Music and Memories

My little iPod is a treasure. The size of a large postage stamp, it clips onto a sweatshirt or slips into a pocket. It holds most of my collection and keeps a charge for hours.

But the music it provides is nameless, faceless. It arrives via iTunes or a thumb drive. A bit comes from CDs but none of it, absolutely none, from vinyl. I have records, scores of them, and at one time I had a gizmo that would translate them to digital files. But even that music becomes anonymous once it's assimilated.

One doesn't sit and listen to music while staring at a CD cover or the tiny image of one I see on my iPod screen. What will never be the same again is the visual dimension of music, the way the album's cover art became a part of the listening experience — became part of the music itself.

I'm taking these and other albums from Dad's collection home with me. Not just for the music — but for the memories.

What's On Our Minds

On the radio. On the television. On weather websites.

 At home and at the office, too.

It's what we talk about, think about, speculate about.

Maybe it will happen. Maybe it won't.

I'm leaning toward the latter these days.

Step Lively

When bitter winds howl in from the west, when temperatures dip into the teens, when the sidewalk harbors little patches of black ice and there's a quarter-mile of pavement between me and the next warm building, this is what I do. Step lively.

It's what some Metro conductors suggest. "Step lively," they say. "Doors closing."

It's what race-walkers do, with a bounce in their gait and a swivel of their hips.

Step lively, with its whiff of the nautical, its sprightliness and energy and pep.

Step lively. It's more hop than saunter, more snap than sizzle. It's quaint and practical and fun.

Step lively. It's a good way to get through winter.

Chutes, No Ladders

Metro delays this morning, temperature in the teens.  Time for a virtual vacation. Today's trip is to  Tanougou Falls, which the locals (and all French-speaking, I believe) call chutes.

We pulled up tired, dusty, minds still reeling from Parc Pendjari and the close-up view of baboons, elephants and what turns out to have been a young cheetah. Our van was almost snagged on the rutted, rocky road to the small restaurant and souvenir stand that guards the entrance to the falls.

We were immediately surrounded by a staff of willing guides. It was a short walk to the first falls, picturesque but small. Many eager hands to lead the way. But no, said the guides, this was just the beginning. There's another chute ahead, up and over those boulders.

One of our party said no go, her knees were sore. I waited a bit, sized up the endeavor. There was a scramble over rocks that were under water, but the more I looked the more I thought I could do it. "Tres facile," said one guide. "Be careful," said another.

When I nodded yes, Mr. "Tres Facile" took one hand and Mr. "Be Careful" took another. It was perfect. The push toward adventure, cautiously approached. Each step was carefully chosen and pointed out: "Ici ... ici ... tres facile ... be careful."

And before long we were there, Tanougou Falls. A perfect bowl of a setting, water deep enough to swim in. Gorgeous chute, angling, spilling, gleaming. Idyllic, except for one problem — I had to get back.

But I did, of course, thanks to Mr. Tres Facile and Mr. Be Careful, who were rightly rewarded for their toil.

Suburban Still Life

It could have been an easier office re-entry day. Twenty-seven degrees, snow falling. Schools closed and the parking lot half empty. I realized too late that I left my Metro card at home, and after buying a paper card to get me through the day, I rushed down the escalator only to find a train just closing its doors.

No matter. The world is white and still, a study in snow and steel. I pretend to be a tourist, take photos of Tysons Corner out the window.

It looks almost picturesque. The cars aligned and tracked, the sky mottled and gray. Remove the blue Honda sign -- or keep it, if you like, it adds a spot of color. A suburban still life.

It's almost like I'm on vacation.

Almost. Not quite.

Big House

Suburban roads and American cars aren't the only things looking big to me these days. There's the house. With Celia back in college the place has grown overnight.

As the youngest and last child in residence — and in love with clothes and shoes — she had spilled out of her bedroom and turned her sister's room into a big walk-in closet. So two rooms are emptied, not just one.

And then there was her habit of falling asleep in the office — enough so that I would automatically tiptoe when I came downstairs early in the morning.

In other words, she was here, even when she wasn't (which was often). But now she is most assuredly not here. No music pulsing out of the bathroom as she gets ready for work. No Chanel perfume trailing in her wake.

She's fine, she's happy, she's where she should be.

The house is too big. That's all.

Altered Eyes

Yesterday, when the late light was slanting and the air was still, I went out for a quick stroll. We passed the steep driveway, the signpost Copper always has to sniff.  We turned left, toward Fox Mill Road. I had barely reached the corner when the differences overwhelmed me.

The roads are wide, the cars have too few passengers. All around me is space, order. There is no trash, no fine red dust between my toes. No woodsmoke, no hazy sun low on the horizon.

