3/11/2008
I want to apologize to all of you if all my blogs come off a little, well, depressing and despondent. I usually only write when when provoked. Please let me assure you that I am generally happy and content here. Most of the things that annoy other volunteers here make me smile. In fact, I can't say that too much here has taken me back. C'est Togo, ou bien.
I have wanted for awhile to give you all the dish on what it is I do here exactly. My program is Girl's Education and Empowerment, which most of you already know. How that translates into something tangible is vast and varied. Essentially, anything that supports the promotion of females here is fair game, even if that means crossing over into other programs (Agriculture, Health or Business/Commerce) as long as it is supported by the community members. I try not to do anything they don't suggest or aren't interested in getting behind since anything else would be unsustainable and be a waste of my time and theirs. In training, we talked about working with schools, working with women's groups, working with apprentice groups. We were taught about Life Skills, which is a curriculum that teaches students about communication skills, leadership skills, decision-making skills and just about anything else that would help them survive or avoid the many obstacles they face living in a developing nation. Some of the major challenges that people face here, especially children and teenagers are AIDS/HIV/STDs, Forced Marriages, Early Pregnancy, Child Trafficking, Sexual Harassment in the Classroom, unequal distribution of labor, unsupported infrastructure like Female Rights, Un- or Undereducated citizens, political corruption at all levels, and I haven't even touched on daily struggles like clean water and sanitation and food. So, part of my job is to help the people of Togo navigate through all these obstacles in a more efficient and effective way.
I have been at post officially for 3 months now. I have started working with a neighboring village (about 10K away) twice a month, specifically a group of women and men that want to improve their lives. They have no medical facilities except for a one room clinic, so I have started them on a series of health sessions, which have so far included: basic sanitation and hygiene, balanced diets and malnutrition, soap making (which took a lot of time and patience), and pregnancy health & the importance of breast milk. I also want to do sessions on AIDS/diseases, family planning, business/commerce and women's rights/laws. My biggest struggle with this the group's ability to retain information. Certain sessions build on past ones and if they don't remember the old information, I can't give them the new information. So, I spend the entire session redoing the old session so that I can move forward. Part of the issue is that Togolese are used to repetition and memorization; creative or critical thinking is not taught here. I don't lots of breathing exercises during these training sessions or formations, as we PCVs like to call them.
Another project I have is a Girl's Club at my village's community supported middle school. I meet with them every week and I try to only do things are interesting to them and that they have a hand in deciding. I guess my goal is to build self-confidence and teamwork within the group, so whatever that keeps them interested and excited is game. Thus far we've tackled heavy issues like AIDS stigmatisation, obstacles that will potentially pop up in their future and how to surmount them, a soccer game, singing, dancing and games. I taught them how to play Red Rover and I fear that may have resulted in some bodily damage. But the people here are tough and resilient, so no worries. For the future, I want to continue with the soccer, singing, dancing and games, but I also want to through in the Life Skills curriculum, public speaking, study skills, women's rights, business & commerce and the ever-popular Condom Demonstration with my Penis en Bois (Wooden Penis). Anything sexual gets lots of giggles. My stress here is again information retention. Togolese people have the terrible habit of telling you what you want to hear rather than telling you the truth. So many times, I suspect these girls are telling me what they think I want rather than being honest with themselves. There is a Peer Education program I might try to implement since teaching something is the best way to learn.
Last month one of my girls in the club came to me with what is unfortunately a very common problem here in Togo. Her father had died of AIDS and as their culture dictates, his older brother (her uncle) becomes the chief of the family. Her mother (still) has no rights over her deceased husband's possessions (i.e. money, house, crop surpluses, etc). Well, her uncle decided that he didn't want to pay for her school fees anymore and as a result, she would need to get married. She called it a "changement des femmes", which I still don't completely understand. I think there is an arrangement with another family to marry off sons and daughters, very much like an arranged marriage. Well, this is all illegal in Togo, but the problem is enforcement, especially in rural villages like mine and especially difficult to do against cultural norms. My dear girl has until the end of the school year and then she will meet her doom. She drops this sweet, little bomb on my lap via verbal diarrhea, and spend 2 hours trying to figure all the details out. I figure, sweet I've got some months to get my ducks in a row before I put the cork in her uncle's bottle. I spoke to a couple Anti-Forced Marriage committees in the Prefectural Capital and get them on board with the situation. But, one sunny Tuesday afternoon my friend visits me again, spewing garble french at me. What I gathered was that her uncle changed his mind for some reason and now gave her 2 weeks instead of 4 months. The other hiccup was that I was leaving for a Soccer Tournament the following day and would be gone for a week. It was 11 AM and I spent the rest of the day talking to various Presidents of Anti-Forced Marriage committees and arranging a meeting for the next morning to treat the matter with the girl's family. I didn't eat lunch that day and was a bit irritable, which isn't so hot when you have a 16 year-old girl begging for your help but is too scared to do anything about it. It was like pulling teeth to find out what she wanted (i.e. continue with school and not get married). There really was no question on the right way to go, but getting this girl to get behind it (because she had to be) was beyond my patience level that day. I asked her if she would be made at me if I told the right people and she shook her head. So, the aforementioned meetings happened, and to both of our delights, the uncle agreed to wait until the end of the school year and if we can find a way to pay for her school fees next year, she can avoid the whole, nasty forced marriage affair. I keep telling people that I feel like a Social Worker rather than a Peace Corps Volunteer.
