April 16, 2003 Letter

4/16/03

Hello to all! Sorry that it's been a while since I have written. I've actually had some things going on. For those that requested details from my trip with Cyndi back in December-January, I begin with:

Two Travelers

In December my girlfriend, Cyndi, arrived in Benin for a one-month stay in West Africa. I welcomed her at the airport on the 12th. Rather than enter the baggage-check area, I waited outside of the terminal due to regulations, and sent a porter to get her. When Cyndi spotted him with her name on his sign, she for a moment reason convinced herself that, after being apart for 15 months, I had not even come to the airport to welcome her. From humble begins came our travels. I got a pain in my neck from craning it to see at each moment if she would walk through the gate. On the third day we attempted to go to Ghana, not realizing that the borders were closed for Benin's municipal elections that were to take place the same day. We thus spent a quiet, relaxing evening in Grand Popo, a beach town just 20 km from the border before setting out the next morning.

We made a friend just as we got to the Ghanian border. He had been in out taxi since Lom but we didn't actually speak to each other until he helped us resolve an issue with the chauffeur in Togo. He was Ghanaian and coached us across the border while helping us carry our bags. This was not the only time we were aided by strangers. Even the Beninese people I know who have experienced Ghana marvel at the quality of its people. For some arcane reason Cyndi got held up at one point by a border guard (she is pretty suspicious looking) but eventually we all got through. We made it into Accra after nightfall, admiring the lights of the city at night as we entered. I nearly jumped out of my seat when I saw a strip mall and a doughnut shop. We did about a ten-day tour of Ghana, focusing primarily on the South except one foray into the Central Region.

In Accra, besides eating great food and shopping, we visited the W.E.B. DuBois Center for Pan-Africanism and the National Arts Center. Accra is a great city (hard to believe it is in West Africa it is so well- organized and clean!) but not a great tourist town. It did have great food, good beer and welcoming inhabitants though, so our time was not wasted. One culinary note that is interesting is that Chinese food can be found in practically every restaurant and on every street.

After Accra we took the Tro-Tro (a min-bus taxi) to Cape Coast, which is home to the UNESCO World Heritage Slave Forts. We took extensive tours of castles in Cape Coast and Elmina, walking though dungeons and holding areas of slaves, seeing the living and working quarters of former colonial masters and tracing the paths to the waterfront taken by the slaves.

In Elmina we took the deluxe tour, which included us exploring areas probably not intended. But hey, there were no signs on those ladders leading to the roof. From the highest point of the castle we captured an incredible view of the town. We next traveled to Kukum National Park to experience the famous Canopy-walk.

Accompanied by out new friends, the Darlings, who were on their honeymoon, we ambled though the treetops on rope bridges constructed by a couple of Canadian engineers (at least I hope they were engineers.) Cyndi, having a mild fear of heights, seemed to especially appreciate when I shook the bridge from behind. It was majestic in the boughs of the mostly primary rainforest (some of it is secondary) and at times felt like a scene out of Jurassic Park. Unfortunately, because the forest was so lush, it was almost impossible to see any wildlife below. Kukum is actually one of many Peace Corps Eco-Tourism projects that exist in Ghana. For Volunteers it is a specific program, part of Community Development I presume.

After Kukum we visited the village of Domama, which hosts another such program. It is a quaint village tucked a good 20 kilometers off the main road, and north of Kukum. It has made the Lonley Planet for its efforts to promote tourism based on its hospitality and a rock shrine in its surrounding forests. It is a sort of scaled down Stonehenge that was discovered by the earliest tribes of the area and adopted as shrine for ceremonies, sacrifices and communications with spirits and ancestors. After the tour, which took us to the shrine and on a boat-ride cut short due to a hole in the canoe, we returned to the village to pass the evening. We heard drums from all directions and assumed they were for some traditions gatherings. Upon further exploration we learned that they boomed from the evangelical Christian services, four different sects in total, taking place around this village. We ventured to one, and watched men in pressed suits hoot and holler at a congregation illuminated by generator powered flood lamps, the only lights in the area.

After a return trip to Cape Coast, we headed north to Kumasi, the city famous for its Kente cloth and other crafts. Unfortunately, we learned much more about Ghanian medical facilities than we did the famous craft villages surrounding Kumasi as Cyndi had fallen ill just when we got to Kumasi. We called down to Accra Peace Corps to ask for advice and a clinic was recommended in Kumasi by a medical officer who quipped: Much better to fall ill in Ghana than Benin. Cyndi convalesced and we did manage to get to the market to purchase Kente cloth and see a bit of the town. Five hours to the north, and I would say it is even more developed than Cotonou.