Instead there is this world I know. At once the same and different — because I see with altered eyes.

Speechless

For the third day in a row I woke up with no voice. Not just hoarse and croaking. No voice.

I've been making do with whispers and gestures. I say very little. People answer me with whispers, too. It's a silent world I'm inhabiting, full of cotton batting.

It's a strange time to be voiceless. Here I am with all these stories to tell and no way to tell them. I could, of course, write them down. And the magical-thinking part of me, which was heightened in Africa, says but of course.

Returning home after a long trip abroad is a time to set goals, resolutions. Saying less and writing more is certainly a good one.

So maybe being speechless has a purpose. C'est bon! I feel better already.

The Toughest Job You'll Ever Love

Now that I've visited Suzanne in Africa I can attest to this slogan. Peace Corps volunteers do not live lives of luxury. Many of them settle in villages without running water or electricity; they get around on foot, bike, moto or bush taxi;  they eat a lot of rice and beans.

But their lives are rich in time and, surprisingly, in books. I visited two Peace Corps work stations with libraries to die for. One even had a ladder to reach the topmost shelves. There was a sizable collection of fiction (I read Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and was plunged into the world of a young Nigerian girl), a rich travel section (I picked up a crazy little book called The Emperor of Ouidah by Bruce Chatwin and devoured it a few days before we visited Ouidah ourselves), even non-fiction and memoir (I read Infidel and Nomad, both by Ayaan Hirsi Ali).

I already knew from Suzanne's experience how much she's read the last two and a half years, and other volunteers said the same. But the greatest proof is this: I read eight books in less than three weeks. It would take me three months to read that many books at home.

Of course, I was on vacation, I took long bus rides. All of this is true. But something else is true, too. I had scant Internet access. And books, shelves and shelves of books, flowed in to take its place.

Living on GMT

There's a reason why I'm eating a turkey sandwich at 6 a.m. It's lunchtime in Benin!

I taste the tart lemonade I found at one of the local supermarches along the drowsy lanes of Haie Vive. I hear the revved motors of the zemidjahns as they halt at Place des Martyrs. I see Suzanne dashing out to buy beans and rice.

She will have been up six hours already, have walked 45 minutes to her office near Etoile Rouge, have made phone calls and finalized arrangements for an upcoming business trip; she will have spoken with at least several friends who beeped her to say good morning, in the Beninese style.

Travel gives us many gifts, and one of the best is perspective, shaking us out of routines and habits, reminding us it's a big old world. In this regard jet lag is a willing accomplice. It's a souvenir of our wanderings, our body's way of saying not so fast — you were really there, you know, living on Greenwich Mean Time, just six degrees above the equator.

(Street meat in Cotonou. No thanks!)

Bye-bye, Benin!

Most people in Benin speak a couple of languages, but whether they're saying farewell in Bariba or Fon or French they usually add an Americanism at the end. "Bye-bye!" they say, with a funny little vocal uptick at the end.

I started this post a couple of days ago, but the Internet key wasn't working and for a while I wasn't working very well either (the country requires an iron stomach!) and then ... it was time to go.

But not without a final adventure. The zem drivers that took Suzanne and me to the airport decided to take a dirt road. Yes, a dirt road, in the city, to the airport. They were bumping and skidding and sliding so much that I gave up saying "doucement" and started exclaiming "Oh, my God!"

"What if we'd had an accident my last few hours in the country?" I said to Suzanne as we dismounted the bikes and took off our helmets.

"People here say that Benin doesn't want to let you go," she explained, only partially in jest. And yes, I could see that. It is a place of magic and chaos and unruly good cheer.

But I did leave — boarded the big silver bird, flew back to this clean, orderly place, where there are cars and hot showers and flush toilets.  

I won't stop thinking about Benin, of course, and I"ll write about it plenty. But for today, for now, it's bye-bye, Benin.

Sur La Plage

For the most part, Benin turns its back on the beach. Many Beninese can't swim, and few people fish. There are a few hotels along the coastline in Cotonou but for much of Benin's oceanfront, beaches are trash-strewn and deserted. What a marvelous natural resource untapped and unclaimed!

As my visit here winds to a close I wanted to spend a couple days at a real beach resort, so we came to the Auberge de Grand Popo, which is sur la plage (on the beach) and within spitting distance of Togo.

The trash, it will always be with us. But it doesn't matter much here. The natural beauty of the place overwhelms it. We went to sleep last night to the sound of surf, and I'm listening to the waves as I write this post. It's palmy and shady and gorgeous. But don't take my word for it. See for yourself!

