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| Welcoming Party - Petite Nazifa & Bio Portent Des Casques |
November 11, 2008
I've had my new address for approximately 8 weeks. I can't give an actual street name nor a house number. But I know the dirt path lined with grass taller than a grown man, littered by a scattering of goats and sheep, begins at the weathered COGEMAC sign beside a lone Mango tree and ends at my front door. The path, barely wide enough for a car, but perfect for bicycles and motos, leads to the 7 foot high barrier walls of a Concession, where behind the large metal red door that locks at night, myself and four other families live. Like a molecular neighborhood we share a well, a tap for running water, a cluster of latrines and seemingly communal child care responsibility.
This Concession provides a good example of the complex roots of a sometimes complex Beninese family tree; for within the walls of this little community everyone is a Muslim. Of the five families, two of the wives share one husband and have reared more children than I can count. I've tried and it is literally impossible. Among one family, the Second Wife, Biba lives alone with her baby girl while the other and First Wife, Jamila acts as the true matriarch of our cluster of houses, in the largest dwelling, with her load of children and domestique (maids) ruling the coop.
In this space, I have my own home, a cement replica of the two others attached to mine. I have my own door and privacy with shutters on the windows, but I share the outside tap for water. I have a stove for cooking, a comfortable bed, chairs, tables. Lights. Electricity! A walled-in area in the back outdoors where I shower and can see the stars at night. And when I step out the front door I see the laundry of my neighbors drying in the sun on their front porch.
I'm figuring out how to store and cook food without a refrigerator, making a habit to have an extra basin of water on hand at all times; becoming familiar with the new foods at market and how exactly to buy them without being being afforded the wrong price.
So far I've begun working in a large vegetable garden, one begun by a French volunteer (not with PC) where I go nearly every morning; facilitating a weekly micro-finance group meeting of 25 men (about 1/3 actually show up each week), and for locals here who cannot speak or write French, I'm trying to work through the tricky African politics of starting a Literacy Group. Difficult, because the Mayor's office is slow to do much of anything and the timing of the group must commence when the adult students finish work in the cotton fields.
Despite the fact the nearest large city with things like green beans or peanut butter for example, is hours away by bush taxi, Kerou is strong and self sufficient with a pretty solid system for keeping people smiling and stomachs full. The marche' (market) comes into town every four days, and the SuperMarche' (grocery store) opens nearly every day with a scattering of perishable goods like soap, candles and condensed milk.
At the marche' fruits and vegetables and other local fair with unpronounceable names are sold at the Marche' (asking about the mystery products is often hopeless as the answer is typically: «To make the sauce»). All produce varies according to dry and rainy seasons - eggs disappeared about a week a ago, two weeks ago tomatoes arrived in true abundance, and so far eggplant, okra, onions, garlic, and cheese are plentiful. Banana's and guava are here for while, and oranges, too. In May mango's will begin to arrive! Watermelons showed up last week and will probably stick around for a month longer.
