Footloose

Last night I returned from Dassa and was going to type a journal but decided that I was just too tired and would rather go straight to bed. So, after a lovely night’s sleep with my fan and earplugs (I was able to sleep in until 7:00!), and after a fantastic breakfast of oatmeal and toast with Peanut Butter and an orange, here I am, ready to type away. So. Dassa.
The best news by far from my trip to Dassa was that I passed my French interview. Hurray! I needed to reach Intermediate High and I got Advanced Low-she said I was closer to Advanced Mid, but that I just needed to be more confident, so whatever, I succeeded! My other “language failure buddies” got Inter High and Advanced Mid, so we all passed and we were all happy. The Country Director (CD) was even there to swear us in and everything. It was all very cheesy, but I am one of the few people who actually has pictures from the swearing-in ceremony as cameras were not allowed inside the original ceremony, and the CD, because I think knew that this was supposed to be a special day for us, took us out to lunch and she even baked a cake for us…with sprinkles! It was very nice in a “I still feel a little bit like a failure for being here in the first place” type of way. Regardless, I passed, we all passed, and now that’s one less huge stressor that I have to worry about. The monkey is off my back, the dark cloud is no longer looming over my shoulder, the pink elephant has left the room…choose whatever phrase you would like to have (it is like a choose your own adventure story!).
Other than the language, the trip to Dassa was overall pretty great. Emma and I arrived in Dassa sometime in the afternoon. We arrived at the taxi gare and were immediately swarmed by people, but it was all in a days work as we were soon picked up in a 5-day old car by the CD’s personal chauffeur. That’s how I like to roll. He made us even put on our seatbelts—I haven’t worn a seatbelt since being in country, so even that was strange (and not because I don’t want to—DAD—but because they simply just don’t exist in the taxis). So we were personally chauffeured to Emily Faber’s house (another volunteer…also another CSD major) where we were to spend the night. We were greeted by the CD and her daughter and our language interviewer (which I didn’t know at the time). Anyway, they left and we got settled into Emily’s house. Turns out that Emma and I would have to sleep on the floor (I did bring my thermarest, thank God, but it still turned out to be one of the hottest, stickiest, and most uncomfortable nights sleeps I had had since being in country…and all right before this huge, huge interview. I think I was a little nervous too, which didn’t help). Anyway, that night we ventured out and got some delicious yam pelee and actually got to use the internet, which was a surprise and really nice. Got to finally read some of your nice emails or facebook messages; it was all really good for my moral. Someday, I will get around to responding. I always feel funny when I go to the cybers because undoubtedly at some point I will be laughing out loud and so hard that I will have to cover my mouth with my hand to contain myself, so keep the stories coming. I love hearing news from back home. Anyway, we went back, went to bed, woke up, ate breakfast, got picked up chauffeur style again, and headed out to Camate where the other “language failure” (Debra) lives and works. This is where we were to have our interviews. So, yada yada yada, we all passed and we were sworn-in. The real story is that Camate is one of the most gorgeous places that I have seen in Benin so far. The collines are just breath-taking and the place that we were at reminded me of what I imagine a Zen garden to be like. It was all so beautiful and by far the most at peace that I have been since being in Benin. Debra actually works at the place and her job is to promote tourism there by taking visitors up hiking into the collines. What a great job, what a great place. The owner even gave us free drinks to help us celebrate our swearing-in. After this, we headed to a hotel in Dassa where the CD bought our lunch and served us the cake she made. The real story behind the hotel, and why the hotel was so cool, is that in the back, they had an ostrich farm, so we got to go out and see the ostriches. My most intelligent observation is that, “They are huge!” But, seriously, they are huge, and they are so exotic. It really is the closest thing to looking at what a dinosaur would have been like. They were amazing. Naturally, the whole interviewing, swearing-in, and eating took longer than Peace Corps anticipated, so very shortly after lunch Emma and I had to rush out to catch a taxi to make it home in time. Now, the taxi ride home. Emma and I were in giddy moods, because we both passed, so we decided to have some fun. Thus, here is the taxi story.
