Basic needs

“when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home…” There he stands, trembling with fury. Beyond comprehension at his father’s folly. The shamelessness of it. Whores, one after the other, have devoured half of the family fortune. And no, the old man not even in his grave yet, here is the younger son back with his hand outstretched for more. Who wouldn´t agree with the elder son's harsh judgment? I always did, to be honest. Until I realized, one day, that I had read too much into the younger brother’s return, just as the firstborn had. Where does the mention of prostitutes come from? There’s no way anyone could know that, even if it were true. And the story doesn’t say it. He squandered his wealth on wild living, the NIV translates. But even that is actually a bit more than the text says. Yes, the young man was improvident. No, his part of the family fortune was not invested wisely. And in the end there wasn’t even enough left for basic needs. Saying more than that is too hasty a conclusion, without having examined the facts. Who knows, the young man may have married. Fathered a child. Been away one business trip too long. Returned to a wife dead of a fever and a three-month-old child too far gone for saving. And desperately experiencing a father’s grief first-hand, lost his way completely.
There is a limit to our right and our ability to judge. And still we do. Still I do. Last weekend being a case in point. What is there to see in the picture? A coffin, and a young woman feeding her infant son. Basic needs are simple, at that age. The young woman is the sixth of the man’s wives. The infant is the youngest of his thirty or more. What was he thinking, marrying yet again, in spite of every civil and church prohibition? At his age, when simple statistics alone suggested he would be leaving mother and child, along with many others, bereft long before their time? Who would see to their needs now he was no longer there? I judged, and I was angry.
But there was more that angered me. The whole funeral. It was enormous. It had been two weeks in preparation and was three days in execution. Arriving at the wake, the previous evening, I had found at the centre of the compound a garish glass aquarium-like structure, a display refrigerator four times the size of the largest to be found at Costco’s. Through the steamed up windows (moisture outside, of course) there was the coffin open and propped up for display. Under – there must have been a quarter of an acre of it – tarp and steel tube constructions called baches, hundreds of chairs for the guests milling around and waiting for the proceedings to begin. Outside the compound, other baches had also been erected with tables where these and many other guests would be fed and given to drink. There were a brass band, amplifier installations, loudspeakers fit for a music festival. Whole families arrived dressed in matching outfits clearly tailored for the occasion. I shuddered to think of the expense.  I judged, and I was angry.
Because, for example, one of the family’s children, a little girl of 6 or so, is blind. And for the past year has been at the institute for the visually impaired at Djanglamey. Her only opportunity to receive suitable education, so that her life and future may be more than just darkness. Only, not at the expense of her parents. Much as it was sincerely desired, there was no way the family could find the money for a year’s tuition: the equivalent of €150.00. No, definitely impossible. Without the financial aid of Christian brothers and sisters overseas, no provision for her… Knowing this, I watched, and fumed. Basic needs for the living not met. And here, for the dead, such blatant squandering. I thought to myself: almost better if the family property had been squandered with prostitutes… Then they at least would have been enabled to provide for the needs of their families.
Disquieted, I spoke to the congregation's elder. He listened well. He had no answer that could satisfy me. But his reaction made clear: even basic needs are relative. I judged, within my frame of reference. He did too, within his. And while he did not try justify how the family fortune had been allocated, from his perspective a funeral like this one was a basic need…
Sometimes the elder son may have all the reason in the world to be angry. But even then it is not his to judge. He doesn’t have, will never have access to all the facts. And he will never be the Father to this child.

Portable

Hotel du Lac. A balmy evening in Cotonou. The terrace, there must be at least an acre of it, is a wonderfully relaxed place to be. The sun has set in golden splendour behind the warehouses on the other side of the channel. A slight breeze carries the sounds of what seems to be a service in progress over in the fishing village snug up against the ocean on this side. We’re here for the night, we’ve had a dip in the pool, and are now into the first course of the traditional Sunday evening Lebanese smorgasbord. Well, Lebanese... there are more than a few other world food traditions represented on the well-stocked side tables. Yes, slightly decadent, I agree.
The clientele does seem to be mostly Lebanese. Women in chaste head coverings chattering with their friends while their Beninese dada’s keep the children (the majority slightly overweight) out of harm’s way. The terrace being as large as it is, the children have taken along their rollerblades and electric ride-in convertible cars and shiny tricycles, and are happily zigzagging  between the tables. A dark-eyed girl, perhaps a year or two old, has for the last few minutes been trying desperately to throw a plastic bag through the railing into the water below, only to have it promptly returned by the breeze. Again. And again. She stamps her feet and picks it up once more. There, she decides, forget the water: into the planter, tucked under the foliage. Gone.

