There is no way I can write what I want on this French keyboard so I will start and finish it later… I just arrived in Benin from my trip to Burkina Faso. While in the southern town of Bobo… there was some protesting over the rising cost of living which resulted in burning tires, vandalism, and injuries. My friends and I were unharmed but because of the possibility that the situation could escalate, we were moved to a safer location in Burkina and then eventually the administration arranged for our safe return to Benin.
Benin by Rail Friday, Feb 8 2008
Uncategorized 8:35 am
One can travel and tour in a number of ways: boat, foot, car, helicopter. I recently took a ride on a tourism train (photos) operated by the French ex-patriot owner of a Beninese hotel chain. There is probably no better way to see Africa.
Trains have many benefits. You’re guaranteed not to be squashed between marché mamans in the back of a taxi brousse. The prices are relatively fixed. There’s booze and fun Frenchies you’ve never met. Best, though, are the views.
A railroad (le chemin de fer) is very much unlike the paved road (goudron). For one thing, rail stations aren’t nearly as blandly ugly as modern service stations. They are also fairly few and far between. On the goudron, on the other hand, there’s a much more continuous stream of mechanics’ huts, gasoline stalls with gas in old rum bottles, trash heaps, etc. Like Route 1 in Massachusetts, or a local US Route just about anywhere in the States, the goudron has attracted the least attractive aspects of villages and small towns.
Aside from the man-made obstacles to seeing the landscape – well, no, there is no aside: that’s precisely it. The railroad runs through some beautiful country. Sometimes you can’t see anything but the rail disappearing behind you because the vegetation is so lush. Other times, you’re afforded spectacular views of the countryside – views which change as the topography and vegetation changes as you go from les collines, the hills, to the coastal region. You also get to see villages and spotty settlements you wouldn’t ever know were there zipping by at 100 km/h on the goudron.
In addition to great views, the people are different. Of course, they’re the same people, but instead of ignoring you as you go by, they wave. Who waves to a bush taxi? At station stops, people are happy to stop and chat, and even the demands for cadeaux seem fewer or somehow less irksome.
In truth, taking a train in Africa, especially a tourist train, is something of a jarring experience – you feel your wealth, the freedom it provides. Eating lunch while stopped at the station in Huègbo certainly was a guilty pleasure – good food amongst those whom I know have little. You realize the vast gulfs in culture and experience between yourself and the people in the villages and towns along the way, and you have time to reflect upon them. In many ways, it’s probably like taking a cruise ship.
Nevertheless, it’s a priceless experience, one that is more “organic” than flying through the country in an air-conditioned Landcruiser and more comfortable, enjoyable, and rewarding than cramming into a bush taxi. (You’ve been in one bush taxi, you’ve been in them all.)
La vie est belle – especially if you’re on a train through Benin.
*** Disclaimer: I was gone and back in less than 24 hours. ***
Moving On Friday, Feb 8 2008
Uncategorized 8:28 am
Well, I suppose it’s time we posted something a little bit less depressing. So, ensuite, a couple posts I had intended to make earlier….
Date: January 16, 2008 10:05:12 AM
Topic: Voodoo Fête
So, the Fête National de Vodun, known affectionately as the “Voodoo Fête,” was kind of a bust. I headed down to Grand Popo, on the Beninese Riviera, to do some work on a tourism project and to see the festivities. Unfortunately for us, lunch ran long, and by the time we got down to the ancien village, all the fête-ing was fini.
Phoebe ran into similar difficulties in Abomey, historical capital of Dahomey. She and friends, at least, were able to visit the museum there.
Back in Cotonou, for a meeting and transit home to Huègbo, I was shocked back into the noise and pollution that is the capital city. And, let me tell you, Africa (Benin, at least) is LOUD. We thought we’d be spending time in the “peaceful village, the quiet village” of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and watching the stars at night. No dice.
Beninese people sleep about 6 hrs. a night, I would estimate. For the majority of the other 18 hours, music is cranked to the maximum volume on huge speakers and TVs blast. La bonté de l’électricité, I guess. Hopefully someday, the novelty will wear off.
For now, peace and quiet lies at the beach.
In Memorium Friday, Feb 1 2008
Uncategorized 8:02 am
Blogs have been criticized for many things, among them being raw and unedited. I was certainly one of the harshest critics of LiveJournal when it came out: why the hell would anyone want to share their diary – much less read others’ mundane reflections on life?