Other potential projects are a Soccer Tournament between girl's teams in the primary schools, follow up work from my predecessor on Life Skills taught at all the middle schools in my area, English and Study Skills tutoring, income generating activities for the primary schools to help pay the children's school fees and summer camps (Camp UNITE and Camp Espoir) and possibly an inherited water pump project. The conference I will be going to in March (PDM) will help to focus myself on what projects to tackle.
If any of you have used soccer equipment (i.e. balls, cleats, jerseys, etc...), I would be more than happy to take them off your hands. My mailing address is in the right hand column, and I recommend using the regular postal service (USPS) and padded envelopes (not boxes) as they are cheaper. I would be forever grateful and so would the little girls I work with.
So I want to mention the education system in Togo, but I won't because this post is already too long. I'll save that juicy morsel for another day.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Saturday, February 9, 2008
The Mondays
1/25/2008
Monday morning, 8:30 am, January 21, 2008, as suspected, my counterpart/homologue is a no show for the formation/training session I planned for 9:00 am of the same morning, 10 kilometers away. I spent the weekend prepping for this formation and intended on stopping by my homologue’s house to verify we were on track for Monday, but seeing as how I am inherently lazy, I figured if something had come up he would have stopped by to tell me so. And not-to-mention, I just did not have enough time during the weekend between prepping for Monday’s formation and Tuesday’s tutoring and club meetings to bike the 5-10 minutes over to his house. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, as my Mother would say. So that brings me to Monday morning. I hopped on my trusty bike and pedaled on over to my homologue’s house all the while getting myself worked up to give him a tongue-lashing for being inconsiderate and irresponsible and that now we would have to take his moto/motorcycle (gas is expensive, by the way) to get to the formation on time. Instead, what happened was my bike hit a patch of roots in the middle of the dirt path in which I was riding and opposed to just going over the roots like it should have done, my trusty bike does me dirty and stops dead in its tracks, sending me flying like superman over the handlebars and into the dirt below. Mostly what I remember feeling while I was skidding face-first was perplexed. What the hell happened? I was shocked, confused really. I wasn’t supposed to be hugging the ground as if I was sliding into home plate. Once the dust settled, I realized there was no way I was going to make 2 years with a bike as my primary mode of transportation and never crash and burn. I was just disappointed no one was around to bear witness; I’m sure it would have been magnificent sight to see. Some curse words were uttered; I felt pain. But I was too shocked and stunned to cry, which is what I wanted to do most. In fact, I kind of half whimpered, half laughed. I was mostly annoyed at myself for being so careless. Surprisingly, I neglected to check my wounds and opted to scan my bike for any injuries. The bike was fine, for the most part, unlike the first time I crashed it in which I was fine but the bike was pretty much totaled – at least the gear system was completely shot. A stage/pre-service training incident. Anyhoo, I got back on my bike and rode the last 200 yards to my homologue’s house. Now, I thought, he’s really going to feel like an @$$ now! We are for sure going to miss the formation since I would need to go home to treat my wounds tout de suite. My arrival was greeted by a whole slew of women who didn’t speak any French. Now I cried. I did it unabashedly. I didn’t care what they thought. I was the injured white girl, with pools of blood gathering in the heels of my fancy, leather flip flops. Don’t you people care?! I screamed – internally. Of course they were not blind and wanted to help me, but when it comes to my own health and sanitation here, I would rather do it myself. Sorry. I am one of those people that likes to be prepared, so I whipped out my alcohol wipes, antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids that I had in my handy-dandy backpack and put them to good use. After calming down, I asked to see my homologue ready to spread the misery around like cake frosting. But alas, I was informed he was not at home. Of course he’s not at home! He’s in the fields! He’s a farmer! Where else would he be at 8:30 am on a Monday morning, except maybe at my house ready to help with a formation! Couldn’t they send one of his 22 children to go fetch him?! So, I was mildly irritated. I was wounded damn it! I didn’t bike down there for nothing! Fortunately, I got the next best thing – 1 out of 3 or 4 (I’m not sure) wives spoke French. I relayed the situation, to the best of my ability, to her and then, hobbled back to my bike seeking the refuge of my home and Med Kit. It wasn’t until I got home that I was able to take stock of the bodily damage. First of all, I was wearing a helmet when I crashed so this face, baby, is intact. You’re welcome. However, the rest of my body didn’t fare so well. Let’s start at the top: one dime-sized gouge on my right palm, scrapes and a blood blister on the left palm, scratches down my right forearm, scratches on my right hip/pelvis bone, one large black and purple bruise the size of my hand on my right hip, another black and purple bruise with a bump or knot the shape of my handlebar on my right thigh, more scratches below my right knee, bruises, bumps and knots down my left shin, one quarter-sized gash on my right ankle and to top it off, my favorite, one sliced heel in the shape of a bike pedal. That’s right. This is a pity party for one! Oh, and did I forget to mention I had dirt and dust ingrained into my clothes? I was gorgeous! While I was happy to be home, this meant I had to clean my cuts and scraps. I suppose I can tolerate a certain amount of pain, having broken my leg twice, however, there is a new level of discomfort when the pain is self-inflicted. I’ll be honest – I don’t enjoy scrubbing the dirt out of my wounds. It hurts – a lot. I can’t imagine having to saw a limb off… My heel was the worst since it was the deepest and wouldn’t stop bleeding (until a day or two later). My primary concern was inflection; as you can imagine, I live in a world teeming with all sorts of maladies. Again, curse words were uttered, even some yelling, but what was odd was the laughing. I tried to cry – I was upset. I had a right! But every time I tried to cry, it turned into a cackle. I suppose I was laughing at the ridiculousness since the accident could have been completely prevented had I just gone to my homologue’s house over the weekend like I knew I should have done. This will be a lasting lesson – no? It’s no good regretting what I could have or should have done – I told this to myself over and over. But I was annoyed because being injured or even sick out here is a major inconvenience in trying to get anything done except lying about the house in a foul mood. My homologue did in fact come over to check on me, but not at the noontime repose/nap but instead around 4:30 pm in the evening. I asked him why he didn’t show up as cold as I could get without being too overtly rude. Well, the funny thing is that he did come over to my house to tell me something had come up and wouldn’t be available Monday morning. He came to my house the prior Thursday – the one day I was out of my village to deal with a furniture issue. Did I tell him I was leaving for a day? No. But I did tell everyone else in my neighborhood. So when he came to chez moi on the previous Thursday, my neighbor informed him I was gone but failed to mention when I would be returning. So, my homologue never came back after that to check. And the rest you now know. Like I said before – lesson learned. Thanks. I now have the scars to prove it.
