Orphaned out

Madonna’s got one. Angelina Jolie has collected a few. And I’m pretty sure boatloads of other celebrities are on the waiting list. Part of me only wishes I was talking about some fabulous designer purse that cost more than some people here would make in a lifetime, but no, I’m talking about orphans.

Having missed the day at school where they handed out the “maternal gene,” I don’t exactly get the feeling of wanting to adopt every orphan I see so I can have a giant multicultural family, though I often think about how I’ll die a cold, lonely witch who has amassed an impressive number of cats. Also, since I’m pretty sure I got giardia from my host sister’s dirty little hands, I now not only look at children with dislike as I did before, but also with complete and utter fear. Every time a child grabs my hand I immediately think about the fact that this tiny, affectionate action could lead me to sit on my toilet for longer than is really appropriate to mention to anyone outside of the Peace Corps (seeing as bowel movements are more or less a part of everyday conversation, just like normal people would talk about the weather, baseball scores, or even last night’s episode of American Idol).

Now, over the holiday season, I’m sure most of you had the opportunity to go to a holiday office party where you may or may not have drank too much and embarrassed yourself in front of your coworkers. I guess I should feel lucky that I missed out on that holiday tradition because I surely would have been the one double fisting the eggnog and blurting out office secrets. Instead of partaking in that, I had the opportunity to go to not one, but THREE orphan parties in Benin.

You might be a little shocked that I say “I went to an orphan party” with as much ease as someone would say “I went to a Tupperware party.” I guess it’s a little strange, but what’s even worse is that immediately after I wrote that this little conversation popped into my head:

Deborah: Hey, Sally! What are you doing this weekend?
Sally: Nothing much, just hosting a little orphan party this Saturday. Want to come?
Deborah: Oh. My. Gosh!!! I just LOVE orphan parties. What time?
Sally: 7:00 sharp. Don’t be late, and could you please bring an appetizer of some sort?
I’ve heard you’re quite the hors d’oeuvre princess*
Deborah: Ok, will do. I make some mean pigs in a blanket. See you Saturday!

* Deborah is (sadly) not the true hors d’oeuvre princess. That title belongs to a one Ms. Beanerschnitzel whose real name will remain a secret to protect the princess’ identity.

The first party took place in Pobé with my postmate’s NGO. I basically sat around and watched as people handed out gifts like toy trucks, scary dolls, clothes, and my favorite item, small bags of rice. It was really well organized, and there was even a dance contest among some of the children. I also made a new “friend” at the orphan party. When I first got there a young girl kept staring at me and raising her eyebrows. I wasn’t really sure how to respond to this so I just smiled awkwardly and waved. That was probably a mistake seeing as she came over and talked my ear off for what I would say was a good 3 hours. I wouldn’t necessarily be so annoyed (that’s probably a lie), but she kept asking me questions about France even though I told her about 50 times that I’m from America and that they’re two different countries.

There was also food at the party, and even though it was clearly for the orphans, it’s a general rule of thumb that any white person at a Beninese party must eat. And by eating I don’t mean simply just eating a small plateful and calling it a day. I’ve learned that Beninese come dangerously close to force feeding people (ie. me) and making them feel like they just ate Thanksgiving dinner times 10.

Il faut manger.

I always try to eat whatever I can because I don’t want to offend anyone by not eating, and plus, I’m not the type of person who turns down free food. They were serving rice and small pieces of beef at the party and while each orphan got one piece of beef, I managed to get 4. I guiltily ate my food, knowing I should feel bad for eating more than the Beninese orphan children. My protein-starved body was; however, really happy that it was eating meat other than beef jerky.

(Note: if you’re looking for things to send me, send magazines and beef jerky. I wish I was kidding, but I’ve fallen in love with beef jerky and now place it in my “foods I cherish in an unhealthy manner” category that includes cheese, cupcakes, strawberries, and my dad’s corn chowder soup.)

After the party in Pobe, my postmate and I headed to another volunteer’s village for orphan fête (party en français) number two. This one was a bit more interesting because there was a Papa Noël present. But, first, there was another dance contest which makes me believe that dance contests are mandatory at orphan parties since we were 2 for 2 at this point. All of the contestants (who were all probably under the age of 12) could dance circles around me. They were so good that they made me rethink my lifelong dream of being a backup dancer for Beyoncé. I guess I just have to settle for dancing by myself in my room.

I feel I should mention more about Papa Noël since he was probably one of the weirdest (and scariest) things I’ve seen in this country. Santa was actually this skinny Beninese man who was dressed up like the real Santa from the neck down (minus the jolly belly). It was his interpretation of Santa from the neck up, though, that will probably give me the heebie jeebies around Christmas time for the rest of my life.

Instead of just putting on a beard and a hat, he had on an eerie Japanese Kabuki mask. I’m assuming this was done because no other ‘white person mask’ could be found, but come on…I was certain that a frightening Japanese mask would never pass for Father Christmas.

I was wrong.

The kids were excited to see him and even cheered as he came in on his decorated push cart. Some of the kids sat on his lap as he handed out packets of cookies. I’m pretty sure no kids cried, though I almost did. This has led me to believe that American children are a lot wimpier than Beninese children. I definitely cried when I was forced to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him I wanted a My Pretty Pony. Had I been forced to sit on the Kabuki Santa’s lap, I probably would have pooped my pants and gone into therapy at the age of 6.

Orphan party number 3 took place in another volunteer’s town. This one was different because we actually went to the orphanage instead of having the fête under a paillote (like a big umbrella made of wood and leaves) around town. There were about 9 volunteers (including one who dressed up like Santa), and as soon as we got out of the car a swarm of kids came running towards us. Immediately, three girls were asking for my name and fighting over who would be the one to hold my hand. I’m not sure if it was the African heat that thawed my icy heart a little bit, but I can honestly say that the day at the orphanage was one of the best days I’ve had in Benin. It was nice to feel appreciated by these kids for just simply being there and playing with them for a little bit.

For most of December I wondered why I was in hot, dirty Benin and not at home with my family and friends, but the day at the orphanage actually made me really happy to be here. I think it even made me like children a little bit more even though I still slather hand sanitizer all over myself when one of them touches me.