Just a Girl

As I was getting ready to sit down and enjoy the freedom of my Friday morning, I heard a knock on my door. Wondering who it was, as I had not scheduled any appointments with anyone, I sleepily got out of bed and wandered to the front door. Bucket in tow, it was my mason who was apparently equipped and ready to begin repairing my door for the…seventh time now I believe. In fact, I think that part of me will be sad to see my door saga end; it has provided me with quite a bit of amusement over the time. Anyway, that is where we are. I am sitting on my couch, fan gently blowing, typing away on my computer while some trusty worker attempts to attempt the impossible--fixing my door. Luckily, it appears that he only has to worry about the top section of my doors and will not to take out the entire framework like two men have done in the past. Oh sweet memories.

One hour later and it looks like he has finished his work. Doesn’t look half bad I must say; perhaps he really is the one. We chatted the whole time about America. He was (and still is) under the firm impression that there are no black people in the United States, that there are no poor people in the United States, and that if you come to America everything will be better in a matter of months. While I don’t like to make a habit of talking badly about the Land of Opportunity, when people take up this viewpoint, as so many Beninese do, I find the best way to change their opinion is to insist that life is better in Benin. That in Benin, people may not have a lot of money, but that people are still happy with their life as opposed to America where the more money people have, the more things they seem to want. Despite, however, this rather genius argument, he still refused to believe that people lived on the streets (especially white people living on the streets) and that even one black person owned soil in the States. I’m just a compulsive liar I suppose. With that issue clearly a moot point, we started talking, naturally, about how great John was (the volunteer I replaced in Manigri). As my mason went on and on about John this and John that, my insecurities about my own volunteer work began to rise and rise until finally I interrupted him and blurted, “And me? What about me? I’m nice too, right?” He, in turn, responded with the most honest and upfront Beninese answer. He told me that I was indeed nice and that I seemed like a good teacher at the school but that people couldn’t be friends with me because I am a woman. Point blank, just like that. I am a woman. And then on he went talking about John again. While I wanted to push the subject further, I decided to let it rest as is. I really wasn’t interested in having a friendship with this guy, and I think that despite my longings for more friendships here, he has a point. I don’t think that he meant it in a demeaning or hurtful way, I think that it is just one of the, perhaps, stunted aspects about life in Benin. Men and women cannot be friends for several reasons, the main one being that if the two are friends, they should be sleeping together, and if they’re not, it will be assumed to be that way anyway and well, I don’t know too many girls who want to be known as the girl who gets around. Regardless, even with all my reasoning, I still feel a taken aback by his comment. Is it true that no matter how great of a volunteer I am that I will never be talked about in the way that John is simply because I’m a woman? The intellectual side of me reasons that it because of the fact that I am a woman that I have the opportunity to do more than John ever could. That I have the opportunity to influence the lives of other women, the lives of young girls. That I have the opportunity to be really revolutionary. However, the emotional side of me still thinks how unsatisfactory my Peace Corps experience has the opportunity to be if all my efforts to integrate fail based solely on my chromosomal makeup. Something to ponder indeed.

