Tag Archives: funny stuff

The Yovo Song Post

To prepare for coming to Benin, I read a lot of volunteer blogs. A recurring theme in them was The Yovo Song; almost all the blogs included some kind of diatribe against it. ‘Yovo’ is the term that southern Beninese use to refer to white people. The Yovo Song (really a chant) goes a few steps further:

         Yovo, yovo, bonsoir!

         Ça va bien?

         Merci!

         {BONUS LINE (rarely heard) : Et chez vous?}

         Yovo, yovo, good evening!

         Is it going well?

         Thank you!

         {BONUS LINE (rarely heard) : And with you?}

Urban legend has it that kids invented the song decades ago to greet white visitors who came to Benin with gifts. As the story goes, it continues to be passed on through generations. Although the blogging volunteers said this song drove them crazy, I had trouble envisioning myself being tormented by singing children. Lo and behold, the Yovo Song phenomenon hit me like a ton of bricks from day one in our town.

I hear ‘yovo’ hundreds, sometimes thousands, of times each day. Every time I leave the house, the bombardment begins. Adults often say ‘yovo’ kind of as a synonym for ‘hello.’ Equally often, they shout it reflexively when I pass by. If I respond, that might be the end of it. But they also might shout ‘Yovo!’ at me again, just for good measure.

          Neighbor: Yovo!

         Me: Bonjour!

         Neighbor: YO-vo!

         Me: Ça va?

         Neighbor: Yo-VO!

         Me: Et la famille?

         Neighbor: YOVOOO!

(I’m tempted to chalk it up to a language barrier, but even people who don’t speak French usually know basic greetings.)

But children love to sing the song. Repeatedly. They are excited because I’m unusual and they want to be acknowledged. Often when I respond with eye contact and a wave or a quick salutation, they dissolve into shy giggles, hide behind each other, or run away. But if it’s a really excited group of the littlest kids—and they can get really excited—they scream at the top of their lungs and jump up and down dance. It’s hysterical, and they keep shouting until I’m out of earshot. The littlest kids don’t know all the words, but that doesn’t stop them. ‘Yovo, yovo, bonsoir! Sa buuuuh nuuuuh? Mmmmmm-mmmmmeh!’

‘Yovo’ isn’t an unfriendly term. Name-calling like this isn’t unique to white people; there’s a tendency here to use titles in place of names for everyone. Many adult women go by ‘mama [their kid’s name],’ or simply ‘mama.’ My coworkers refer to each other by an alphabet soup of job title acronyms. (Since five of them are ‘CPV’ I often haven’t the slightest clue who we’re talking about.) The older men at my job are called ‘doyen,’ a word that respectfully acknowledges their status as senior colleagues. (Except for the light-skinned one, who is ‘yovo.’) The Togolese woman who sells deconstructed tamales at Adam’s workplace is, logically, ‘Togo.’

‘Yovo’ is inclusive. Beninese don’t differentiate much among non-black races: we’re all outsiders together. Access to foreign media and internet are the exception, not the norm, even here in our large town close to the capital. There’s no internet café here; you can’t even buy a newspaper. Our town’s schools have extremely limited resources, so there are no maps of Benin, Africa, other continents, or the world. ‘Yovo’ can refer to anyone with relatively pale skin, just as ‘chinois’ can refer to me, Adam, or any of the three Japanese volunteers who live in our town. Never mind that none of us are Chinese.

Even if ‘yovo’ isn’t derogatory, it is complicated. It goes hand-in-hand with a few other vexing behaviors. In place of greetings, we’re often hit with demands for our money, helmets, bicycles, or pants. In addition, teenagers frequently greet us in falsetto. They talk to each other that way, too, but it can seem really mocking anyway. Responding in a deep bass will get you a blank stare, but high-voicing back sometimes starts a conversation.

There are times when ‘yovo’ is followed by laughter of the ‘at you,’ not the ‘with you,’ variety, and those times are upsetting, but the incessant garden-variety yovo-ing is what really bothers me. It’s dehumanizing to be always called a name. I feel hurt that people call me by a catch-all label even after we become acquainted. I feel offended that the chant never changes from ‘bonsoir,’ even when I’m out running at pre-dawn. I feel disheartened when I say ‘kaalo’ (‘good morning’ in Gun) and only get back ‘yovo.’ It saddens me to always elicit a knee-jerk epithet, rather than a genuine interaction.

At the end of the day, I understand that ‘yovo’ is just the way that people here relate to people like me. It’s what I’m called because it’s what I am. Sure, I live in a concession with Beninese neighbors, shop at the local market, and wear Beninese-style outfits. But I am so conspicuously different it’s laughable: I have a new mountain bike, top-of-the-line helmets for motorcycle and bike, well-made shoes, band-aids, an e-reader.

It’s not only my white skin and possessions that make me a yovo, it’s my behavior, too. Take the way I schedule my time for example. When making plans I prefer to set a specific hour. Beninese people are more comfortable saying ‘in the afternoon.’ Let’s say I make an appointment with the carpenter, and he’s an hour late by my clock. Maybe it’s because he went to do a job in Cotonou for a respected customer, and the old man offers him a beer and wants to talk afterward. I call the carpenter to ask when he’ll arrive. ‘Right now’ is his answer, even though he is a two-hour drive away in Cotonou, because he intends to stop what he’s doing as soon as he politely can and come to my house. I should have taken ‘in the afternoon’ for an answer!