Monday morning, 8:30 am, January 21, 2008, as suspected, my counterpart/homologue is a no show for the formation/training session I planned for 9:00 am of the same morning, 10 kilometers away. I spent the weekend prepping for this formation and intended on stopping by my homologue’s house to verify we were on track for Monday, but seeing as how I am inherently lazy, I figured if something had come up he would have stopped by to tell me so. And not-to-mention, I just did not have enough time during the weekend between prepping for Monday’s formation and Tuesday’s tutoring and club meetings to bike the 5-10 minutes over to his house. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, as my Mother would say. So that brings me to Monday morning. I hopped on my trusty bike and pedaled on over to my homologue’s house all the while getting myself worked up to give him a tongue-lashing for being inconsiderate and irresponsible and that now we would have to take his moto/motorcycle (gas is expensive, by the way) to get to the formation on time. Instead, what happened was my bike hit a patch of roots in the middle of the dirt path in which I was riding and opposed to just going over the roots like it should have done, my trusty bike does me dirty and stops dead in its tracks, sending me flying like superman over the handlebars and into the dirt below. Mostly what I remember feeling while I was skidding face-first was perplexed. What the hell happened? I was shocked, confused really. I wasn’t supposed to be hugging the ground as if I was sliding into home plate. Once the dust settled, I realized there was no way I was going to make 2 years with a bike as my primary mode of transportation and never crash and burn. I was just disappointed no one was around to bear witness; I’m sure it would have been magnificent sight to see. Some curse words were uttered; I felt pain. But I was too shocked and stunned to cry, which is what I wanted to do most. In fact, I kind of half whimpered, half laughed. I was mostly annoyed at myself for being so careless. Surprisingly, I neglected to check my wounds and opted to scan my bike for any injuries. The bike was fine, for the most part, unlike the first time I crashed it in which I was fine but the bike was pretty much totaled – at least the gear system was completely shot. A stage/pre-service training incident. Anyhoo, I got back on my bike and rode the last 200 yards to my homologue’s house. Now, I thought, he’s really going to feel like an @$$ now! We are for sure going to miss the formation since I would need to go home to treat my wounds tout de suite. My arrival was greeted by a whole slew of women who didn’t speak any French. Now I cried. I did it unabashedly. I didn’t care what they thought. I was the injured white girl, with pools of blood gathering in the heels of my fancy, leather flip flops. Don’t you people care?! I screamed – internally. Of course they were not blind and wanted to help me, but when it comes to my own health and sanitation here, I would rather do it myself. Sorry. I am one of those people that likes to be prepared, so I whipped out my alcohol wipes, antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids that I had in my handy-dandy backpack and put them to good use. After calming down, I asked to see my homologue ready to spread the misery around like cake frosting. But alas, I was informed he was not at home. Of course he’s not at home! He’s in the fields! He’s a farmer! Where else would he be at 8:30 am on a Monday morning, except maybe at my house ready to help with a formation! Couldn’t they send one of his 22 children to go fetch him?! So, I was mildly irritated. I was wounded damn it! I didn’t bike down there for nothing! Fortunately, I got the next best thing – 1 out of 3 or 4 (I’m not sure) wives spoke French. I relayed the situation, to the best of my ability, to her and then, hobbled back to my bike seeking the refuge of my home and Med Kit. It wasn’t until I got home that I was able to take stock of the bodily damage. First of all, I was wearing a helmet when I crashed so this face, baby, is intact. You’re welcome. However, the rest of my body didn’t fare so well. Let’s start at the top: one dime-sized gouge on my right palm, scrapes and a blood blister on the left palm, scratches down my right forearm, scratches on my right hip/pelvis bone, one large black and purple bruise the size of my hand on my right hip, another black and purple bruise with a bump or knot the shape of my handlebar on my right thigh, more scratches below my right knee, bruises, bumps and knots down my left shin, one quarter-sized gash on my right ankle and to top it off, my favorite, one sliced heel in the shape of a bike pedal. That’s right. This is a pity party for one! Oh, and did I forget to mention I had dirt and dust ingrained into my clothes? I was gorgeous! While I was happy to be home, this meant I had to clean my cuts and scraps. I suppose I can tolerate a certain amount of pain, having broken my leg twice, however, there is a new level of discomfort when the pain is self-inflicted. I’ll be honest – I don’t enjoy scrubbing the dirt out of my wounds. It hurts – a lot. I can’t imagine having to saw a limb off… My heel was the worst since it was the deepest and wouldn’t stop bleeding (until a day or two later). My primary concern was inflection; as you can imagine, I live in a world teeming with all sorts of maladies. Again, curse words were uttered, even some yelling, but what was odd was the laughing. I tried to cry – I was upset. I had a right! But every time I tried to cry, it turned into a cackle. I suppose I was laughing at the ridiculousness since the accident could have been completely prevented had I just gone to my homologue’s house over the weekend like I knew I should have done. This will be a lasting lesson – no? It’s no good regretting what I could have or should have done – I told this to myself over and over. But I was annoyed because being injured or even sick out here is a major inconvenience in trying to get anything done except lying about the house in a foul mood. My homologue did in fact come over to check on me, but not at the noontime repose/nap but instead around 4:30 pm in the evening. I asked him why he didn’t show up as cold as I could get without being too overtly rude. Well, the funny thing is that he did come over to my house to tell me something had come up and wouldn’t be available Monday morning. He came to my house the prior Thursday – the one day I was out of my village to deal with a furniture issue. Did I tell him I was leaving for a day? No. But I did tell everyone else in my neighborhood. So when he came to chez moi on the previous Thursday, my neighbor informed him I was gone but failed to mention when I would be returning. So, my homologue never came back after that to check. And the rest you now know. Like I said before – lesson learned. Thanks. I now have the scars to prove it.