On Christmas Eve we arrived back in Accra to pass the night before returning to Benin Christmas morning. We had made plans to have a picnic with my host family in Ouidah, also a UNESCO World Heritage sites, a town on the coast of Benin. During the slave trade, it was perhaps the most prolific shipping-off point for slave ships. But at this time we simply enjoyed its scenic, palm tree lined beaches while feasting on the spread provided by my family who traveled down from Allada. After a brief stop in Cotonou, we visited the famous village on the lake, Ganvie, for what was my fourth and hopefully last time.

We were unfortunate enough to be grouped in with a few of Europeans who seemed to enjoy the fact that we stopped at every tourist stop and bar on the water, sapping over half of our time. And of course, Cyndi got to see the local manifestation of CocaCola''s ubiquity. On the same day we continued to Allada so that Cyndi could see the town and home where I passed three months. In addition, Mama had't made the trip down to Ouidah, so Cyndi got to meet her. The family had heard about her since October 2001 so they were thrilled to finally know her. Making our way up the country, our next stop was Abomey, arguably the most well known town in Benin and also a World Heritage site (unless I'm just starting to make this up. It seems like a lot of World Heritage sites to me. Let's make Djougou one too!) Abomey was home to the famous Dahomey kingdom of the Fon culture for which Benin was named before it was named Benin. Each successive king (12 in all) constructed a palace amongst the others until in 1892, the 10th king Bhanzin burned them all down while fleeing from the French. We visited the Royal Palace Museum, which houses the courtyards, ceremonial rooms and the palaces of the final two kings. Cyndi and I really enjoyed the tour, which was given in English by the colleague of one of the Peace Corps English teachers in town.

The next morning we took a walking tour of Abomey to visit the famous historical sites. The tour, which also included taking taxing motos all across town, took us to the moat that was dug to surround the city, worship sites of different kings, and the palace that was constructed to house the tombs of two of one of the kings (many, many) wives that adulterated and were therefore put to death. It was to serve as a warning to the others. We also visited sites relating to the famous Amazon (female) warriors of one of the kings. We were told that women were at first used to infiltrate and seduce enemies, but were eventually incorporated into battle as well after proving their worth on several occasions. A highlight of this stop was a visit we paid to a Bokono, or vodun priest (also called a fetisher; yes Chad, a fetisher). With the help of an American we met in Abomey who is on a Fulbright Scholarship to study Voodoo, Cyndi got a reading from this respected elder. We arrived on zemijans just before dusk and sat outside to wait for the Bokono to finish a consultation. We had made previous stops in the south; nevertheless this would be Cyndi's first time immersed in southern culture. In noticed vividly the redness of the earth and earth-made houses and the tropical climate, quite a contrast to the more savanna-like north. We entered with our Fulbright friend and a friend of his who was to translate from Fon. We brought a bottle of Sodabi, a harsh grain liquor, as a gift to the Bokono. The evening thus began by us taking shots, accompanied by one of the priest's wives who he said should drink twice because she had bore twins. She agreed readily, apparently accustomed to this honor bestowed. To commence the consultation, Cyndi whispered a question, so that only she could hear it, into an old, worn coin and laid it down in front of the Bokono. He then threw ancient strands of cowrie shells onto the earthen ground in front of him, and began muttering words, apparently questions, appealing to the small deities or intermediaries who bring him into contact with God, to take Cyndi's question and return with a response. The Bokono soon received a response and began to recite a long proverb, and then proceeded to give more direct advice. He told Cyndi what she must do to have control over her future, to appease God; it was a laundry list of tasks included killing and burying chickens, putting grain in the termites nest, pouring libations and much more. She never did any of them: I'm pretty sure she is screwed. To know Cyndi's question and the response, well you'll have to ask Cyndi. At the end we presented the Bokono with some money for his time (people usually will bring a chicken or some food) in addition to an American quarter, which he seemed thrilled to add to other special items of his in his leather pouch.