I’m also comparatively uptight about privacy and personal information. If I’m biking through town on my way to a meeting, it’s acceptable for a complete stranger to shout ‘Stop!’ and ask who I am, where I live, where I’m from, where I’m going, what I’ll do there, if I have kids, and more. I’m taken aback that a stranger feels entitled to hold me up and ask all these questions, but I have to remember that I’m the stranger here. If I worry that this will make me late, I shouldn’t, because chance encounters like these cause everyone to show up late from time to time, and it’s acceptable.

One of my biggest reasons for joining the Peace Corps was to experience life in another culture, a process that sounds marvelous but in practice is sometimes rough. I come from a culture that prizes individuality, but that’s not Benin. To accept being called ‘yovo’ feels like a loss of individuality, but it’s a part of Beninese culture and there’s no stopping it. Not every ‘Yovo!’ is an invitation to chat, but it’s not a slur either. So I’m learning to hear ‘yovo’ with Beninese ears.

Advertisements

Greetings From Benin On Election Day

At work I share an office with Julian, a man who fully embraces the Beninese habit of making very brief phone calls simply to greet his friends and family. Conforming to Beninese custom, these greetings comprise a series of inquiries about spouse, parents, children, household, work, animals, crops, health, journeys, and more.

In some communities it’s rude not to pose a litany of such questions before starting a conversation, and it makes sense as a way of keeping up with your neighbors lives and the community news. We live in a large town, so not everyone knows each other, and here it’s more common to append a simple ‘Bonne’ (Good) onto whatever the subject happens to be doing. This produces normal salutations most of the time, like Bonne Route (Good Trip), Bon Travail (Good Work), Bon Appétit (Good Meal). But there are some funny ones, too—Bonne Assis (Good Sitting), Bon Sport (Good Sports, for when you’re out running), Bonne Digestion (that’s a direct translation, for when someone’s sitting in front of an empty plate).

Also typically Beninese, Julian punctuates long silences with greetings as well. The other morning I was at my desk for a few hours. During this time, Julian worked steadily on his computer, stopping every once in a while to place a phone call or check in on me. Our desks sit at ninety-degree angles a few strides away from each other, so he can easily look up and keep tabs on me.

Coworker: Jennifer, Jennifer Lopez. It’s going well?

Jennifer (not Lopez): It’s going, thanks. And you?

Coworker: I’m good.

…a few minutes later…

Coworker: Jennifer, you are there? (Another typical Beninese greeting.)

Jennifer: Yes. How are you?

Coworker: It’s going.

…a few minutes later…

Coworker: Jennifer, Jennifer Lopez. Good sitting.

Jennifer: Thanks.

Coworker: And Adam? He’s there?

Jennifer: Yes, he’s well. And your wife?

Coworker: She’s fine, thanks.

…a few minutes later…

Coworker: Jen-NI-fer. (People often sing-song my name when they have nothing in particular to say.) How are you?

Jennifer: Good, thanks, and you?

Coworker: Good. And Adam?

Jennifer: He’s fine.

Coworker: And your house?

Jennifer: It’s fine.

Coworker: And in the US? Your family?

Jennifer: They’re good, thanks. I talked to my mom yesterday.

Coworker: That’s good, that’s good… and Obama?

This was followed by a short pause, and then we both laughed out loud. But the question actually led to an interesting discussion of the upcoming US elections and what is the optimal term length for a president. (Boni Yayi, the Beninese president, gets a maximum of two, five-year terms.) It echoed a well-informed interest in American politics that many Beninese hold, as well as a particular affection for Obama that manifests itself in all sorts of ways. Porto Novo has Obama Bar and Obama VIP Lounge. There is Obama Beach in Cotonou (which I’m told is operated by a Nigerian named Prince William… ha!). I have purchased Obama playing cards (made in China), and if I wanted one I could get an ‘Obama Girl’ shirt (apparently there is no such thing as an ‘Obama Boy’ though, so Adam’s out of luck). Plastic cargo bags with Obama’s face? Not hard to find. And there is Obama Beer.

Well, more accurately, there are lots of posters and ads for Obama beer, but it’s not normally served at bars. The other day I went with some coworkers after work to get lunch at a buvette (open-air bar where food is usually served). Men would definitely order beer at mid-day, but most of my coworkers are female, and I wanted to see what they did, so I asked for a bottle of water. (Besides, I had deliberately dehydrated myself before heading out for field work in the equatorial sun, to avoid having to pee somewhere awkward, so I desperately needed water.) Turns out everyone but me got beer. The most popular brand here is La Beninoise—The Beninese. When the drinks came around, this led to questions.

Coworker: Jennifer, you don’t like drinking beer?

Jennifer: Yes, I drink beer, but today I’m really thirsty and I needed water. Next time, I’ll get a beer.

Coworker 2: No, Jennifer doesn’t like La Beninoise. She only drinks Obama Beer.

Jennifer: Ha ha, no, I haven’t had Obama Beer yet. I really want to try some.

Coworkers, All: What?! No. That’s what you drink in America. That’s the beer Americans drink!

And this remains an ongoing joke between me and my coworkers. So, while Obama and his policies are much discussed and mostly admired here in Benin, there are some misconceptions about how we Americans brand our Commander in Chief.

Adam and I are staying at the Peace Corps Workstation tonight and tomorrow to watch the election returns on television. I haven’t seen American news in over a year, and I think the elections are always a fun TV event, so it’ll be fun. But I also need to pay close attention to the state-by-state breakdown and the political analysis so I can discuss it when we return to site—I am sure I will get lots of questions.

Bon Voting!