Apprenticeship
“And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it… if you use it calmly and prudently and like a tool, will help you spread out your solitude over great distance. Most people have… turned their solutions toward what is easy and toward the easiest side of the easy; but it is clear that we must trust in what is difficult… (it) is a certainty that will never abandon us; it is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult… It is also good to love: because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us… That is why young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered around their solitary, anxious, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love… Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person (for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent- ?) , it is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person; it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that chooses him and calls him to vast distances… But this what young people are so often an so disastrously wrong in doing: they (who by their very nature are impatient) fling themselves at each other when love takes hold of them, they scatter themselves, just as they are, in all their messiness, disorder, bewilderment… And so each of them loses himself for the sake of the other person, and loses the other, and many others who still wanted to come… gives up the approaching and fleeing of gentle, prescient Things in exchange for an unfruitful confusion, out of which nothing more can come; nothing but a bit of disgust, disappointment, and poverty, and the escape into one of the many conventions that have been put up in the great numbers like public shelters on this dangerous road… society has been able to create refuges of every sort, for since it preferred to take love life as an amusement, it also had to give it an easy form, cheap, safe, and sure, as public amusements are… they, who have already flung themselves together and can no longer tell whose outlines are whose, who thus no longer possess anything of their own, how can they find a way out of themselves, out of the depths of their already buried solitude?
They act out of mutual helplessness and then if, with the best of intentions, they try to escape the convention that is approaching them (marriage, for example), they fall into the clutches of some less obvious but just as deadly conventional solution… even separating would be a conventional step, an impersonal, accidental decision without strength and without fruit… But if we nevertheless endure and take this love upon us as a burden and apprenticeship, instead of losing ourselves in the whole easy and frivolous game… then a small advance and a lightening will perhaps be perceptible to those who come long after us. That would be much.”
Letter 7
Rome, May 14, 1904
Letters to a Young Poet
By Rainer Maria Rilke
They act out of mutual helplessness and then if, with the best of intentions, they try to escape the convention that is approaching them (marriage, for example), they fall into the clutches of some less obvious but just as deadly conventional solution… even separating would be a conventional step, an impersonal, accidental decision without strength and without fruit… But if we nevertheless endure and take this love upon us as a burden and apprenticeship, instead of losing ourselves in the whole easy and frivolous game… then a small advance and a lightening will perhaps be perceptible to those who come long after us. That would be much.”
Letter 7
Rome, May 14, 1904
Letters to a Young Poet
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Existential Crisis
1/23/2008
I have the propulsion to write. Quick! Before all your brilliant ideas float away in the Harmattan winds. Then…nothing. Just this morning I was thinking about a woman who owned a television and was unhappy because on that television she saw all the things she did not have and she was already one of the richest women in the village with her flushing toilet and satellite TV. Then, quite literally, a few minutes later I read the following sentence, “I don’t think you can start wanting something till you know it exists.” (Ishmael by Daniel Quinn) On a side note – this book is possibly one of the most enlightening books I’ve read in a very long time.) I refuse to elaborate on this sentiment any further. Just know it resonates within me. The poignancy is more potent for me here than ever before. Okay, I lied. I am going to expound a bit on this point as I sit here looking at all the pretty new wood furniture I just had delivered. I’m going to put a curtain over my screen door, not because I abhor people’s curiosity but because I don’t want them to see, to know the blatant gap in material wealth even here since I am supposed to be living like a local. Part of me is ashamed, embarrassed. I don’t want them to have the idea of development and living richly with having more “things,” which begs the question, why did I buy the furniture then. Why did I have those precious trees cut down so I could live more comfortably? I was doing just fine before they arrived. I don’t need them. But, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement and joy at their arrival. It made my day. At what cost though? I’m only going to be here 2 years – actually less than that now. Those trees toiled through the unforgiving climate of Togo to become furniture. And after I leave, then what? What happened to my desire of living simply? Where does one draw that line? Take only what you need and leave the rest in peace. But, what exactly do I need? I’m going to throw in a quotation from Ishmael just for fun here: “The story the Leavers have been enacting here for the past 3 million years isn’t a story of conquest and rule. Enacting it doesn’t give them power. Enacting it gives them lives that are satisfying and meaningful to them. This is what you’ll find if you go among them. They’re not seething with discontent and rebellion, not incessantly wrangling over what should be allowed and what forbidden, not forever accusing each other of not living the right way, not living in terror of each other, not going crazy because their lives seem empty and pointless, not having to stupefy themselves with drugs to get through the days, not inventing a new religion every week to give them something to hold on to, not forever searching for something to do or something to believe in that will make their lives worth living. And – I repeat – this is not because they live close to nature or have no formal government or because they’re innately noble. This is simply because they’re enacting a story that works well for people – a story that worked well for 3 million years and that still works well where the Takers haven’t yet managed to stamp it out.”