What a world of difference from Tchangba this morning. We were there for a special service, an action de grâce: all the paroisses of the ERCB in the Mono-Couffo had been invited to send a delegation with a financial contribution towards the cost of benches and ­tam-tams for in the church. Once again, Tchangba is the remotest village of the lot. Accessible over a track barely passable. Thankfully it hadn’t rained for a few days, so four-wheel-drive was sufficient. And no surprise: we got there a bit late. But equally no surprise, there were but a few children present, and a cobbled-together sound system blasting distorted music through loudspeakers which had seen much better days. Probably. Whenever. Not on mains power, by the way. That will arrive in Tchangba probably sometime next century. No, there was a portable generator (with its operator) brought in for the occasion.

Having time to spare, we walked into the village proper. Thatch roofed mud houses. Cooking fires fuelled by stripped palm fronds. Goats, dusty children, chickens, more children – clearly not well-fed, women stirring cast iron cauldrons with steaming and bubbling bouillie, children again, men reclining under a shady tree, everything you ever imagined about an African village in the year 1845. And the centuries before. Nothing, nothing at all in common with the terrace at Hotel du Lac with its Lebanese smorgasbord and plump children in electric ride-in convertible cars.

Except perhaps for the portables. True, not the third-generation smartphones the men at the adjacent table in Cotonou are conversing with while smoking their water-pipe and picking at their falafel. But mobile phones none the less. Stone age village and hotel terrace: the two are united courtesy of MTN, Moov, Glo, Zekede and Bell-Benin. Some of the time, at least. Seeing as there are two obstacles to remaining connected in Tchangba. One: recharging your phone. Two: topping up your credit.
Concerning the first, the special service this morning had an unexpected bonus: the generator. There was a line-up for the 15 slots on the extension cord. But as long as the generator kept going, the phones kept charging.
Concerning the second, the cash economy  arrives at Tchangba only occasionally. In the shape of the odd 100 FCFA piece. That’s about 15 eurocents, for those of you who don’t have a currency converter among your favourites. Good for 100 seconds of communication. Or 1½ text messages. 100 seconds go a long way, if you do as the Beninese do. Call someone’s number and terminate the call before he or she answers. In the hope that the person who missed your call returns it. Assuming he or she has bought more than 100 FCFA credit, of course. I’m not sure if the Lebanese in Benin operate the same system. They’re certainly on the phone a lot. When they should be talking to their wives over supper; or if not, paying a bit of attention to their children. But then, they have dada’s for that, don’t they?

Not that I am at all unhappy about the ubiquitous portable. Far from it. Today is Alice’s birthday. As well as Maarten’s. Here we are in Cotonou. Unpacking our bags, we find a message from Hannah, who is doing an archaeological survey in one of the remotest areas of Jordan: Hello! How are you? What are Maarten’s and Alice’s phone numbers? And what time is it in Canada right now? XXX Hannah. I am amazed once again at technology’s reach. From Stone Age to slightly decadent. From the Middle East by way of West Africa to Amersfoort and Empire Corners. Thank God - yes, literally - for the portable.

Deux Bidons

Monsieur, I would like to ask a favour. Would you be able to find me a Bible? I have never been to school, but my boys can read it to me. Great question to ask a missionary, of course. But consider who just asked it: the pastor of the Celeste parish this side of Majdre. Eglise Christianisme Celeste, a homegrown Beninese cult  5 years older than myself, said by some to be a syncretistic mix of Pentecostal prophetic claim and pagan belief. Here was one of their pastors asking me for a Bible, which he couldn’t read himself…

