… but who’s counting?

As you’re probably aware Phoebe has written a great post about our recent visit to the Tata Sombas.

Petit à petit, we’re coming to the end of our service.  I’m trying to finish up all my projects in the next couple weeks, and Phoebe’s, for all intents and purposes, done.  Expected date of departure is June 22, and we’re flying into Phoenix, the first stop in a multistate roadtrip to end up in South Royalton, VT, where I’ll be going to law school.

It’s certainly been an experience, for what that’s worth.  Now that we’re near the end of it, I’m noticing again all those things that have become commonplace.  I’ve blogged about a few, but I’m sure that many more have just seemed unimportant or, with the jaded eye of experience, mundane.  Some examples:

Fill ‘er up

Gas stations, as such, are still a rarity, though becoming more common.  Most people buy gas (straight essence or gazoil, or a mélange of gas & oil for the two-stroke motos) out of liter and 10 liter rum bottles from little stands on the side of the road.  That gas comes to us mostly smuggled from Nigeria in 25L bidons tied to the back of motorcycles.

Born free

All livestock here is “free range.”  That doesn’t make it good.  It does mean that animals scrounge whatever they can for food, get stolen on occasion, and get run over with regularity.  Busses don’t stop for goats.  There is, at least, a system of identification, wherein one ties pieces of fabric to one’s animals, or sometimes a fetish indicating that thieves will pay the gods for any transgressions.

C’est gaté!

One of the most annoying aspects of life here is money.  First, there’s never any change.  Imagine paying for a 25¢ pack of gum with a dollar bill and having the salesperson tell you in a huff, “There is no change.  Don’t you have change?”  Ridiculous!  Further, unless you’re au village up north, you’ll frequently be told that your money is gaté – i.e., “spoiled.”  By that, Beninese folks mean that the coin is a little worn or the bill a little torn.  This, of course, is often a cover for not wanting to give you change or for expecting you to fork over a larger denomination – without asking for change.

Zemidjan song

I  love zemming!  Except for the occasional “Oh, my, I’m gonna die!” moment, riding on the back of a motorcycle is one of the most fun and fast methods of transportation I’ve ever experienced.

Next blog… “C’est Fini!”