First, whenever we would make a stop (because taxi stops are quite frequent) we would make sure to get out and have some sort of interaction with the locals. It usually meant us dancing on the side of the road and trying to get everyone to join in after which we would all burst out into laughter, or us chasing after little kids who were calling us yovo and watching them run away in fear, or just simply buying some local produce (since you know that I can always put away an orange or two—did I already talk about my obsession with oranges and how I eat like 5 a day? If not, I do. I love them). Second, at one point, this really old woman had gotten into the car and despite her not speaking any French or any bit of the local languages that we knew, we managed to make friends with her, too. Of course, we got her dancing in the back of the car with Emma and me, and then we she got off, she was 100CFA short. The taxi cab driver started hassling her and giving her a hard time, so Emma just paid the 100CFA for her (which is like nothing), but she was really, really grateful. So that was nice. At our next stop, as I was sitting in the taxi waiting for Emma to return from buying more oranges, I spied a man walking down the street wearing the coolest shirt. It was for some female president in Thailand or something and it had her picture on the front doing a “Uncle Sam” type pose. I decided that I needed to have that shirt. So, when Emma got back I told her about the shirt, and she decided that I needed to have that shirt, too. So, with a little encouragement from Emma, I got out of the taxi and went running after this guy with the shirt. I finally caught up to him inside a little store and explained the situation—That I liked his shirt and that I wanted his shirt and that I would pay for him to give me his shirt. He was confused. I explained again, and several of the other people in the room translated my message into local language. He was still confused. He said that there were other shirts in the market and that I could buy one there. I said, “No. I want that shirt. How much?” Finally, he says, “1000CFA.” I say, “Okay. Do you have change for 5000CFA?” He becomes confused again and decides that he doesn’t want to really give me his shirt, so the people in the store start hassling him for me and asking him if he’s crazy, that he should just give me the shirt, etc. It was really funny, but pretty clear that he wasn’t going to give it to me so I say, “Don’t worry about it. Next time.” So I leave, empty handed, and return to the taxi to tell Emma the story. The taxi driver gets in the car, and we get ready to leave, sad that I didn’t get my shirt. But, instead of going forward in the taxi, the driver just backs up, and we proceed to wait even longer at which point I have my second run-in with my t-shirt man. This is Emma’s first time actually seeing the shirt and upon her seeing it, too, she decides that I do truly need that shirt (it was that spectacular). So we call the guy over and again with an entire cast of onlookers Emma and I try to get this guy to give me his shirt. After discoutering the price again, he finally says, “If I give you my shirt what will I wear?” THAT’S what this guy was concerned about! I wanted to be say, “Look! You are a man in Africa. You can wear whatever you want! You can do whatever you want! It doesn’t matter!” But I didn’t. I just laughed at him and how vain he was for an African man. He suggested that I give him my shirt in exchange. I immediately said okay, and I think this surprised him as he started backpedaling even more after this. Anyway, long story short. We did leave empty-handed, but everyone around was really mad at this guy for not giving me his shirt, which I thought was pretty funny. But that is my new goal. Next time I see a shirt I want, I will buy it directly off someone’s back. It will be done.
The rest of the taxi ride was fairly uneventful except that we got back way past dark, which was not our plan at all, so I had to take a zemi in the dark to Manigri which is not really something that I prefer to do. Not to mention that it is more expensive. But the strangest thing about the whole trip is that when Emma and I arrived back in Bassila and we saw the signs for “Bassila” and “Manigri,” both of us felt like we were coming home. So, I guess that despite all the ups and downs of this adventure so far, I do feel like I have a home. I do feel like I am starting to belong somewhere.
I forgot to also mention that I did get the dirty finger again on the taxi ride home. Grrrrr. It was right before the old woman got in the car, so even though I was really, really furious, dancing with her made me feel much better. Sometimes you just gotta dance. (And ain’t that the truth)
Cheers from Manigri. Carly