What was perhaps most important for me was for Cyndi to see Djougou, so we spent a good six days, visiting friends and the town. Though it is characteristic for its lack of sites to visit, we had a great time cruising the town. We were invited everywhere to eat or drink since everyone has been waiting to meet the girlfriend of the guy who should be the most eligible bachelor in town. New Year's Eve was spent here, and we feted at my neighbors house. The father was short on money this year so there pretty much was no fete, but we hung out and had a couple of drinks. People in Djougou don't fete anything but Muslim holidays, but we still enjoyed ourselves. One day we took a 17km bike trip into the bush, following an overgrown path to the house of the old Peuhl man I wrote about in a previous letter (he was kidnapped to fight for the French around the second World War). Then for the afternoon, we visited with the cow herders and then wandered around with the cows ourselves for couple of hours. Cyndi got to strut herself as a farm girl and gave advice to the herders on the health of their animals.

In Natitingou we had our first Tata Somba experience in a bar no less. A Tata Somba is a unique, earthen and wood built housing structure characteristic of the Ditamarie, or Somba, people. You could call it a fortress: the idea is for it to be an all-in-one self-sustaining community. One can close the doors and live inside without leaving for long periods of time. In Nati, a Somba man constructed a Tata to house a bar. Just inside the main entrance there is a chamber that boasts a wood-burning oven on one side and a mortar built into the ground on the other for pounding ignames. The ground floor serves to house all the animals, which can include cows, goats, sheep, chickens, etc. It is the grandmother who sleeps on this level to keep watch over the animals. An intermediary step-up is used as a kitchen area and the final step up leads to the roof. Here, three sleeping chambers that must be crawled into are found, as well as two to three major grain silos. The tops are lifted off the silos like cookie jars with hinges on the lids, and to get grain out they are constructed so one must crawl into the silo to get it out.

From Nati we continued on to the town of Boukoumb. On the way we spent the afternoon in a village called Kousso-Kouangou where we toured habited Tatas, hiked to a ravine where locals had hid themselves from German troops during World War II, drank way too much of the tchouk (sorghum beer) that was offered us at every stop, and saw the tallest mountain in Benin, Mt. Kousso-Kouangou. This village is kind of in the middle of nowhere so we had difficulty getting a taxi to take us the final 20km or so. Cyndi solved the problem to my astonishment by hailing one of our national oil company trucks that was on its way to Boukoumb. After the free ride on one of the most scenic routes in all of Benin, we arrived in Boukoumb. We didn''t have too much luck, as it was not the market day for which this town is famous. But we biked to the Togo border while receiving greetings from each Tata that we passed.

Next stop was Tanguieta, ever to the north. The area is most known for its mountainous topography. We negotiated a taxi to take us to the picturesque waterfalls of Tanagou, which I had also visited with Dana and Chad. The water was hypothermic since it was the harmattan, the season of the winds from the north, which bring cool air. We swam as much as we could before drying off at the water's edge. We then spent the night in a hut-hotel where each hut was a furnished room a short hike from the base of the falls. We were running out of money so we feasted on canned sardines, bread and Laughing Cow cheese. We then made our descent to Cotonou where I saw Cyndi off at the airport. It was difficult to say goodbye to her once again, but easier than the first time around. We had a wonderful time all around.

Democracy

The local elections finished back in December; now approach the national legislative elections. Djougou's main roads are filled everyday with cars blaring messages on megaphones and mobs of people listening to speeches. Some people are truly interested in the democratic process, but most are just hoping to get something out of it for themselves. I cannot say that the Beninese people do not understand democracy: maybe they do and are just opportunistic. But the first democratic elections in the 1990s set a precedent for what has followed. Though it is illegal, political parties pay people for their votes. Traveling around different cities and villages, at least 10%, sometimes up to 50%, of their total budgets is given to people for pledged support. The amount given usually depends on the wealth of the target population. Anywhere from 5000F CFA to 100F CFA can do it ($8 - $0.15).

I have some friends involved in politics who do not agree with this system, but if their party does not participate, then they will most certainly lose, so they do it. One party, attempting to make the system less corrupt, avoids this by tying bribes to development. Instead of passing out cash to individuals, they build schools and dig wells for communities that support them. This is also probably not a bad political move since these infrastructure developments will be visible for elections to come. I guess this is all a more obvious form of pork barrel politics in the States.