Under the Net

It's like sleeping inside a cloud, all this mosquito net business. Sometimes the nets are suspended from hooks in the ceiling or walls, turning the bed into a circus tent. Other times, they are draped over four posters reminding me of the canopy bed I slept in as a girl — only with gauzy netting instead of a frilly top.

Though I'm visiting Benin in the dry season, I've used a net most every night. It keeps other bugs away, too, especially those three-inch roaches that thrive here.

Besides, the mosquito net is evocative; it's humid tropical nights, Graham Greene novels and ceiling fans. It's far more than a way to keep the bugs away.

View From a Zemidjan

When it's too far or too dangerous to walk there's always a zemidjan, a word that is not only onomatopoeic (zoom zoom = zem zem) but poetic in other ways. Its literal translation is "get me there fast."

And get you there fast it does. My first zem ride was at night in Cotonou, which is a bit like diving into the deep end before you can swim.  Suzanne had chosen what appeared to be a steady, safe driver and had admonished him with "C'est ma mama" and "Doucement!" (be careful). And I guess in a way he was. But careening into a roundabout on a peppy motorcycle while scores of other aggressive drivers jockey for position, darting in and out between the cars, is enough to take your breath away.

Yesterday's zem ride was one of the longest. I do what I always do now. I cast my fate to the winds and to this complete stranger. I take a deep breath, hop on the rear of the moto, place my feet carefully on the rests (avoiding the exhaust pipe!) and hang on for dear life.

And before I know it ... we've reached our destination. I've gotten there ... fast!

A Walker in Haie Vive

Cotonou is a lively, bustling metropolis. It has paved roads and unpaved roads, roundabouts and all manner of alleys, cul-de-sacs and more. It is a little skimpy on sidewalks, though.

Half of each narrow walkway consists of stone blocks straddling a public sewer. About one of every twenty blocks is cracked or missing, so you must step carefully to avoid falling into the muck and twisting your ankle. The other half of the sidewalk is commandeered by merchants hawking pineapples, fried plantains, gasoline, soap powder, grilled meat, beignets (a Cotonou specialty) — most anything you can imagine (including coffins!) in a cacophonous jumble. 

All of which is to say that my primary means of urban discovery has been difficult to practice. Suzanne has definitely tried to get me out. We've walked around her neighborhood enough that I could find my way there and back. We've trekked to the beach (less than three miles from her house) and made the much shorter trip to church and various markets.

But these are not ruminative rambles. They're more like panicked scrambles as I try to avoid the zems, which may decide to use the sidewalk, too, and the unwanted attention of school children, who chant "yovo" (foreigner) and are not afraid to pull your hair.

So imagine my delight at being parked here in Haie Vive, a quiet neighborhood of wider walks, calmer traffic, cafes, markets, even a bakery.  I can look around as I stroll, instead of watching every step. I can snap photos of streetscapes and hidden balconies. I can imagine what it would be like to live in this place.

Port of No Return

On Saturday we drove down the Slave Road that leads from the village of Ouidah to the beach. Slaves were marched down this road in chains, past the Tree of Forgetting, where they would be branded and forced to walk around the tree to forget their homes and families. The tree is gone, replaced by a shrine to the Voodoo goddess Mamiwata.

Along the route is a statue of a lower leg in chains, which represents one of the many indignities these men and women were forced to endure. The prisoners were bound so tightly together that if one died (and many did before even reaching the ships), the easiest way to unhitch him from the others was to simply cut off the leg above the chain.

The final stage of departure was when the slaves boarded longboats that would take them out to ships, which would transport them across the ocean — often to Brazil.

Today that spot is marked by a gateway with murals and Voodoo revenants representing the spirits of the dead. The slaves knew their bodies would never return to these pleasant shores — so they counted on their souls to do the job.

Wash Day

At home I throw in a load of laundry, sweep or write or do something else, then move the clothes from washer to dryer, sweep or write or do something else again, then fold and put away.

Here's it's a bit different. We draw two tubs of water, grab powdered soap, add clothes and rub. One tub is for washing; the other for rinsing. Because we've been traveling widely in dusty places, we must empty both tubs before the "load" is through.

The tubs, I should mention, are on the tile floor in the bathroom, which is a corner of the kitchen separated by a partial wall. There's a shower (no stall), a faucet for filling buckets, a toilet (blessed, beautiful toilet!) and a sink.

Washing the clothes is an athletic endeavor, involving much standing, bending at the waist, energetic scrubbing, intense wringing and the use of muscles (in my hands, for instance), that I didn't know I had.