We were on the terrain to visit Rosa, who was there for treatment. Don’t ask me to explain the complicated situation which resulted in her being sedated by herbal remedies in an environment marginally Christian at best. Having arrived, we could not avoid presenting ourselves to the centre’s leader, clothed in a voluminous white robe and seated on a highbacked chair before two men humbly reclining on mats before him. In the intervening space, a single cream-white taper flickered hesitantly in the semi-darkness. No, you’re not disturbing us at all! These two are here for a vision. Please do come in, be seated. The supplicants waited good-naturedly as another chair was brought in for me and placed at the pastor’s right hand, with a bench for Marijke near the door. I was introduced as Rosa’s pastor by our guide, and we exchanged pleasantries. After what seemed an appropriate time, I asked permission and we took leave to go on to Rosa. She was actually doing very well, we found, and we arranged to come back in the afternoon with her husband and children.

It was as we were leaving that the request for the Bible came. The séance was over, apparently. Once again, great question for a missionary, so I immediately promised to take one along when I returned later in the day. I subsequently thought: while I’m at it, I can take along a few other items as well… Just as we were getting into the HiLux, however, a young man came running up. Our guide translated: they’re having trouble with the water supply here, and they’re wondering if perhaps we could take along some fresh water when we come back. Well, why not? If not for any other reason, to ensure Rosa would not get intestinal parasites on top of her psychiatric problems.

Driving back to Dogbo, we shook our heads at the impossibility of a pastor leading a church without being able to read the Bible. But we were also excited at the chance to share something of the authentic gospel  with those who had apparently had no access to it independently. I said to our guide: how much do those bidons cost that you use? And having heard that the cost would be no more than 75 eurocents apiece, I generously said: well, buy two for me, will you? We’ll fill them up and take them along this afternoon. By then, an inkling of an idea was beginning to form.

Right after lunch, we had another destination. Tchangba. Further away than Tchangba you cannot get in the Couffo, without falling into Togo. The track to Tchangba was passable this afternoon. But just. In 4-wheel drive. We arrived there after about three-quarters of an hour of severely being shaken about. Jonas, the elder, was not there. Agnes, the deacon, was. Only adult we could spot in the entire village. Children there were plenty of, as usual. Hugely intrigued to see a car, two pale-coloured people, and a watermelon. We had taken the latter along as a present, but we were glad to be gone before its having to be shared among so many… Agnes took us to the church and we talked about the affairs of the congregation. The children all tagged along. They understood more quickly than we did, perhaps, because Agnes speaks no French. Fortunately we did have an interpreter and he also assisted ably when we turned to the children and asked them if they could sing for us. Could they ever sing for us! And clap! And dance! Mon Papa est fidele... And his children can be loud, Tchangba proved.

At four o’clock we got home. In time for the bidons. Well in time. We had to wait a while. And we were on our way almost three-quarters of an hour later than we should have been. But we did have with us, by that time, not only the bidons, inscribed in indelible ink with two appropriate texts, a Bible,  and a New Testament, but also a book of questions and answers on the Christian faith, and a shorter evangelistic booklet written by elder Bertin of Dogbo. All were ceremoniously handed over to pastor Philomène. I had trouble recognizing him at first. For he had changed, in the meantime, into more conventional dress. The Bible you asked for, I said. And I thought perhaps you would also like these other books to help you in your preaching. He was immensely pleased, and handed the books over to his elder son, the one who reads to him. I was glad of that. Who knows what God will do when this son, who seemed intelligent and truly interested, starts reading reformed literature to his father? And who knows what God may do with those two bidons, with the texts inscribed on them for everyone to read when they come for a drink of water? Everyone who can read, that is. Or perhaps be read to.