Local politics resulting from the municipal elections in December are interesting as well. It is widely circulated in Djougou that our new mayor is a raging alcoholic and bought off other council members (who were popularly elected and then selected the mayor amongst themselves) to get power. I don't know if these rumors are true, but sometimes it doesn't matter what is true, but rather people's perceptions of the truth. In addition, in his first two weeks of office he tear-gassed a group of teachers protesting about not getting paid outside of his building. Not a popular move. King Cotton King Cotton, the "white gold" as it is called, is back in the north of Benin. The northeast is even more cotton-fecund, but chez moi there is quite a bit as well. The season is a bit past, but in the middle of it I would watch everyday as the farmers, usually from neighboring villages, came to dump their cotton next to my house, temporarily converting the local soccer "field" to a storage area. But the kids were not left idle: they not only have fun during cotton season, but make themselves useful too. As the cotton is dumped out of trucks, their job is to jump in the cotton and compress it into piles. The farmers then thank then with small coins or fried bean balls and fried ignames. When enough cotton arrived, it was weighed on large scales before being loaded into massive freighters for shipment to Cotonou. The Village Growers Association manages this process since most of the farmers are illiterate and cannot calculate for themselves. In some areas, this has let to untold corruption. When their cotton is sold, the farmers will receive payment in relation to the weight they brought.

My neighbor is a transporter of many things, including cotton and he drives a Mercedes (having a personal car is almost unheard of). It is quite a spectacle to see these trucks barreling down the road, themselves taller than any building in town. Cotton brings money and chaos at the same time. I have seen two trucks tear down electrical poles, while others cause accidents on the road. They are too tall and so clip the street wires if the drivers are not careful. The cotton is only supposed to rise 1 meter above the top of the truck, but of course it is piled much higher. Some drivers put men on top of their truck to lift up the wires as the drivers ease through.

You've got to love informal third world economies: always creating new and interesting jobs; An interesting side note: I read that Benin, along with a collection of others nations in support of a Brazilian motion, has brought a suit against the United States to the WTO claiming that it has unfairly subsidized agricultural production, including cotton. Benin's northern economy is becoming more and more one-dimensional, which does not bode well for it, especially if first-world economies continue to prop up their own markets. Most people in my area live off of cotton, put their whole livelihood.

Now comes the difficult time when they will probably wait months to be paid for their product at a price that will leave much to be desired. Honky Tonk In what was one of the most bizarre in recent memory, a concert was held, people danced, music was eclectic. Djougou has been nicknamed "Footloose" by Volunteers as a reference to the Kevin Bacon / John Lithgow film about the small American town dominated by Christian fundamentalists where dancing has been outlawed. Of course this is not quite the case in Djougou as there is a Discoteque and at ceremonies and fetes people love to dance. Nevertheless, music is generally frowned upon by the conservative religious population. Anyways, at the concert a band played, the first live music act I have heard about in the year I have been here. It was a singer, Boboni Moumouni, from Parakou and his back-up band. He is a traditional musician and sings in Dendi and Bariba. It was held at the cinema, and perhaps two hundred people attended. When Moumouni would take breaks his band, a collection of men much younger than he, would have a grand old time, playing covers and dancing. They played Bob Marley as well as the top local hits. The most bizarre moment was when they started playing a honky-tonk tune! It took a couple of minutes due to shock that not only was it honky-tonk, but it was also When the Saints Go Marching In! At the end the musicians thanked everyone on the audience who had appreciated the song for being open minded; it was only the second time they had played it. At one point, Elijah, the IFESH (another American organization) Volunteer and I were pulled up to dance and we were showered with chewing gum and small coins, and dressed by two people's baseball hats. Of course, we were a hit (like any two whites guys doing just about anything are). Later on, a dance contest was held and, being the two Batoures in the audience, we were invited to be the final judges. It was a Show Time at the Apollo atmosphere where judging was done by audience applause. People would hoot and holler, run up to dance along, and at one point a fight broke out.

Bouffe

As work has progressed, even more challenges have come along with it. I wrote once about Junior Achievement, a program that gives high school aged students an education is entrepreneurship. It turns out one of my counselors, a volunteer I recruited from the community, was pocketing project money for personal use. I know it's difficult to find reliable community volunteers anywhere, but in a developing country! damn.

I remember studying at university one economic theory about the average income a society must attain before truly being capable of focusing on "greater good" issues such as labor rights and environmental protection. If the majority of people are struggling to eat, why would they consider giving up their time to help anyone that is not me and mine? So in an amplified sense of what happens anywhere, most people here just want to know what's in it for them.