I became a blogger when I decided my anger at certain aspects of American politics was just too tempting not to blab about. Phoebe and I became bloggers when we decided to come to Benin and wanted a quick, non-mass-email method of sharing news. While we try to be upbeat, some of that news is bound to be sad.
Today’s entry is sad.
On Sunday, we buried “Victor P.” Hugo, our beloved puppy. He died of what may have been a long-standing gastrointestinal problem; though, we’ll never really know. He was about 4 months old in people-years.
For anyone who’s never had a pet or dislikes animals, our grief will be difficult to comprehend. For people here, it’s nearly impossible.
We blogged before about how people don’t really get the “yovo” attitude towards dogs: as companions, friends, sometimes like children, always beloved and cherished almost as equals, almost as other human beings. To tell the truth, we know it’s perhaps a little extravagant to have loved and to miss him so much, but is it really? No, it’s not.
Rousseau be damned, Hugo had a soul.
Life in Benin’s been hard for us. Huègbo is a tough town, an intense place to live. On top of that, very few people have bothered to welcome us, much less make us feel welcome. Sunday morning, we were wallowing in our own self-pity over this fact. We should have been paying attention to our ailing dog.
We’d given him oral rehydration salts because he was vomiting. We’d fussed and dithered and given him bouillon, but he wouldn’t eat. Not even cheese. We hoped he’d get better. We thought he’d get better. We will always regret that, even if we’d known the extent of his illness, Africa hardly has the resources to take care of people – much less dogs – and we probably would have been unable to care for him properly.
Hugo was our best friend in Benin. In fact, he was the only one born here that either of us considered a friend. He was a real friend. He ate meals with us – not dog food, either! He moped when we went off to work or on trips. He was there to briefly reprove and then joyfully welcome us back home – wagging tail and body, jumping up, teething on our fingers and hands, and generally behaving badly.
Behaving badly was, in fact, what Hugo did best. Despite our best efforts to dissuade him, he drank laundry water, ate chicken poop, destroyed our floor mats, and generally wreaked havoc. He yawned loudly at us in the morning and put his feet on the bed to wake us up. He had his super-crazy moments, when his ears would flatten back and he’d bound around the room, sliding on the mats, and when he got big enough, jumping up on the furniture. We’d sing “He’s a maniac, maniac / on the floor!” Inspired, Phoebe decided he could be one of those dogs that do the steeplechase when we got back to the States.
We always intended to bring him back to the States. We knew it would be a hard adjustment for him: temperate zone, city life, a marked dearth of livestock roaming the streets and yards. But, we also knew that he and we would adjust: dog parks, walks and running, clothing (horrors!) if necessary. We weren’t ready for him to die at age 10, let alone now.
It is, in fact, hard to imagine going on here without him. In addition to being our friend, Hugo was our guardian. He made Phoebe feel safe when I was away, and I always felt better knowing, at least, that Beninese very often fear dogs., and Hugo was one of the most menacing dogs for his 20 lbs. or so that has ever walked this Earth. Little did our infrequent visitors know he would never hurt anyone intentionally (bugs notwithstanding, and, perhaps had he been given time, chickens). Now the house and concession are empty-feeling, and we’ve lost our sense of security.
As I write, the sun is setting. Around this time, Hugo should be running in from galavanting outdoors to check up on us and play with his people. When I talked to the neighbor, he said Phoebe shouldn’t cry; God only knows what he would’ve said had he seen me sobbing. He also suggested that the next dog we get, we should keep on a chain so that he can’t leave the concession and get hurt. At least he understood we were sad.
Hugo, however, would not have lived his life any other way – free to roam – and we wouldn’t have had him live it any other way. A chain would’ve been tantamount to imprisonment for our chien de la race, an irony that I suspect might be lost on most folks. Hugo had it good – better than any dog in Benin (and perhaps was more widely travelled), and we’re happy that we’re the ones to have given that life to him.
I vaguely acknowledged that neighbor’s advice, told him we were burying Hugo inside the concession whether he liked it or not, and proceeded to dig the grave with his tool and the help of the neighbor kids. They, at least, seemed to “get it” – if only a little.
Hugo had lain in state in our living room all afternoon. We’d cleaned him off, laid him out on “his” pagne, and put some of his favorite things next to him: a zipper he played tug-of-war with, a leather bone from his Advent calendar, a tissue to represent all paper he’d ever shredded. We included the medicine that he’d never gotten old enough to take all of. When the grave was ready, we bundled him up and interred him. The kids helped.
We wish we’d spent more time with him. We wish we’d had more time with him. We miss him.
Bonjour Benin! 