The best part is last: Hanging the clothes on the line to dry. It doesn't take long here. In a couple of hours I bring in a pile of clean clothes, crisped and sweetened by the sun.

Voodoo Day

Today we traveled to the village of Ouidah, where thousands of people flock each year to receive a blessing from the town's voodoo chief.

Voodoo is one of Benin's official religions, and though I've yet to meet anyone who claims it as their faith, the whole nation is imbued with magic. Superstition, karma, gris-gris, amulets, protection rings — these are all part of everyday life.

So today when the dancers gathered and the singers chanted and the drummers drummed we were there to catch it on camera.

Rush Hour in Cotonou

We woke early, jumped on motorcycle taxis in the dark and by daybreak were cruising east and south on the ATT Busline. This bus had air conditioning and loud Beninese music — which I stopped hearing after a couple of hours.

"You've been in every region of Benin, Mom," Suzanne said as we drew closer to Cotonou. And I have to say, I feel like it. Traveling cross-country here is not for the faint of heart. Come to think of it nothing much here  is.

It will take me days, weeks, probably months to digest the last seven days — and I had time to start digesting before we got home since we sat for more than 45 minutes in a traffic jam. Yep, they have 'em here, too.

Parc Pendjari

It's as close to these animals as I'll ever be — or want to be! At Parc Pendjari we saw antelope, bison, baboons, hippos, warthogs, a small leopard and lots of elephants — some of them close enough that we prepared for a quick getaway in case they charged.

For the last few hours, Suzanne and I rode on the top of the van, where, with a little imagination, you could be flying over those waving grasses, those acrid plains. The antelope bounding, the elephants spraying their backs with the fine red dust that has made its way into my pores. The baobab trees with baboons munching their fruit.

Finally, I couldn't resist. The tune had been in my head all day, so I fished the iPod out of my purse, found the theme song for "Out of Africa" and pushed play. I stuck one bud in my ear and the other in Suzanne's. It was hokey but it was also perfect. It was a soundtrack for the moment, for the sights and sounds and smells of Africa.

Riding Shotgun to Nattitingou

I've learned something new: If you're taking three bush taxis in a day, it's wise to ride shotgun. Luckily, Suzanne already knew this, so she made sure I was sitting up next to the driver in the ancient Peugots.

There were five people crammed in the back seat and three in the far back. In the front, there was just the driver and me until the last leg when Suzanne joined us — and, for the last few miles, also a petite young woman with ceremonial scars on her face who was none too happy to be crammed into our group.

About five miles from our destination the car broke down. Everyone waited patiently for an hour or so, when a replacement car came zooming up to take us away.

We started and finished the day with motorcycle taxis and are now preparing to visit Parc Pendjari, in hopes of seeing elephants and rhinos if not lions and tigers and bears.

But for now, a day to recuperate. Riding shotgun makes it better, but a bush taxi is a bush taxi!

(Luckily, most of our roads were paved.) 

Sunday in Toura

To spend two days in Toura is to go back in time and forward in time, is to meet at least a hundred people, none of whom speak English.

It's to wander through a village on the edge of the Sahel under a full moon.

It's to drink Beninoise beer, eat a freshly killed and grilled guinea fowl and learn two Bariba words: abwado and alafiya (both spelled phonetically here!).

It's to go to Sunday mass and hear Ibo songs accompanied by hand claps, dancing children and an earnest drummer who looks up to heaven in rapture as he pounds out the ancient rhythm.

It's to wonder what we lost when stopped living together in community.

Journey North

Twelve hours on a bus has taken us to the north of Benin, where the call to prayer echoes from one mosque to another, where French and Bariba are spoken in one breath. So many impressions, so little time. Best today to capture it in pictures.

Bonne Fete!

The first post of 2015 finds me sitting on a stool in Suzanne's little living room. A ceiling fan whirrs above and traffic noise filters in from the street. The new year is getting lost in the shuffle for me, since I'm getting to know a new country, a new continent.

Take last night, for instance. In retrospect New Year's Eve seemed a good day to arrive. There was a festive atmosphere abroad in the land, people preparing for the celebration. "Bonne Fete!" they said. Have a good holiday. (There's another phrase specifically for Happy New Year but I've already forgotten it.)

What I hadn't accounted for — but should have — was the racket that lasted past 1 a.m. Firecrackers that seemed to be exploding right outside the window, the high-pitched voices of Beninese women singing. Dogs parking, horns honking. And then, just as I was drifting off, roosters crowing.


It certainly was a memorable New Year's Eve; I doubt I'll have another like it. As for resolutions, mine so far are simple. Eat right, drink only bottled water and work up enough courage to ride a motorcycle taxi. I'm almost there!