The notable exceptions, God bless them, are not the subject of this small history. I was gone for about a month when Cyndi was here, and in that time he managed to collect members fees and take revenue earned by the students in their business and divert them into his own affairs. Also, with the perceptions that exist about foreign projects, it is assumed that money is just following out of the sky in the host countries. He told the students at one point that if things didn't go well, then Junior Achievement would just pick up the tab for whatever happened. When I finally confronted him, he said he had to leave the project (though he knew I was getting rid of him) because there was nothing for him in it. Paul joked that I was going to put a second person away in prison. The other counselor working with this team just stopped showing up, even though he was my primary community partner. This has happened to Peace Corps Volunteers across Benin. My other team is functioning without a hitch, and the counselor is a saint. Why is good news always so much less interesting?

Training classes

The following is a short essay I wrote describing my experience working with women borrowers in my training classes: The sound of voices leads me to raise my head from my book. I glance at my watch: 7:15pm. The women have arrived, albeit over an hour late. I am a bit annoyed, but remind myself that in this culture, time bends to meet the needs of people and not vice versa, especially with the less educated. And how can I fault these women: after a day more rigorous than I can imagine, they have come to my training class in credit and business management, before returning home still to prepare dinner over wood stoves and pray. These women haven't been to school for a long time, if ever, but file into the classroom, taking places at seats that might have held them years ago at primary school. Veils are loosened, revealing worn but beautiful visages. Baby noises interpose with the trainer who has begun to speak, and the women chorus in agreement with one idea or another. One woman of about thirty struggles to stay awake: a water crisis has added work to what is already a hectic day. I can send a kid on my bike to get my water 2 kilometers away; these women must walk. And yet they are here, and I am optimistic. When education or money is available to women, studies show that families, and particularly children, benefit. One of these children, a three week-old baby, tries to suckle on my arm while I occupy her for her mother. I have seen many of these women before at the CLCAM. They come to my formation in hopes of obtaining loans; education is not a value they have learned, only survival. A diploma from me will increase their chances of being accepted as qualified loan candidates. I only hope that they will learn something along the way, and it seems that they are.

This is my romantic version of events, which is for the most part accurate. It gets pretty tiring to wait 2 hours every time there is a class (some women come after 45 minutes or so, so we try to be there somewhat on time also), but the women usually come and participate actively. Taking attendance has proven to be the biggest challenge of all. I'm not sure if the women don't understand the notion of "taking attendance" (i.e. you respond to your name when it is called), which is possible, or if they are trying to simply help each other out, which is also possible, but at almost every meeting there are more people who respond during attendance then are present. Sometimes women give two different names at two different times - their husbands name or their father's name; and forget. A few women stopped coming early on, and other women filled their spots while responding to the original name on the list. It was at first a nightmare, which is now under control. The loan system itself is taken advantage of by some women, partly because the women don't know a whole a lot and partly because they are really smart. All these people and projects showing up wanting to give money or loans and they want to feed their families; or course the women will jump at the chance once made aware of it. Many groups have been known to take loans at multiple institutions (which is why I have written previously about then need for a Credit Bureau) and if you don't have their pictures, they are known to send people in their place or make up names.

Overall the trainings have been a great experience and the women have shown incredible ability to share what they know, learn new information, and even retain what they have learned. One of my favorite classes so far was when working with a group of 24 women on representing money in symbol form so even if they cannot read or write they can know how their small economic activities are doing financially. The trainer who I trained to given the class (they are all given in Dendi) arrived late and so I did most of it myself. It is incredible the smallest of details we must consider when working with people here. The women learned fairly quickly all of the symbols as I wrote them on the chalkboard, but the difficulty came when I asked them to copy them in their notebooks. I didn't think to tell them to open up the notebook, upside right, to the first page.