All “I am Woman, hear me roar” issues aside, these past few weeks have been perfectly chaotic. To start, I was chosen to work the next round of stage (the training period for all the new volunteers), so at the end of March I traveled down to Cotonou for a several day long discussion on what activities should be in the program for the new stagaires. For us TEFL volunteers, the work finished early as the vast majority of our program is taken up by big blocks of model school. Thus, most of this time was spent talking to other volunteers, eating free food and deciding who and for what reasons will be working each particular week of the stage training--It was decided that I will be working from July 21st until August 18th, so start clearing those calendars for the end of August for my grand summer visit back to the States--I’m already fantasizing about what I want my first meal to be. Immediately following the stage training, my time in Cotonou was extended as it marked the period for the annual All-Volunteer Conference (All-Vol). In general, All-Vol is set in place for two main reasons: to discuss important bureaucratic issues with all the volunteers present and to allow a break to jaded second-year volunteers who may be losing ambition as they near the end of their service. I, however, enjoyed All-Vol for one reason: Hotel du Lac. For three days Peace Corps allows us to stay in absolute luxury. I’m talking air conditioning, free food, hot showers, mini fridges, king size beds, internet in the rooms, severely overpriced drinks, and best of all, a swimming pool. We were living the dream. In fact, Alex and I extended our dream stay just for one more night as we were just not quite able to pry ourselves away from such amenities so soon. It was quite the slice of paradise in this Peace Corps life. Additionally, the events of all All-Vol were highlighted by several events for our Gender and Development (GAD) group. The first night, we had a talent show and male auction, and the second night was the silent auction and the GAD dinner or, perhaps, more aptly named the Peace Corps prom. The first night, though I made many bids on many fine gentlemen offering moonlight serenades and five-star self-prepared cuisine, it was Alex for whom I finally put down the big bucks. The second night, feeling the full guilt of spending too much money on something I already get for free (although it all goes to a good cause), I vowed not to spend anymore money. That notion was quickly thrown aside upon viewing a basket of mashed potatoes--I mean, honestly, it’s mashed potatoes, how was I supposed to resist? How was I also to resist bidding on a several beautiful (clean) t-shirts, a basket of baked goods, a wooden statue, a digital camera, and several other small auction items. Clearly, I just embody the notion of good will and could, therefore, not deny myself from helping a good cause. Luckily, there were other do-gooders as well and my winnings were limited to the mashed potatoes and two t-shirts. The rest of prom was quite wonderful, too, except that I had apparently purchased a one-way ticket on the lame train as I could barely keep my eyes open past midnight and thus retired early to bed. This prom event also marked the first time that I had worn makeup in country. Actually, I use the term makeup quite lightly. I had on mascara and eyeliner with a bit a blush, that’s it. Yet, seeing myself for the first time with something on my face besides chapstick, I felt very much like a drag queen (a good-looking drag queen, naturally).
After All-Vol and after our one night layover at Hotel du Lac, Alex returned with me to Manigri and laid low for a couple days. Which, brings me to the events that have just occurred.
Also interrupting my lazy journal writing Friday morning, my ceiling fixing man arrived about 30 minutes ago. Kindly chatting me up, we were having decent conversation, when he stops me and says that he saw me with a stranger last Saturday (that would be Alex). I told him that that was Alex and that Alex is my husband hoping the old marriage tactic would give him cause to drop the subject and to drop the thought of ever hitting on me again. Not the case. He follows up my husband statement with something along the lines of, “If I had known that, I would have started a war with him, because with him next to you, there leaves no room for a man like me.” Rolling my eyes, I question him saying that shouldn’t it be the woman’s right to chose a man and rolling his eyes right back at me, he laughs and says, “American woman.” Awesome.
Anyway, Alex left last Saturday morning and I was left in Manigri alone--without air conditioning, free food, hot showers, mini fridges, king size beds, internet in my room, severely overpriced drinks, a swimming pool, and best of all, friends all around. As a cruel “twisting of the knife,” my first day alone, I was also left without my 24-hour power. I believe it was fate’s way of slapping me across the face and reminding me that I did, in fact, sign up for Peace Corps and not Hotel du Lac.
Currently, I’m back in the swing of things, teaching and eating my daily dose of pate. This past week I had one of my most successful 5eme classes in a long time with the incorporation of the almighty Venn Diagram. And I’m not kidding when I say that the kids loved it. There are so many things that are lacking in the educational system here, one of which is the ability for students to critical analyze and then categorize their findings and ideas. Enter the Venn Diagram. I loved that it worked so brilliantly and will definitely search for ways to use it in my remaining lessons (six more weeks to go-yikes). My kitten and I are in a learning period with each other right now. I forgot how playful kittens can be and thus much of my annoyance with the little guy is spawning from periods where he decides my leg will be the next target for his hunting practice, or when he decides that he should wake me up to sharpen his nails on my bed post at 3a.m., or when he decides that the dirt in his litter box would be better suited outside the box, etc. Still, I have high hopes that he will become the ferocious killer kitty I want him to be. Already, combining our forces, we have killed two ginormous unidentified bugs. Actually, I kill them and he eats them, but it’s that taste for bloodshed that I like to see in my untamable wild kitty beast. And though I’m not quite settled on a name yet, I am thinking that he shall be named Jaguar with Jag for short. Everyone here just calls him moose, which I’m okay with, too. Anyway, with a better door and fixed ceiling, I think that about brings me to the end of this journal and while the strawberry clouds are now gone, the “mango rains” have come, and it’s now officially mango season. So, I am off to market to find some mangoes to eat until I’m sticky and stuffed to the brim. Love and Hugs.