational English in the evenings.

The first year in Parakou will certainly be busy, but I’m excited about the broad range of ministries and activities I have an opportunity to participate in. I am especially looking forward to providing critical support services for the missionaries, visiting the field projects, and partnering with the local churches and communities.

DISCLAIMER: I am not a true "blogger" but I will try my best to post updates as often as I have access to electricity and internet wherever I might be.