By the time I had made my way around I realized that quite a few women had started on random pages in the middle (some have never written in a notebook before), and the few that have had some education studied only the Koran and so had started on the last page working right to left. But then if I pick one of the activities they do, name any number of possible expenses and ask them to sum them in their heads? No problem, whatsoever. They know money. It's survival. What I enjoy most is the kick they seem to get out of the activities. Whether a woman makes a mistake or is right on, the animation she shows is wonderful. At the same time I am giving training classes in accounting to a group of local artisans and other community members. This is also going really well. Disposable Income Cell phones have arrived for the first time so we're getting our first yuppie class in Djougou. Kind of reminds me of my college friend. In some ways they really make life easier and better for people (for example, if the electricity cuts in one district, if anyone has a phone he/she can call the electric company) and in other ways they're just a waste of money. I recently read an article about how beer companies, cigarette companies and cell phone companies are in an epic battle for the disposable income of people across Africa. It is interesting to witness this first hand. There are few regulations compared with America in the last ten years. Cigarette billboards do sport the "may be hazardous to your health" bit, but otherwise there are few, if any, limits. Men in SUVs and on fancy motorcycles tour the town, supplying all of the march mamas that sell buy the pack or by the cigarette and advertising their product. Promotions abound with giveaways, at concerts, bars or just on the street. The same goes for beer. In fact, Guiness just made its first feature length film, in essence, a feature-length advertising, starring its ubiquitous mega-hunk, Michael Power. It should be coming soon. Je Suis Partisan de la Paix In an ingenious marketing coup, my post-mate, Jake, managed to replace the majority of Osama Bin Laden stickers, prevalent in Djougou, with his own stickers, which read "Je Suis Partisan de la Paix" or I am on the side of peace. With the help of his Mom back in the States, he had these stickers made first to give to taxi drivers, taxi-moto drivers, businesses, and individuals to cover up the undesirable images that adorned their property, and after to anyone who wanted a sticker. Like anything free, they were a fantastic hit, and they are now all over Djougou, as well as other towns with Peace Corps Volunteers who passed them out. But in the process, I noticed that they created a lot of discussion, and people were very clear on the significance and for the most part, were very quick to distance themselves from one of only two Muslim icons available to them (the second being Khadaffi, but he doesn't have a sticker, only a poster: next project I suppose).

Irak

I guess Muslims of the world could have a third icon in Saddam Hussein, though so far in Djougou he has not been popularized like the two mentioned above. Maybe the t-shirts are still to come, but I don't think so. I have been fielding a lot of questions about the war lately, as I am what a couple friends call the "American Ambassador to Djougou," though I can say that many of the people I interact with are not educated and so they often believe that 1) all white people come from the same country (Europeans, Americans, Canadians, Braziailans, etc. or 2) Don't know the difference between North, South and Central America. Of course, I had to look up Benin on a map when I received the invitation.

In regards to the war, Peace Corps even drew up talking points, which were by and large neutral, basically trying to suggest ways to get out of any uncomfortable conversations. In general I would say Volunteers are quite vocal about their feelings, though, and despite isolated incidents, I don't think Benin Volunteers are having any major issues. I have interacted with only a few Beninese people who support Sadaam, but they tend to be the people that other people laugh at. No one with any sort of thought process seems to take this position. Of course, it is the uneducated, socially stratified young Muslims who are fighting for Bin Laden and his ilk. The most common occurrence for me, besides simply being asked my opinion, is people asking me to contact my government and tell them to stop the war, as if he would listen to anyone much less one Peace Corps Volunteer in Benin.

The Beninese have a wonderful national myth that they have always been a peaceful people, and that large-scale violence, in or out of Benin, is unacceptable. Of course, Benin has its past, but today tends to be relatively free of any such problems. Everyday folk seem to compare themselves with the civilian population of Iraq, knowing that if American bombed Benin, they would be the first to die. Many ask when we are going to come knock of the dictator of Togo. The war is one of the most common conversations in French that I hear on the street.

The most interesting conversation I have had was a thoughtful one with two women. They listen to Arab radio and Western radio, and many people in Djougou do, and said there are so many conflicting reports that they don't know what to believe most of the time. On a side note, if there is one thing the French have going for them it is their spelling of the home of the Bush family nemesis. Doesn't the ~{!0~}k~{!1~} just make so much more sense?

Wrap-up

So what else? The hot season has truly to begin, which I am told signals how bad it will be (Note: since I wrote this the hot season has begun; yeah, it's hot alright). I had just figured that I was accustomed to the weather and so the heat was not getting to me: no such luck.

With only nine months or so to go, I am starting to feel like time is flying by. I feel like I will definitely be ready to go home to the States, but at present I feel like my time is too limited. I'm doing my best to get the most out of the experience, and for a while was putting too much pressure on everything to be great.

I am having a fantastic time and feel like I am in a groove that is not going to stop. I am disappointed when anything unplanned pulls me away from post. It's like something clicked. Maybe it is because work is keeping me busier, or maybe I am truly at home in this place. Perish the thought. The clock is ticking and we'll see each other soon.

Take care!

Love,
Matt