What I Did in Africa, Part I

Many people (including many of the PCV’s that we encountered along the way) asked exactly why Benin, Togo and Ghana where chosen as holiday choices for two little ole’ PCV’s from Cape Verde. The answer to that is geography. Back in the spring, with most of my potential travel companions having already taken a ticket back to the States, I was searching for what to do for an African holiday. Southern and Eastern Africa were out of the question for cost purposes, leaving West Africa. Volunteers from previous groups seemed to favor a jaunt through Senegal and Mali – that is in fact what Darney O’Malley, Farafa and K.C. are doing right now – but when reading over those countries in Idealist’s trusty Lonely Planet guide, I wasn’t feeling it.

Then I noticed how close Benin, Togo and Ghana were to each other. The idea of trying to squeeze in as many countries as possible into a short trip appealed to me. It looked like with these three countries, you wouldn’t be needin’ a plane to be going from one to the other. Benin and Ghana interested me because of the voodoo of the former, and the fact that they spoke English in the latter. So that clinched it for me.

Originally, it was going to be me, Some Girl and Psst!, but he wasn’t able to get approved the requisite amount of vacation days from PC, so that scuttled his plans. I planned as best as I could using two different LP guides, one which gave detailed information, but was printed in 2002 or 2003, which I considered to be horribly out of date. So, I did what I could, and Some Girl got her hands on a guide and checked out stuff too, however, we were both busy with stuff immediately before we left, so we didn’t really focus on stuff that much, even when we were both in Praia the days before our flight.

Then on the 10th of July, exactly a year after arriving in Cape Verde, we took an Air Senegal plane to Dakar, and stepped back into the same crappy airport that we had left a year ago. We got scammed by the cabbie that drove us to the PC/Senegal office and basically paid double what we should have. Once arriving at the PC/Senegal office, the Country Director happened to be in the reception area, and we talked with him for a bit, and he seemed to be working his hardest to scare the pants off of us about the dangers of Dakar. He gave us a general security briefing with specific incidents on the reverse side of the page. Some Girl read over the specific incidents and handed it me asking if I had seen it and their CD said something along the lines of, “oh, I wanted you to read what was on the other side, but yeah, this side (referring to the specific security incidents) is pretty funny reading.” I never realized the level of humor attached with machete attacks against groups of Americans, but, hey, that’s just me. My thoughts about their CD is probably reflected by many of the PCV’s in Senegal, if Clare’s post about a recent VAC meeting in Dakar is any indication.

We found a PCV in the office who was able to give us helpful hotel recommendations, and we grabbed another cab into town. The price the cabbie quoted us was lower than what the CD said we should be paying, so I wasn’t surprised when we got out of the cab and he started yelling at us that we weren’t paying him enough and blah, blah, blah. So we argued for a bit and just walked away. We checked into the hotel, and slept for a few hours, and basically just stayed in the hotel the first night.

The next day was a five hour odyssey for getting our visas for Benin. This was oh so very crucial, since you can’t get visas at the Cotonou airport, and if we couldn’t get into Benin, it would just screw everything up. Like I had said before, I had gotten one of the French teachers at the school to call the honorary consulate and gotten the visa prices and processing time. Of course, I forgot to ask where they were located, and didn’t have enough time to get someone else to call again for me. So, first we tried some cabbies, most who didn’t know where the consulate was, and I was getting annoyed since I didn’t want to be standing on the street all day hailing cabbies, when one came around who seemed to indicate that he knew where it was, we went with him. It took about 12 seconds for us to figure out that he in fact had no idea where it was, and he ended up driving to the ‘governmental’ area of Dakar, and asked around. We eventually ended up at Senegal’s foreign affairs ministry, where one of the guards spoke English and was able to get the information for us. One of the limo drivers said we could take a bus there, since it was far out, and would be cheaper than a cab. We thought that was a good idea and went in search of a bus, with the cabbie yelling at us that we didn’t pay him. Of course, we explained that we’d agreed to pay him to go to the Benin consulate, not to drive around Dakar for 20 minutes trying to figure out where the Benin consulate was.

So we hopped on the bus and were on the lookout for a firehouse, since the consulate was supposed to be across the street from it. I quickly realized I have no idea what a Senegalese fire station looks like, why would I assume it looks anything like ones in the U.S.? So the bus gets to the end of the line and there is no consulate to be found. The bus driver indicated that the consulate was “just over there” so we walk into this neighborhood section, with no real idea where we are. We go to a travel agency and they’re able to help us out, and we take another cab to the consulate. We get there and, much to my relief, not only can we get our visas there, they do it for us right away, instead of the 24 hours we’re told over the phone. So this saves us the need to somehow come back the next day. Then we walk around a bit, and find a bus that is going back toward the city center. They can’t break the bill that I have, and we have to get off at the next stop, and I buy some Fanta to make change. Then we wait what seems like another 30 to 45 minutes before another bus going the correct way passes by.