I have the propulsion to write. Quick! Before all your brilliant ideas float away in the Harmattan winds. Then…nothing. Just this morning I was thinking about a woman who owned a television and was unhappy because on that television she saw all the things she did not have and she was already one of the richest women in the village with her flushing toilet and satellite TV. Then, quite literally, a few minutes later I read the following sentence, “I don’t think you can start wanting something till you know it exists.” (Ishmael by Daniel Quinn) On a side note – this book is possibly one of the most enlightening books I’ve read in a very long time.) I refuse to elaborate on this sentiment any further. Just know it resonates within me. The poignancy is more potent for me here than ever before. Okay, I lied. I am going to expound a bit on this point as I sit here looking at all the pretty new wood furniture I just had delivered. I’m going to put a curtain over my screen door, not because I abhor people’s curiosity but because I don’t want them to see, to know the blatant gap in material wealth even here since I am supposed to be living like a local. Part of me is ashamed, embarrassed. I don’t want them to have the idea of development and living richly with having more “things,” which begs the question, why did I buy the furniture then. Why did I have those precious trees cut down so I could live more comfortably? I was doing just fine before they arrived. I don’t need them. But, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement and joy at their arrival. It made my day. At what cost though? I’m only going to be here 2 years – actually less than that now. Those trees toiled through the unforgiving climate of Togo to become furniture. And after I leave, then what? What happened to my desire of living simply? Where does one draw that line? Take only what you need and leave the rest in peace. But, what exactly do I need? I’m going to throw in a quotation from Ishmael just for fun here: “The story the Leavers have been enacting here for the past 3 million years isn’t a story of conquest and rule. Enacting it doesn’t give them power. Enacting it gives them lives that are satisfying and meaningful to them. This is what you’ll find if you go among them. They’re not seething with discontent and rebellion, not incessantly wrangling over what should be allowed and what forbidden, not forever accusing each other of not living the right way, not living in terror of each other, not going crazy because their lives seem empty and pointless, not having to stupefy themselves with drugs to get through the days, not inventing a new religion every week to give them something to hold on to, not forever searching for something to do or something to believe in that will make their lives worth living. And – I repeat – this is not because they live close to nature or have no formal government or because they’re innately noble. This is simply because they’re enacting a story that works well for people – a story that worked well for 3 million years and that still works well where the Takers haven’t yet managed to stamp it out.”
Quotation Addict
January 2008
“Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered… those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.”
“I learn it everyday of my life, learn it with pain. I am grateful for: patience is everything.”
“Because he loves only as a male, and not as a human being, there is something narrow in his sexual feeling, something that seems wild, malicious, time-bound, uneternal, which diminishes his art and makes it ambiguous and doubtful.”
“You are so young… and I would like to beg you… to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them.”
Letters to a Young Poet
By Rainer Maria Rilke
“No life is a waste,” the Blue Man said. “The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we are alone.”
“People say they “find” love, as if it were an object hidden by a rock. But love takes many forms, and it is never the same for any man and woman. What people find then is a certain love.”
The 5 People You Meet in Heaven
By Mitch Albom
“Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered… those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.”
“I learn it everyday of my life, learn it with pain. I am grateful for: patience is everything.”
“Because he loves only as a male, and not as a human being, there is something narrow in his sexual feeling, something that seems wild, malicious, time-bound, uneternal, which diminishes his art and makes it ambiguous and doubtful.”
“You are so young… and I would like to beg you… to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them.”
Letters to a Young Poet
By Rainer Maria Rilke
“No life is a waste,” the Blue Man said. “The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we are alone.”
“People say they “find” love, as if it were an object hidden by a rock. But love takes many forms, and it is never the same for any man and woman. What people find then is a certain love.”