Agent for change

Four church leaders, one missionary pastor. To my right, Daniel, chairman of the church council, who works in a hospital and is noticeably tired from the night shift. Or perhaps because his newborn daughter hasn’t allowed him much sleep. His long arms stretched out in front of him and his face nose down on the table. Facing me, first next counterclockwise, Pierre, tailor and church secretary, of all people I have met here – with Joseph, our guardian – the most conscientious and least likely to be after financial gain. Untamed and irregular front teeth protrude from his earnest but always smiling lips. Next to him Jonas, subsistence farmer and elder of the church furthest removed from civilisation, such as it is in the Mono-Couffo. Ill-fitting suit jacket over a greasy shirt, knobbly hands folded in his lap, uncertainly following the conversation when it is conducted in French, which he barely speaks. And then finally, to my left, Salomon, elder and couturier in the larger village of Deve; with a church consisting largely of his 14 apprentices whom he trains and feeds and educates in Christian doctrine. I have been asked to meet with them at Kpodaha to discuss their programme of study for the month of June: they have  almost completed their course of three years at the I3B, a Bible college in Bohicon, an hour-an-a-half’s drive away. Once each month they leave their family and work and church behind from Monday to Friday to be taught theology, theoretical and practical. Quite a commitment and sacrifice! But in order to complete their studies they have to spend the entire last month, four weeks, in Bohicon. This poses all kinds of problems, naturally enough. Financial and otherwise. And we are together find a solution, if possible.

But it turns out that there is another, previously unstated, reason for our gathering. That doesn’t surprise me, that is the way it always goes here. Someone comes to bring us a bag of oranges, to greet us because they just happened to be in Dogbo, to thank me for a fine sermon last Sunday, or whatever. And once that is out of the way, and we begin to edge towards the front of our chairs in order to rise, inevitably there is the: o, yes, one other little thing, monsieur Pasteur… And 9 times out of 10 it has something to do with money. Money they need and I probably have.

This afternoon the well-planned afterthought is also about money. Money for the reception after the handing out of their diplomas in July. This money has been in discussion for a long time. And yes, in their perception it is truly a necessity. They had negotiated an considerable amount with my predecessor and included it as a budget amendment proposal to DVN-Gowa for 2012, back in October. For various reasons there had been no response to the amendment, and they had assumed that there would be no objection. However, about three months ago I had had to inform them not to get their hopes up. And after much discussion, there and here, last week they received DVN-Gowa’s final decision: good stewardship financial support is only given for what is strictly necessary. If they feel that a reception is very important, fine, but it is up to themselves to find the money.

To European ears and mind, this position is eminently sensible. To the Africans around the table this afternoon incomprehensible. And if I, their Pasteur, would perhaps be willing to mediate. All stops were pulled out, from flattery to righteous indignation. I listened, expressed every sympathy (with both positions), and concluded that I was not going to intervene. I explained why. And they accepted that. Though I gave them no hope of success, they themselves would try to contact headquarters. Their problem, not mine.

All of this is preface to what, in my mind, was the most important accomplishment of the afternoon. I said to them: brothers, this is an example of something very important which you need to realise. Not the question of whether you do or don’t receive the money you would like. But the difference between how you and we arrive at conclusions. And then we had a very good discussion about cultural differences and their impact on the decision-making process. I said: it strikes me that you have a more or less circular way of arriving. You talk and talk and talk again, take a position and then alter it again when a new partner enters the discussion, and you keeping moving around and around until you arrive at a consensus, a compromise which everyone can live with. For you it is hugely important that every participant in the discussion takes ownership of the outcome. Your relations are the most important thing. And therefore you find it quite normal to start again, after all the negotiations are concluded, if the outcome doesn’t please someone. They looked at me and confirmed what I had said. Of course, their faces read. That’s the only way to do business. And then I continued. A European doesn’t think like that, I said. I’m not saying that our way is better, but it is certainly different. A European is much more focussed on the goal, the answer to the original question, the target. We can talk a lot too, but we more or less follow a straight line. From here to there. Along the way we gather all the arguments that each person has to contribute. And then we draw our conclusion. Finis! (This is the short version of the lesson, of course.) Some comprehension dawned. You mean, said Salomon, when the visitors from Holland were here earlier this month, they were gathering the arguments which we had to contribute? And that was the end of our turn? I was impressed. Exactly, I said. And that is why I do not expect any change in the decision.

We continued our discussion. I drew two circles, one overlapping the other about one third of the way. Here: this is us, your brothers and sisters in the Netherlands. And here: this is you, our fellow Christians in Africa. We are partners in God’s kingdom. But can only work well together in this area which overlaps. We will only become hopelessly frustrated if you, or we, try to demand things or impose things which lie outside of the overlap. The importance you attach to ceremonies is in your own part of your circle. We do not, and will never share that. And there are plenty of things in our own part of our circle which you do not need to adopt. I am here, with you, in this middle part which we share, to work with you. And that’s the way it should be.