Back in the city center, we just walk around and see more of the chaos of the city. I’m just overwhelmed, it’s an actual big city, with movement. Praia seemed very small compared to it. I have my first Lebanese schwarma there and almost fainted because it tasted so good. So much better that what’s in Praia. That night, we go to a Chinese restaurant, which wasn’t that good. But I was happy enough to have some kind of Chinese food, though I question if it was even made by a Chinese person.

The next day after sleeping in, we go to Air Senegal and reconfirm our plane tickets, and the lady tells us the plane is leaving earlier than originally scheduled, so we’re relieved to have checked in and gotten the update. We almost went to the IFAN museum in Dakar, but decide against it at the last minute. We find a bus that goes to the airport, and head out to dinner at Chez Loutcha, which our CD had talked about, and LP raved about. It’s run by a Cape Verdean lady from Brava, and serves food from CV as well as West Africa. Though, to be honest, neither I nor Some Girl were that impressed. Maybe we need to try a few more dishes to know for sure.

We learned the lady was from Brava because when we were standing in front of her, Some Girl and I started speaking in Kriolu to each other, which she overheard. We had decided when first getting to Dakar to speak Kriolu, in the hopes that we might stand out a bit less. This was a challenge for me since Some Girl’s Kriolu is way better than mine, and she also speaks northern Kriolu, which is a bit different than J’ar Fogo. But we seemed to be able to get by with it.

Those first few days in Dakar, I also realized that my and Some Girl’s travel styles differed in various ways. Let me be the first to say that I hate tourists that travel to foreign lands, and that includes me when I am a tourist traveling to foreign lands. Tourists barely can scratch the surface of the different culture that they’re trying to immerse themselves in, and though the “tourist eye’s view of the world” is unavoidable, I still hate it. So, though I feel they shouldn’t be scammed too badly, I don’t really mind an extra “tourist tax” being pegged onto some things. I also hate bartering, since I think it’s just a waste of time. I just want to hop into a cab and get to the destination (or just walk into a store and buy what I need and leave) and so I am willing to stop bartering after a very short amount of time since it’s kind of boring. Some Girl holds the polar opposite view, and wanted to haggle all of the time since she felt she should pay the same as anyone else. So, I tried to get into it more, but it was hard for me to really care when we were basically arguing with people over one or two dollars.

The next morning we catch the bus to the airport, and learn the woman at Air Senegal gave us bad information, since the plane was leaving at its original time. So we get a few extra hours at the airport to sit. The ticket area in Dakar is fine if you’re ready to walk up to the counter and get your boarding pass. But if you’re waiting around, there really aren’t places to sit or get comfortable. So, the entire day was us sitting around and waiting for transportation, but we finally board the flight, and after a few hours, land in Cotonou, the unofficial capital of Benin. Once we get our arrival stamps, customs is searching people’s bags, and as we draw to the head of the line, one of the security people sees my PC luggage tag and he said “Peace Corps?” We nod and he waves us through. So, that was a nice surprise. Good to know PC gets some respect in some parts of the world, hah hah.

We get to the hotel, which isn’t too bad, but switch to a cheaper one around the corner the next morning. We use the Internet, and I’m finally able to get in touch with 12 of 12. I had been dialing her cell phone number wrong, since there are all these different prefixes if you’re trying to connect with a cell based in Cotonou, one outside of Cotonou, etc. So, we make plans with her, and then head to the Ghana Embassy for our visas. We get lucky with a very nice and helpful staffer there. First off, they only accept visa applications until noon, and it was 12:30 when we rolled into. But he let us fill the forms out anyway. Second, Some Girl had forgotten her passport photos that she needed for the application. But he said if she brought them the next day, it would be ok, even though the form is only supposed to be processed with the photos. Third, it appears that there is a new rule that Americans going to Ghana need a letter from an organization in the country, saying that the American traveling to Ghana has a reason to be there, and is their responsibility or something. We did not know about this, and had no letter to show. For a minute, I though we were screwed. But he knew we were PC (he even showed us the copy of the letter Benin PCV’s had turned earlier in the morning) and he kept saying how it would be a problem, but he would figure something out.

After thanking him profusely, we said we’d be back in a few days to pick them up. We went back to the hotel and tried walking to the big market, but the rain started coming down hard, so we turned around after a few blocks. Later in the afternoon, I made my way to the PC office, which was close to the hotel. At first the guard wouldn’t let me in because the office was closed and I wasn’t Benin PCV. So, I talk with some PCV’s outside, one or two who I even recognized from Staging (we had joint activities with the Benin Staging group.) Then two PCV’s who are coming to Cape Verde for vacation come out and talk a bit, and then finally another PCV is able to get the guard to give me a visitors pass to enter.