The 5 People You Meet in Heaven
By Mitch Albom
That Wondrous Thing
12/29/2007
Purpose takes on a whole new meaning when you are out in the middle of nowhere, barely grasping local language and customs with only the vague recollection of the training you’ve received 2 months prior. I find myself yearning for the structure that was so comforting during training. Some volunteers are lucky enough to have an organization in which to go work. The rest of us have to create work, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in that it allows for more creative freedom and a curse because there are tons more pressure and responsibility upon one’s shoulders. It would give me the warm fuzzies in the morning to know that I have to go to the office as the job pre-Peace Corps dictated, but alas, instead I lie in bed and whimper at the vast emptiness before me – emptiness that I must fill. It’s that crisis of complete freedom and total free will that is the burden of the modern man or woman – provided that man or woman is not a religious fanatic. What’s worse is that before I can even begin to teach or help others, I must educate myself on the mountain of books, binders, handouts, notebooks and literature lying about my inherited home. I don’t know much more than the locals surrounding me and I’m supposed to teach them something or at least conduct a knowledge transfer in some entertaining fashion. Bu in the same instant, I rack my brain on what I would do if I were to go home right now and all I feel is failure. Not to mention, I have no idea what I would do occupationally or educationally. Granted, I would be ecstatic to see certain persons and take showers with running water and not worry about which bug or insect or parasite is going to try to attack me next. However, I am appalled at my instinct to flee back to a life full of self-satisfaction and consumption. Right now the US is still “home” for me and I miss it dearly, but I have read on more than one occasion that “home” is not just a place but a feeling, a routine, friends, etc… And like my predecessor wrote on the wall – we can change, adapt. Keep reminding yourself why you are here and work hard. Because when I “work” here all my anxieties disappear; that purpose gives me productivity and productivity is sorely underrated. So with all my strength, I pull myself out of bed and create my To Do list.
Purpose takes on a whole new meaning when you are out in the middle of nowhere, barely grasping local language and customs with only the vague recollection of the training you’ve received 2 months prior. I find myself yearning for the structure that was so comforting during training. Some volunteers are lucky enough to have an organization in which to go work. The rest of us have to create work, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in that it allows for more creative freedom and a curse because there are tons more pressure and responsibility upon one’s shoulders. It would give me the warm fuzzies in the morning to know that I have to go to the office as the job pre-Peace Corps dictated, but alas, instead I lie in bed and whimper at the vast emptiness before me – emptiness that I must fill. It’s that crisis of complete freedom and total free will that is the burden of the modern man or woman – provided that man or woman is not a religious fanatic. What’s worse is that before I can even begin to teach or help others, I must educate myself on the mountain of books, binders, handouts, notebooks and literature lying about my inherited home. I don’t know much more than the locals surrounding me and I’m supposed to teach them something or at least conduct a knowledge transfer in some entertaining fashion. Bu in the same instant, I rack my brain on what I would do if I were to go home right now and all I feel is failure. Not to mention, I have no idea what I would do occupationally or educationally. Granted, I would be ecstatic to see certain persons and take showers with running water and not worry about which bug or insect or parasite is going to try to attack me next. However, I am appalled at my instinct to flee back to a life full of self-satisfaction and consumption. Right now the US is still “home” for me and I miss it dearly, but I have read on more than one occasion that “home” is not just a place but a feeling, a routine, friends, etc… And like my predecessor wrote on the wall – we can change, adapt. Keep reminding yourself why you are here and work hard. Because when I “work” here all my anxieties disappear; that purpose gives me productivity and productivity is sorely underrated. So with all my strength, I pull myself out of bed and create my To Do list.
Odds and Ends
November 2007
Thanksgiving was the most unique one yet. I suppose being in Africa doesn’t hurt, but I spent Thursday morning hiking Mt. Agou with 3 other friends. What do you know…I was late meeting up with them. We came back to the Tech House to a feast of all kinds of yummy food. I think the hike kicked my but because I didn’t feel so hot afterwards. I went home, showered, rested and returned to play a game of Asshole.
Christmas is scheduled to be in Mango.
There are lots of butterflies here.
Sometimes I get a whiff of flowers in the air. Sweet smells are a bit foreign here so when I do get to enjoy it, it hurts so good.
There is an impending black hole before me, and I find myself wanting to run back into the arms of a gluttonous life. Sadness.
Tout le monde me regarde et je n’aime pas ca. Je deviens genee, stressee. Je ne suis pas un spectacle.
My favorite color is rainbow.
A 16-year old boy just hit on me.
Termite mounds remind me of Gaudi.
Thanksgiving was the most unique one yet. I suppose being in Africa doesn’t hurt, but I spent Thursday morning hiking Mt. Agou with 3 other friends. What do you know…I was late meeting up with them. We came back to the Tech House to a feast of all kinds of yummy food. I think the hike kicked my but because I didn’t feel so hot afterwards. I went home, showered, rested and returned to play a game of Asshole.
Christmas is scheduled to be in Mango.
There are lots of butterflies here.
Sometimes I get a whiff of flowers in the air. Sweet smells are a bit foreign here so when I do get to enjoy it, it hurts so good.
There is an impending black hole before me, and I find myself wanting to run back into the arms of a gluttonous life. Sadness.
Tout le monde me regarde et je n’aime pas ca. Je deviens genee, stressee. Je ne suis pas un spectacle.
My favorite color is rainbow.
A 16-year old boy just hit on me.
Termite mounds remind me of Gaudi.
Tikoyi
11/21/2007
Writing makes me feel so good and so does picking the scabs off my wrist (a symptom of laundry). I don’t do it enough here – writing and laundry. It’s true – I go through ¾ of a bar of BF soap when I do laundry. Not sure how that last sentence relates to anything. Being clean makes me happy. I might be a little neurotic, but like Bubbles said, “It’s better to be neurotic about being clean than some of the alternatives.”