I’m not pretending that we achieved full comprehension. But I do think that an important lesson was learned, in part. And I am excited to be agent for change here in that way. I love and respect my African brothers. And I hope that I will become worthy of their love and respect in return. But they are they. And I am I. Long live the overlap. And vive la différence!

Naked

Diagonally across the rusty metal springs of a bed without mattress, neck craned backwards at an impossible angle, eyes wide open, following our approach towards the veranda where he is, lies a man. Naked from the waist down. From his awkward position, we must appear upside down, but his smile says that that doesn’t bother him at all.

We are in Madjre, at the Centre d’Accueil Père Hervé, a home – if that is what you can call it – for people with a mental handicap or psychiatric disorder. This is our weekly visit, begun shortly after our arrival in Benin, interrupted by the incident on February 1st, and recommenced a few weeks ago. We had heard of the centre in Holland already: googling for Dogbo, Marijke found a site called www.detuinvantoyo.nl/. Worth going there yourself: this is the initiative of a Dutch couple who had been visiting Dogbo quite some years ago and were shocked by the sight of a handicapped young girl in the market, begging for scraps and totally uncared for. Toyo was her name, and with her in mind this couple mobilized friends and acquaintances to help provide for her and others like her: a place to live, to be cared for, and if possible to be productively employed. The Centre d’Accueil existed already, if I am not mistaken, but was in state of disrepair and had few prospects. With this new support network, things began to change. A property was acquired a few kilometres away, a deep well was dug, vegetable gardens were laid out, a number of buildings were erected, and the more able inhabitants of the centre were given the opportunity to work and live there. Given enough time and money, the hope is that all the inhabitants will eventually be moved to the new location and will each contribute, as well as he or she can, to the life of the community.

But those are dreams for the future. For the present, most of them are still idle, housed in conditions unthinkable by western standards, living and dying as best they can. Naked, metaphorically speaking, but sometimes quite literally as well, like the man on the bed on the veranda. We hadn’t seen him at first. Actually, we were on our way out, after a visit of about ¾ of an hour. We had been welcomed exuberantly, had spent our time kicking a soccer ball around, talking and laughing and singing and dancing, had shared a picture sheet with the story of Good Friday and Easter, and were headed back to the gate. Then someone tugged at our arm. Elle aussi, he said, pointing towards the veranda. Yes, Adja speakers seem to mix up gender when they speak French; what we saw there was definitely male. And he had been watching us in his upside-down world. Not able to kick a soccer ball or talk or sing or dance. Or control his bowels, which is, I imagine, the reason for his lying there like that. But he could laugh, boy, could he laugh! His limbs grotesquely twisted, suppurating sores at contact points of skin and metal, unable to do anything but be cared for... He laughed, the raw, uncontrolled laughter of a spastic.

Someone told us a little of the story: this man had been badly burned when he was younger, and since then he was like this. New to the centre, he had been rescued from the village, like so many of the malades, by M. Raoul. Raoul, apparently once malade himself, but picked up off the street and nursed back to mental and physical health, had made it his mission in life to care for the abandoned, the chained, the abused, the unwanted, 40 or so of whom inhabit the centre which he now heads. This man was the newest. Hugely happy to see us coming closer, and to meet us. We weren’t really able to talk. We were just there with him for a few minutes, shocked and moved and wondering why there was no better solution for a burn victim in Benin, and then we left. He waved goodbye, clutching a sheet with three crosses over an empty grave in his malformed fist. Naked.

There is a lot of nakedness in Benin. Like last Sunday morning. Walking home from church, glancing around suddenly at the sound of water splashing: there stood a girl, in her early teens, outside the family dwelling. Totally naked, but not at all ashamed. She had lathered in her glorious body and was holding high a calabash bowl to rinse away the suds. She saw us and waved with her other hand. We waved back, and walked on, trying hard not to keep looking. Not quite an everyday experience, true, but we have seen more nakedness here in the past four months than in the five previous decades. It’s tricky, for me, a man, to deal with in a Christian manner: look, no problem when breasts are long and flat and wrinkled (which seems to occur at an improbably early age here, we think due to the weight of the baby carried on the mother’s back, it being wrapped tightly in the pagne.) But many of what we see aren’t at all long and flat and wrinkled. I think Marijke is probably unaffected by the sight of a (semi)naked woman. But then, she needs to deal with the sight of men urinating. Whenever and wherever they need to go. And only some turn away from the road and public view. Nakedness. Takes getting used to.

