Wildflowers

Madame Kalamazoo is back!

School started last week, and I couldn't have asked for a better first day. Not only was it great to see all of the professors again back from vacation, but it was a good feeling to stride across the school grounds while having all of my former students greeting me with smiles and polite little bows. My first class seemed effortless and fun as it was composed of mainly former students who already knew my classroom expectations and mannerisms. In the afternoon, my second class, though all new students, went equally as well with their scared and young little faces lingering on every word I said. As I left the grounds that day, I truly felt as though L'annee scolaire 2008-2009 was going to be the year of Mme. Kalamazoo.

Leaving in good spirits, I felt that I could easily handle “eating amongst the people” for dinner that night; therefore, I stopped my bicycle about a quarter mile down the road from the school to join the locals in some delicious sugary porridge. Not only was I given a heaping portion with a fried plantain to accompany my tastebuds, but as I went to pay for my meal, I was told that this one was “on the house.” Truly feeling as though the Gods were on my side that day, I took off with an air of total contentment.

Arriving at my next destination, I was chatting it up with my friend about the rising prices of flour and onions when a familiar face walked by and to my great surprise causally invited me to play soccer with him. Quite sure that he was joking and didn't really expect me to show up, I figured that I would surprise him and actually go show off my tremendous soccer skill. And so, as I said goodbye to my friend, I took off in the direction of home and the soccer field. When I reached the field, I found it was a dismal turnout—myself, a couple of young children, and my familiar faced inviter. Nevertheless, I cheerily found a soccer ball and started kicking it around with one of the older kids. He was more interested in juggling and actual soccer skill, while I just kept focusing on not making a complete fool of myself. The minutes passed and soon the dismal turnout rose to a sizable crowd of oohing and awing children I felt that only Christiano Ronalda himself could have conjured. I played for the crowd until I saw that I needed to quickly make a graceful exit lest I was to actually participate in a soccer match and ruin the magic of the moment.

Accordingly, I left the soccer field and just as I was thinking that my day couldn't get any better, this particular white girl from Kalamazoo, Michigan was invited to play bouielle (bocce ball) by what I perceive to be the Elks club of Manigri. It had been a fairly secret personal goal of mine to be invited to bocce by this well-renowned and established men's club—I just never dreamed that it would happen this soon or at all. They allowed me to toss a couple of balls before I graciously made my exit. While I was naturally disappointed with my first attempts, on the fourth toss, I landed the ball only a thumbs-nail length away from the intended target allowing me to talk as much trash as I wanted until one of the other gentlemen knocked my ball away. Bowing out after my trash talk, I finally returned to my house in such good spirits that I couldn't believe the town of Manigri itself was responsible for such happiness. After completing my exercise routine and taking a shower, I decided to wash down the day with a cold beer because gosh-darn, I earned it. Much to my amusement, my “well-earned beer” was one of the worst skunked beers my senses had ever experienced. I'm talking the squinting of the eye and a shiver that followed every reluctant swallow. However, as bad as the beer was, it was not enough to damper my high spirits as I drank and happily detested every last drop that marked Mme. Kalamazoo's wonderful return to Manigri.

**Intermission—Carly's opinion on Jim and Pam of “The Office”—And yes, she realizes that these are fictional characters, but her mother and cousin asked her opinion and so she feels that she is obliged to give it. I understand why Jim and Pam couldn't get together in the last episode, but I hope that they don't continue to rely on just the tension between the two characters to keep the show alive. My fear is that Pam is going to take the internship (or fellowship or adult education course) in New York and that she is going to leave Jim questioning his commitment towards her especially because she already spent 8 years in an engagement with Roy and won't want to stay in another equally commitment-phobic relationship. Thus, she is going to meet some charming New Yorker who, though quite Jim, is at least ready to commit to her long-term. I think it's undeniable that Jim and Pam will eventually end up together, it's just a matter of how long they drag it out for the “sake of the show.”**

Naturally, the glory of the first day quickly faded away as my classes progressively became less interesting and my students became less polite; the excitement of seeing the teachers and having something to do everyday diminished as it tends to do, and by the end of the first week, I was already looking forward to going away over the weekend. My little weekend excursion found me in a nearby village on the road to Togo, surrounded by many friends, and full of anticipation for the coming Saturday morning when we were to hop the border and attend a local whipping fete. As I can't recall the last American whipping fete that I attended, I will briefly explain. A whipping fete is a coming-of-age ceremony for young boys in the village. Each quartier (neighborhood) gathers up their young warriors and equips them with various traditional garb—more or less elaborate ornaments depending on the number of years the boy has participated in the ceremony. As a means of giving the young warriors more courage, young men who have already been initiated into society cross-dress using their sisters' clothing—because they look more feminine, it is said to make the young boys feel more masculine. After the young warriors and young cross-dressing men have gathered, individual neighborhood battles take place before all the neighborhoods congregate and fight each other. The rules of the battles seemed to change based on locality and familiarity, but essentially, I gathered that every challenge took place between two boys of the same level. There was only one or more referees to officiate and make sure things never got uncivilized or out of hand. From here, the rules seemed to be a little fuzzy—I thought that each person got three attempts to attack the other person, but I'm honestly don't really have a clue. Whatever happened when the drums stopped playing and the boys were allowed to attack each other was just (if I may dip into my bag of thesaurus words) insane, absurd, peculiar, strange, eccentric, bizarre, fantastic, outrageous, imprudent, and wild—it was unlike anything I had ever seen. At some point after a particularly solid blow, both participating neighborhoods would come sweeping in to carry off their warrior either for delivering the blow like a man or for taking the blow like a man. We saw one ceremony in a small Togo village and another the next morning in a small Beninese village where a volunteer currently resides. The experience was by far one of the most interesting things I have seen since being in Benin.

Of course, my wonderful experience at the whipping fete would not be complete with out two of the stranger taxi rides I have ever had—and that's really saying something. First taxi ride was on the was into town. After packing the taxi full to it's usual overcrowded capacity we were on our way. Not five minutes down the road, the taxi driver turns to me and this is the conversation that followed (roughly translated):
-White girl!
-That's me. What's up?
-White girl! Be careful!
-Be careful? Why?
-That door doesn't work and this road is really bumpy.
-The door doesn't work?
-Yeah! If we hit a bump, the door will open and look at how bumpy the road is! White Girl!
-So I am going to fall out?
-Yeah! White Girl!
-Super.

Thus, for the rest of the hour long taxi ride, I found myself clinging to the door, which did not open despite the many bumps we hit. The second taxi ride occurred on the the way out of village where the clown car-esque-ness of the Beninese taxi was pushed to a whole new limit. I've experienced quite a few overcrowded taxis, but this...this was something special. We had nine people smashed into a small two door vehicle that would have surely fit no more than five people in the States. It was so crowded in fact that we were actually breaking the Beninese law of how many people are allowed in a taxi (they stop at eight). Our complete disregard of the law went unnoticed until the last 2km of our journey when we were pulled over by a policeman who demanded that we get out of the car then took out our driver and slammed him against the frame of the car. At this point, I was traveling with some other volunteers, so together we chatted up the locals until our driver begged pardon and we were allowed to continue on our merry way.