A special project in Benin, West Africa, is a model for the world.

By GAYE ADEGBALOLA
The Free Lance-Star

Date published: 6/30/2002

For THE FREE LANCE-STAR

Last month, my companion, Suzanne Moe, and I had the privilege of visiting U.S. Ambassador Pamela Bridgewater in Benin, West Africa.

"Pamey" and I grew up in midtown Fredericksburg and have been friends since childhood. Ambassador Bridgewater has had previous tours of duty in Belgium, Jamaica, South Africa and the Bahamas. She has been in Benin almost two years.

In only a week, we had the experiences of a lifetime. We visited the "Door of No Return" in Ouidah--the historic point of departure of most slaves sold from West Africa. We visited the largest marketplace in Africa, purchased beautiful fabric and had outfits made. We were received by the King of Abomey and danced with his drummers and singers.

We dined on yam pile (pounded yam) with the ambassador from Ghana and other diplomats. The experiences were, in a word, incredible!

It was awe inspiring to see our "Pamey" at work in this country, halfway around the world. She speaks French fluently (Margaret Whylie of Walker-Grant High School laid that foundation) and communicates effortlessly.

She takes charge, yet remains personable. She is on a mission, as she put it, "to put Benin on the map."

We were also able to accompany her on a two-day business trip to the north-central part of Benin. She said her itinerary was "relatively light," for she only had six appointments in those two days.

We left Cotonou, Benin's largest city, where the ambassador resides, and headed for Parakou. Cotonou was a swirl of sound and color--everyone was busy--buying, selling, building, repairing, working. No one appeared idle.

Women walked balancing unbelievable bundles on their heads--firewood, bolts of cloth, jugs of water. Men and women wore West Africa's trademark colorful fabric of wildly printed waxed cotton.

Mopeds, called zemijans, zoomed about providing taxi service. It was Saturday morning and the streets were full.

As we headed north, the city's hustle slowed and we were in the country. Villages of thatch-roofed mud houses stood on brick red ground. Red dust hung in the air.

The heat was, indeed, equatorial. The poverty, obvious.

As we rode, the ambassador described the surroundings and the dire need for potable water.

Date published: 6/30/2002