Back to Madjre, and the people there, naked and clothed. We both sense that it is no coincidence that we have become involved in what happens there. Our dream is to connect the people of the ERCB to the people there. Also the people of the ERCB are Beninese. Also the people of the ERCB are naturally inclined and culturally conditioned to abandon the handicapped to the night and the mercy of God. Few of them have a strong conviction that the mercy of God generally comes in the form of people who are willing to be there for the helpless and the hopeless. Our dream is that we can contribute just a little, to make the nakedness visible. So that when the morning comes Jesus will say to them and to us: I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me (Mat 25.36). For the alternative is also possible:you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked (Rev 3.17).

Enterrement

Waiting for the ceremonies to begin

This was the week of the enterrements. But first I would like to say  that the generator we inherited from our predecessors, unused and long interred (the generator, that is), has been resuscitated and is now installed under a tin-roofed shack at the edge of our yard, right up against the wall which separates what’s ours from the road up front. It’s running right now, making a heck of a racket, but supplying us with 5000 watts of energy while the rest of Dogbo has none. Which means we have light to see and power for the computer. Not to mention the air-conditioner, which I finally connected this week as well, giving us at least the respite of a cool bedroom in this warmest and most humid month of the year. Waiting for the rainy season to arrive, we sweated through three changes of clothes a day, and had the added burden of a particularly spotty power supply: most days the power was out for at least half of the day and night. No ventilators, no light, not much of anything. Until now…

Welcoming funeral guests

Back to the enterrements. Maybe this wasn’t the week of just them, on reflection, but they were what spurred me to writing this blog. Last Sunday it began: a member at Deve asked if he could come to speak with me concerning the funeral of his father-in-law. We made an appointment for early Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday evening, just before supper time (I was cooking), he and his wife finally showed up. Realizing that the passing of a loved one is distressing, I of course didn’t refer to the inconvenience and offered my sincere condolences. They were accepted very matter-of-factly, neither daughter nor son-in-law seeming very distressed, actually. As it turned out, the departure had been a good two months and a half ago, perhaps that explained something. However, it was deemed important that I be invited to the enterrement Saturday next (now past). Obviously I was pleased to accept the invitation, curious about funeral arrangements and customs surrounding death, and willing to share in the family’s grief, such as it was. As circumspectly as I could, I inquired after the deceased and what exactly had transpired since his passing and now. It turned out that the father(-in-law) and most of the family was pagan, and all the traditional obligations were completely intact. Enterrement without all the ceremonies required had been out of the question, so the deceased had been in cold storage while arrangements were made: food, drink, sacrifice, travel of kin from throughout the country and across the border, and so on, all of which required great sums of money. Meanwhile, the daily cost of storage at the morgue was rising to unbelievable proportions. If the good man wasn’t interred quickly, the family might well be bankrupt soon…

And that brought us to the more pressing reason for distress on the part of my visitors. Not grief at the passing, but at the debt which had already been incurred, and the expenses which were still to be expected. The family was not small. There were more than a few adult children, as well as brothers and cousins and other kinsmen. But just this one visitor of mine was already out of pocket 300.000 FCFA, he said. Converted to euros, that may seem reasonable: about €450. But if you consider that in Benin a day’s wage for a labourer is 3.000 FCFA, and for a skilled tradesman about 5.000 FCFA …

More guests arriving

In short, the real reason for the visit, and for the accompanying invitation to the enterrement, was not so much need for pastoral assistance as a very urgent request for cash.