Their setup is a bit different than Cape Verde, since they don’t have a Transit House in town. In addition to having computers, they also have a lounge with some couches and their books. Their compound was huge, much bigger than our office, and they had a big PC logo on their roof that I could see a block away. So I talk more with the two PCV’s who are coming on vacation, and compare notes with others about how Benin and Cape Verde are different, and get some touristy information. Later in the night, we go to a Moroccan restaurant with four other PCV’s and hear a bit more about life for PCV’s in Benin.

The next day, our big activity was going to Cotonou’s market, the grande marche. Just walking there, I though I was going to be poisoned by all of the fumes from the motorbikes – called zemi’s – that are used as the main form of public transportation in town. There have to be thousands of them buzzing down the streets, and each one of them emits exhaust, which ended up coating my tongue and throat. So we make it to the market, which is generally chaotic, I though I was going to be run over once or twice. After walking around for a bit, I realize that we aren’t even inside the market, we had just been walking around the outskirts and parking lot of the actual market, which is inside this walled area. So, we finally go and make a loop around. A lot of the stuff they have is more practical, everyday stuff, so I don’t feel like I am seeing anything unique there. Though the LP guide says that you can find lots of voodoo fetish stuff, I didn’t see any of it.

As I am staring at the people, I noticed that a lot of the women and some of the men have cuts on their cheeks that had scarred over. Later in Ouidah, we learn that it is actually done to lots of young kids by family, and is a beauty thing. There are also women who are standing at the main intersections, with big tin plates on their heads, and they have hung clothes which they are trying to sell. People kept screaming “a-go! A-go!” and at first at I was annoyed, but then I realized that it was people hauling big carts and “a-go” basically meant “get out of the way!”

Inside the market is also the first time probably in my life that I am just outright laughed at for looking Chines, or “Chinios” as they say in French. Just like in Cape Verde, as I am walking around, I hear people whisper “Chinios” when they see me approaching. But this time, in a few instances, the middle-aged women vendors who see me just break out in almost hysterical laughter at the mere sight of me. Am I the first Chinese to ever have stepped foot into the market or what? Was there an imprint of an abacus on my forehead from when I fell asleep doing all of those math equations the night before? Did my eyes appear so slanty that they thought I was sleepwalking? Did they think it was weird I didn’t have my violin with me? What?!?

I noticed a general gender difference in people’s reactions. While most of the women would just laugh, whisper or stare when seeing me, pretty much all of the male vendors who reacted to me did so by busting out their English in an attempt to entice me to their stall. So to the women I was their mid-morning humor, and to the men I was walking wallet.

We were walking around the market, and took a U turn when some people started pushing each other in front of us. We backtracked and then headed out of the market. It didn’t quite seem like there was too much to see there. We then tried heading to this artisan village that was supposed to have more tourist orientated stuff, but with less pressure than the market. So, we finally found it, it was right next to this convention hall type thing, which was having some sort of Saturday service for a quasi-Christian group that had been founded in Benin, called Christian Celeste. Everyone was wearing shiny white robes and I was very interesting in going in to see what was going on, but decided against it.

So, we find the artisan village, but it looks kinda closed, perhaps being the weekend. We look at stuff in one store and then bounce back to the hotel. I end up getting Lebanese schwarma down the street, at a place the Benin PCV’s call “secret schwarma” and it is very good. It’s not the meat they use, it’s the sauce that they added. They have Al-Jazeera on and for the 438th time, I wish I knew Arabic. I then finish the book I had brought with me, “War Trash” and later in the night, Some Girl and I decamp from the hotel to a nearby bakery/café and sit and talk for a while.

Some Girl tells me during the course of our conversation that she feels I now talk less than I used to during PST, when I would pick her up in the morning. This is interesting for me, since it’s not something I had ever really thought about it. But I guess it makes sense. First off, my Kriolu is not that hot, which prevents long, in-depth conversation with Cape Verdeans. My Chinese is not that good either, preventing long, in-depth conversations with the loja owners. My roommate and sitemate are both skilled in the verbal arts, leaving less for me that needs to be said (weird, I just typed “sed” before realizing my mistake. No wonder I didn’t pass the FSWE!).

So with this new insight into my life, we head back to the hotel for another night’s sleep.

In Part II, your faithful correspondent and Some Girl go to Ouidah, and then spend the rest of the week with 12 of 12, attending the PC/Benin Olympics, Glam Rock Prom and then seeing what a rural village in Africa looks like!