Out at Post

Dear Friends and Family,

I have now been here in Benin for about 2 1/2 months, and having finished training, moved out to my post, a small town called Ouesse, two weeks ago.

Training was an intense 9-week long process, which for me and all of the other small enterprise development volunteers was held at a town called Azove, in the southwest part of the country.

My host family was that of the king of Azove, but this really meant nothing, as I soon came to see. Since he is king, he told me, he doesn't have to do anything all day, so he stays home and rests. As I quickly observed, this directly correlated to my host family's affluence and my accomodations were what you would expect for Peace Corps.

However, I really have nothing to complain about. My family was great, very welcoming, and helped me get through training with plenty of good memories:

I'll remember the king, telling me many times the day after the independence day feast that I had danced well at the independence day parade, and that he loved me. (Je t'aime beaucoup! Tu as bien dancer!)

I'll remember my 17-year old brother Gerard, who loved to talk about anything and everything. Once, when trying to grasp that Michigan had four season, not two, and none were called rainy or dry, he asked what naturally follows in this sort of conversation--"So what is in-vitro fertilization?" And we proceeded to talk about IVF for thirty minutes.

I'll remember my albino shoemaker half-brother, who would always enthusiastically greet me as "mon frere!" (My brother). My family thought it necessary six weeks in to point out that he's albino. "You know he's albino, right?" they would ask. Yes, it was pretty obvious.

I'll remember my friend Agustin, a fledgling recording artist, inviting me to a drink underneath his roadside stand made of sticks and palm sheeting where he sold coffee every morning.

I'll remember Johniska, the orphaned 18-year-old manager of the local bar we'd go to, who we taught to throw a baseball, and who, while never being a legitimate major league prospect, was attached enough to us that he's spent his own money more than once to call at post and make sure I'm alright.

I'll remember my host mother, and the contrast in her face between when she mercilessly slit the chicken's throat when she was teaching me to cook Beninese-style and when she nearly came to tears when she found out I was leaving.

I'll remember Armand, the Peace Corps housing coordinator for our group, who would play guitar with me, and when he found out that the Peace Corps had mistakenly left some of my things in Cotonou, thus delaying my move to post by a day, he offered to drive his motorcycle 3 hours overnight to Cotonou, pick up my things and drive them back to Azove so I could leave on time.

But mostly, I'm glad to get out to post. Here, farther north, in the countryside, the people are friendlier, the town is cleaner, and the atmosphere more relaxed. My house is nice (with a beautiful porch) and I've settled into life here. I"ll begin working soon, teaching accounting and marketing classes to local artisans and working with a local radio station.

For now, though, my days have consisted of fixing up my house, getting to know the local townspeople, shopping at the local market, having cold Nescafe coffee with my friend Victor, having drinks with local friends, etc.

My neighbor, Cofi, after wondering why my wife wasn't with me (I told him I didn't have one) said I could find one here, and if, after two years I hadn't, I could take his daughter, who's currently 8. I politely declined. She and her brothers and sisters enjoy coming over, and they are amazed that I have leg hair, and that they don't.

The entire town knows me, since I'm one of 2 white people there (I have an english-teacher volunteer here in the same town as me). I enjoyed this newfound celebrity status briefly at the first Sunday Mass I went to, where the priest made me come to the front of the church and stand in front of the whole congregation. They all clapped for me, and the priest said since I was Catholic, too, they all were my family for the next two years. It felt great, and I haven't even done anything yet.

It quickly became apparent, though, that while they all knew me, getting to know my name would be more difficult. My carpenter, after fixing a window, gave me a bill, where on the line for client, he'd written "Pour le blanc" (For the white person)

I miss home and every day causes me to appreciate each of you and the love you've shown me more and more. Yet, I love it here, and every day causes me to appreciate the people here more and more. God's given me an amazing group of people in my life wherever I've gone and I can never be thankful enough. I miss you and love you all!

Please write when you get the chance. Although I might not respond due to time or accessibility constraints, I love to hear from you!

Sebastian

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