And guess what the visit by another brother the next evening was about? Indeed, another enterrement. And yes, the very pressing need of service in the form of a loan, if possible, of CFCA 100.000. Similar circumstances, similar dues, similar financial straits, and unthinkable to avoidfamilial obligations. Tell me about your father, I said to this visitor, determined to inject at least a small pastoral element into the conversation. What did he mean to you? No, came the answer, not he, but she. My papa adoptif was a woman.
That set me back a few notches, as you can imagine. The real father had died many years ago, when my visitor was still a young boy. And custom dictates, he explained, that someone else take the role left vacant. Man or woman, anyone with authority and the willingness to be in for the long haul. In this case the family had determined that a great-aunt would fill the position. And it was this woman who had died, now a month or so ago. And yes, the enterrement would not be for another four weeks, there were expenses already made and more to come; my visitor, as 'child', needed to take his share. The dot, for example: a sum of money and a new pagne for an undisclosed number of family members. Food, drink, travel costs – sometimes for days before and after the occasion – for dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, present all day long to offer emotional support and share the hours of lunch and dinner and the late-night drinking sessions which invariably are part of the whole proceedings. The rental of the bache, a huge canvas and steel construction under which the party takes place, sound equipment and a team to operate it. Money which may have been set aside for schooling of children, medical care, food and shelter: all give way to honouring the deceased’s memory with an enterrement  nobody can afford.
How should I respond? How did I respond? Best not to let your left hand know what right right hand is doing, I read in Matthew 6.3. But in an entirely new light, I also think of Matthew 8.22: allow the dead to bury their own dead…

Krentenbrood

Okay, technically I should say it’s rozijnenbrood. No currants available, plenty of raisins. And it being Saturday, well, naturally, I bake krenten/rozijnenbrood for Sunday morning. Like I always do. This morning we had Canadian style pancakes for breakfast, with genuine artificial maple flavoured pancake syrup. Tomorrow morning we eat krentenbrood. Okay, rozijnenbrood. Same as usual. Normal.

There we are, back to normal. More than a month after my previous blog. At home in our new house. Maybe I should stick to the facts about the past months. Who, what, when where, why. In summary.

Our first visit back to Dogbo I described. The next was a few days longer. The next wasn’t a visit, but a return. And yes, we stayed. Until Maarten and Evelene came, courtesy of DVN. Five days. Exactly right for us and for them. We started in Cotonou, or rather, just outside Cotonou, at a mini-resort on the beach called Chez Rada. We had two bungalows for two nights. Swimming pool, reasonable food, massive waves down at the beach. The day between the two nights, on Thursday, we visited Cotonou city, most memorably Dantokpa, the biggest market of West Africa, an overwhelming maze of stalls and not-quite-stalls selling everything you could possible imagine, from voodoo attributes to automobile parts liberated from the port to children. Yes, children. Dantokpa is  one of Africa's nerve centres for child trafficking. According to UNICEF, about 500,000 children between the ages of five and fourteen are victims of this shocking trade in Benin. (Check out http://fr.youtube.com/watch?v=nWomTaGV5RA if you’re interested)

Friday we drove along the coast road (sand track hugging the beach, an amazing drive!) to Ouidah, and from there to Dogbo. We arrived in plenty of time to visit the market in Dogbo, but not before sharing a traditional West African meal (beans, chicken, sauce) prepared by Mariette in honour of our visitors. Saturday we visited a home for people with a mental handicap/psychiatric illness, hung around a bit at home, and in the evening we had another traditional African meal with Didi. Sunday we went to church in Dogbo and in the afternoon did a circuit of villages where the ER CB has churches, including Djakotomey, Tokpohoue, Deve and Ayomi. And Monday we drove back to Cotonou, getting there in plenty of time for Maarten and Evelene to catch their flight back. It was a really, really good visit: for them, for us, and for the people here.

Thursday of that week, our goods arrived. Meanwhile the main work on the house across the road was almost done. We were able to stow our goods in one of the bedrooms, sneaking a peek in any number of boxes as we arranged them. It was just like Sinterklaas, when we finally got to unpacking proper. Treasures newer and older, absented for four months, and every one with its own reason for having been packed. So good…

And now, we’re a couple of weeks on. We’ve moved in, hung curtains and light fittings and towel racks and all those other bits and pieces which make a home function. Internet works, so does the satellite TV/radio receiver (Dutch programming!), and so does my Assistant Original, the Swedish wonder machine. A full horsepower of kneading and meat grinding attachments. So yes, things have got back to normal. Including krentenbrood on Saturday evening.

We are really, really thankful. It is good to be here.