So I have a new name – a recent souvenir from a trip to my new post. Tikoyi, (rhymes with Sequoia). Bubbles calls me Pocahontas instead and Assibi gave me a Pocahontas bandana. My name means “for everyone” or “for us all.” Kinda slutty. But, I love it. I think it fits me well. Draw whatever conclusions you like from that. I got really sick on my visit to post. Fever, headache, vomiting and diarrhea… The fever, headache and diarrhea came back, but it was the diarrhea and intestinal cramps that decided to stick around for a while. I think some weight loss resulted too. I don’t recommend intestinal cramps; they’re no fun. I have no idea how I got sick – it could have been dehydration, exhaustion, stress, bad water, street food… who knows. All I do know is that I prefer being healthy in Togo thank you very much.
Pre-service training is almost over. Yikes! I don’t feel prepared enough to start off on my own yet, but I am also ready to be on my own again. I really don’t like depending on others for my own basic needs (i.e. shelter, food, water, etc…). The end of training does mark something exciting for me in terms of communication. I will be getting a phone. Before coming to Togo, I was not keen on the idea of getting a cell phone. But like any good development worker will tell you, telecommunications is part of having a solid infrastructure. It’s basically set up here so that you almost have to get one, if only for convenience sake. There are people who don’t have phones and seem to manage, but I don’t know who those people are – probably because I can’t call them. I’m sure they exist somewhere. Anyhoo, cell phones are just handy to have for emergencies if nothing else. And even for people like me who will live in villages with little or no cell phone reception, reception is not that far away and there are plenty of times I will be out of village. The alternative for me is to get a Ghana SIM card, which supposedly does have reception in my village. Blah, blah, blah… I should be working for the cell phone companies, not Peace Corps.
Writing makes me feel so good and so does picking the scabs off my wrist (a symptom of laundry). I don’t do it enough here – writing and laundry. It’s true – I go through ¾ of a bar of BF soap when I do laundry. Not sure how that last sentence relates to anything. Being clean makes me happy. I might be a little neurotic, but like Bubbles said, “It’s better to be neurotic about being clean than some of the alternatives.”
So I have a new name – a recent souvenir from a trip to my new post. Tikoyi, (rhymes with Sequoia). Bubbles calls me Pocahontas instead and Assibi gave me a Pocahontas bandana. My name means “for everyone” or “for us all.” Kinda slutty. But, I love it. I think it fits me well. Draw whatever conclusions you like from that. I got really sick on my visit to post. Fever, headache, vomiting and diarrhea… The fever, headache and diarrhea came back, but it was the diarrhea and intestinal cramps that decided to stick around for a while. I think some weight loss resulted too. I don’t recommend intestinal cramps; they’re no fun. I have no idea how I got sick – it could have been dehydration, exhaustion, stress, bad water, street food… who knows. All I do know is that I prefer being healthy in Togo thank you very much.
Pre-service training is almost over. Yikes! I don’t feel prepared enough to start off on my own yet, but I am also ready to be on my own again. I really don’t like depending on others for my own basic needs (i.e. shelter, food, water, etc…). The end of training does mark something exciting for me in terms of communication. I will be getting a phone. Before coming to Togo, I was not keen on the idea of getting a cell phone. But like any good development worker will tell you, telecommunications is part of having a solid infrastructure. It’s basically set up here so that you almost have to get one, if only for convenience sake. There are people who don’t have phones and seem to manage, but I don’t know who those people are – probably because I can’t call them. I’m sure they exist somewhere. Anyhoo, cell phones are just handy to have for emergencies if nothing else. And even for people like me who will live in villages with little or no cell phone reception, reception is not that far away and there are plenty of times I will be out of village. The alternative for me is to get a Ghana SIM card, which supposedly does have reception in my village. Blah, blah, blah… I should be working for the cell phone companies, not Peace Corps.
Les Affaires Quotidiennes
This blog was written during Stage (Pre-Service Training) sometime in October or November 2007. Much of this is no longer relevant to me now.
I am pleased to report that I have been able to successfully wake up at 6:30 every morning since my arrival to Togo. I have only seriously overslept once. I ride my bike to and from school in the morning, then back for lunch, then back to school and finally home again. Another surprising facet of Togolese life is that they take 3 showers a day as opposed to the once-a-week shower I was expecting. I still shave too, although, I don’t know if that will continue. I pull my own water out of a well in my family’s compound for all my showers and shower out of bucket. I have only taken one hot shower since I have been here, but I love the cold showers, especially my afternoon shower when it’s really hot out. My family actually has a bathroom with a roof and 2 latrines and 1 douche (shower). Apparently, most people have open-air bathrooms. I have been really fortunate with the latrine situation regarding my encounters with the local wildlife. No incidents of cockroaches, mice or rats jumping out of the toilet. One of my fellow stagemates had a rat come running out of the latrine as she was about to squat down. Out of all the things I brought that I absolutely love (and there is a lot) is my Whiz Freedom, or pee funnel. I use it every time I go to the bathroom, even to the latrine at home, the exceptions being the flush toilets at the tech/training house. It just keeps all the fluids from splashing about as I am squatting. I have gotten up in the middle of the night and used the latrine and survived no problem. The key to a tidy latrine is to cover it. I also hand wash all my own laundry every Sunday. It usually takes me about half the day because for each load you wash each piece of clothing twice and rinse once. By the end, my back hurts from bending over and my hands are cut up and pruney, but the Togolese love to see me do chores the way they do them. I also wash my own dishes; the only thing I don’t do yet is cooking my own food and boiling my own water. Speaking of water, we have the choice of boiling and filtering or filtering and bleaching our water. The bleach is diluted but still makes the water taste like a swimming pool, so I prefer boiling and filtering. Much to my disappointment, my UV pen (Steripen) won’t work for some reason. I am super upset over this, as it was a gift and not a cheap one either. On the other hand, I am really glad I brought a lot of toiletries. Everyone said, “Oh, you can buy everything once you get in-country.” But, while that is true, it’s really difficult at first if you 1) have no time due to your rigorous, structured schedule, 2) don’t know the language very well, 3) don’t know where anything is, 4) don’t know the culture or how things operate, 5) no transportation anywhere (at first), and 6) don’t know how to bargain or haggle for prices. So yes, you can buy just about anything you need here, however, it’s a lot easier to do that after you’ve been here a little while. I have successfully managed to find a tailor that’s really nice and does good work. I have already had 1 dress, 1 skirt, 1 complet (ensemble outfit with a top and bottom) made, 3 pants hemmed and I am in the process of having another dress made. In Togo, the fabric used to make clothes is called pagne (pan-ya). There is very little prêt-a-porter here unless you like goodwill clothes, so most of the clothes here are tailor made. I can get an entire outfit made here including the fabric, construction, labor and alterations for about $10 USD. The marche (market) at the training site is every Friday and it is a site to behold. It’s a bit chaotic for the novice with lots of bargaining, people yelling for your attention, my watchful eyes for pickpockets and bandits and the lovely smell of fish baking in the sun. Yum!
