La belle vie à Parakou

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ehi zandé!

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

Dead Manchester Fan Walking

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

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

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

It was not at all like a Grey Cup party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things that go bump in the night...

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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

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

Voyage au Village

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safari MIS-Adventures

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

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)