I am pleased to report that I have been able to successfully wake up at 6:30 every morning since my arrival to Togo. I have only seriously overslept once. I ride my bike to and from school in the morning, then back for lunch, then back to school and finally home again. Another surprising facet of Togolese life is that they take 3 showers a day as opposed to the once-a-week shower I was expecting. I still shave too, although, I don’t know if that will continue. I pull my own water out of a well in my family’s compound for all my showers and shower out of bucket. I have only taken one hot shower since I have been here, but I love the cold showers, especially my afternoon shower when it’s really hot out. My family actually has a bathroom with a roof and 2 latrines and 1 douche (shower). Apparently, most people have open-air bathrooms. I have been really fortunate with the latrine situation regarding my encounters with the local wildlife. No incidents of cockroaches, mice or rats jumping out of the toilet. One of my fellow stagemates had a rat come running out of the latrine as she was about to squat down. Out of all the things I brought that I absolutely love (and there is a lot) is my Whiz Freedom, or pee funnel. I use it every time I go to the bathroom, even to the latrine at home, the exceptions being the flush toilets at the tech/training house. It just keeps all the fluids from splashing about as I am squatting. I have gotten up in the middle of the night and used the latrine and survived no problem. The key to a tidy latrine is to cover it. I also hand wash all my own laundry every Sunday. It usually takes me about half the day because for each load you wash each piece of clothing twice and rinse once. By the end, my back hurts from bending over and my hands are cut up and pruney, but the Togolese love to see me do chores the way they do them. I also wash my own dishes; the only thing I don’t do yet is cooking my own food and boiling my own water. Speaking of water, we have the choice of boiling and filtering or filtering and bleaching our water. The bleach is diluted but still makes the water taste like a swimming pool, so I prefer boiling and filtering. Much to my disappointment, my UV pen (Steripen) won’t work for some reason. I am super upset over this, as it was a gift and not a cheap one either. On the other hand, I am really glad I brought a lot of toiletries. Everyone said, “Oh, you can buy everything once you get in-country.” But, while that is true, it’s really difficult at first if you 1) have no time due to your rigorous, structured schedule, 2) don’t know the language very well, 3) don’t know where anything is, 4) don’t know the culture or how things operate, 5) no transportation anywhere (at first), and 6) don’t know how to bargain or haggle for prices. So yes, you can buy just about anything you need here, however, it’s a lot easier to do that after you’ve been here a little while. I have successfully managed to find a tailor that’s really nice and does good work. I have already had 1 dress, 1 skirt, 1 complet (ensemble outfit with a top and bottom) made, 3 pants hemmed and I am in the process of having another dress made. In Togo, the fabric used to make clothes is called pagne (pan-ya). There is very little prêt-a-porter here unless you like goodwill clothes, so most of the clothes here are tailor made. I can get an entire outfit made here including the fabric, construction, labor and alterations for about $10 USD. The marche (market) at the training site is every Friday and it is a site to behold. It’s a bit chaotic for the novice with lots of bargaining, people yelling for your attention, my watchful eyes for pickpockets and bandits and the lovely smell of fish baking in the sun. Yum!
Monday, February 4, 2008
80 Beats Per Minute
I'm touching you through electrical impulses. She's alive. She breaths the static air with relief to tell you she's liberated herself. Flipped on the switch of communication and aches to read your voices.
4 weeks at post and I think I'm some kind of poet. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I'm not done. I'm back logged on 10 plus blog postings, so I'll be around for a while getting my technological fix and hopefully giving you something to laugh at. Simultaneous stimulation. Never said I wasn't a giver.
I miss you more than I could ever say.
4 weeks at post and I think I'm some kind of poet. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I'm not done. I'm back logged on 10 plus blog postings, so I'll be around for a while getting my technological fix and hopefully giving you something to laugh at. Simultaneous stimulation. Never said I wasn't a giver.
I miss you more than I could ever say.
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