4/28/2008
Last Tuesday I was in my first moto accident. I was on my way home from a soccer tournament and was approximately two to three kilometers from my village when the moto driver or zed man, as they are known here, slipped on some loose gravel/sand maneuvering between the potholes. It was his first time on that particular route and was unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the road. I should have been a little more diligent in telling him the slow f*&% down. Alas, I did not and for that, the moto fell on my foot. Fortunately, there were no other motos or vehicles involved and we weren’t going that fast, so the driver and I only received some scrapes and bumps. You could literally see the bump grow on my foot though. The funny thing is that I think the zed man was more upset than I was, especially for dropping the fragile, white woman. Heh. I called Peace Corps Med Unit to notify them of the incident and to see if they felt I should go to the dispensaire (medical clinic), to which I was opposed. There was probably nothing they could have done there that I couldn’t do with my medical supplies in my house. So I went home.
The other funny thing or not so funny thing is that two days later my Homologue/Counterpart got into a head-on collision with his moto 50 feet from my house after dropping me off. Again, only some corporeal and mechanical cuts and scratches were suffered.
Then the very next day (this makes 3), some girl students at my middle school were cementing a new brick wall at the school and the wall collapsed on them. Also, nothing serious was inflicted, but they were taken to the hospital to get checked out.
All in all, a rather hazardous week au village.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Side Effects
4/9/2008
My happiest moments in Togo are when I’m riding my bike. There’s really nothing like it here. Today I was gulping the fresh air to fuel my endorphin kick. It’s these moments, despite their fleeting nature, that I thank my lucky stars that I am here and not suffocating in the re-circulated, moldy air of some office tucked away beneath mounds of yellowed paper and antenna-like electrical cables. I know my body, physically, has thanked me for the change of lifestyle. My skin has never been clearer. I’ve never been thinner, except for maybe when I was in 8th grade. I’ve never sported a healthier glow, although to some, that’s not necessarily a good thing. My internal organs have never known such organic, pesticide-free nourishment. In many ways, Africa has done me well. But as I sweat my way through the dusty paths of Dankpen (Dankpen is the Prefecture in which I live) on my bike, of course, I either zone out to my iPOD or have flashes of heightened consciousness. In this case, I had a thought. I’ve always aspired to some romanticized ideal of myself. I think it is a fair assumption that most people desire some level of self-improvement. I’m no exception. But in my pursuit of a more intelligent, more witty, more cultured, sexier, edgier state of existence, such goals implicitly imply that I cannot be satisfied with myself as it currently survives. Subsequently, I cannot subscribe to the new age mentality of loving myself as I am. If I were to attempt such a feat, I would be logically impossible. Who said humans weren’t confused, complex beings? The result is some kind of psychological struggle with our selves (well, at least me). I’m sure there are some optimists out there that believe there’s a way to peacefully coexist with two opposing ideologies. Whatever. I’m still at a loss as to how I can resolve and pacify my tortured soul. Fortunately for me, I’ve got the wind in my face and nothing but trees before me.
My next thought relates these same sentiments to other people. I read somewhere that women, in particular, tend to see the potential in prospective romantic conquests and not see the reality before their eyes. If we, as people, were constantly living in a space with the expectation that others will change, improve themselves, be all that they can be, then, tell me, how exactly can we appreciate, love, accept others as they are right now in this very moment? Let’s take Togo for example. Do I appreciate and accept Togo as it is right now? Or what I see it could become? The students I work with today frustrate me to no end because I see, I practically taste, what they could have, so easily, if just a few small (according to me) barriers were removed. So if, I don’t accept them as they currently exist, doesn’t that mean I must harbor an eternal state of dissatisfaction because this so-called ideal of their potential is definitely beyond my time here and probably beyond my lifetime? Not-to-mention, this glorified vision of their future is totally and completely subjective and ignorant of numerous variables in their life. Perhaps, I can let those hopes and desires go for people I really have no control over in the first place and avoid being incessantly disappointed with their inadequacies to measure up. But such acceptance risks the stagnant abyss of complacency. I suppose we could compartmentalize the facets that we like and dislike about ourselves and others, as I am sure many of us already do, but we are still in the quandary of loving and accepting half a person. I only like you partly. I like your hands, but not your feet. I like your eyes, but not your nose. We are all walking around in parts and pieces in the eyes of ourselves and others.
So my dears, I pose this question rhetorically: Where do we go from here?
At least, I have a tight butt and a tan, right?
My happiest moments in Togo are when I’m riding my bike. There’s really nothing like it here. Today I was gulping the fresh air to fuel my endorphin kick. It’s these moments, despite their fleeting nature, that I thank my lucky stars that I am here and not suffocating in the re-circulated, moldy air of some office tucked away beneath mounds of yellowed paper and antenna-like electrical cables. I know my body, physically, has thanked me for the change of lifestyle. My skin has never been clearer. I’ve never been thinner, except for maybe when I was in 8th grade. I’ve never sported a healthier glow, although to some, that’s not necessarily a good thing. My internal organs have never known such organic, pesticide-free nourishment. In many ways, Africa has done me well. But as I sweat my way through the dusty paths of Dankpen (Dankpen is the Prefecture in which I live) on my bike, of course, I either zone out to my iPOD or have flashes of heightened consciousness. In this case, I had a thought. I’ve always aspired to some romanticized ideal of myself. I think it is a fair assumption that most people desire some level of self-improvement. I’m no exception. But in my pursuit of a more intelligent, more witty, more cultured, sexier, edgier state of existence, such goals implicitly imply that I cannot be satisfied with myself as it currently survives. Subsequently, I cannot subscribe to the new age mentality of loving myself as I am. If I were to attempt such a feat, I would be logically impossible. Who said humans weren’t confused, complex beings? The result is some kind of psychological struggle with our selves (well, at least me). I’m sure there are some optimists out there that believe there’s a way to peacefully coexist with two opposing ideologies. Whatever. I’m still at a loss as to how I can resolve and pacify my tortured soul. Fortunately for me, I’ve got the wind in my face and nothing but trees before me.
My next thought relates these same sentiments to other people. I read somewhere that women, in particular, tend to see the potential in prospective romantic conquests and not see the reality before their eyes. If we, as people, were constantly living in a space with the expectation that others will change, improve themselves, be all that they can be, then, tell me, how exactly can we appreciate, love, accept others as they are right now in this very moment? Let’s take Togo for example. Do I appreciate and accept Togo as it is right now? Or what I see it could become? The students I work with today frustrate me to no end because I see, I practically taste, what they could have, so easily, if just a few small (according to me) barriers were removed. So if, I don’t accept them as they currently exist, doesn’t that mean I must harbor an eternal state of dissatisfaction because this so-called ideal of their potential is definitely beyond my time here and probably beyond my lifetime? Not-to-mention, this glorified vision of their future is totally and completely subjective and ignorant of numerous variables in their life. Perhaps, I can let those hopes and desires go for people I really have no control over in the first place and avoid being incessantly disappointed with their inadequacies to measure up. But such acceptance risks the stagnant abyss of complacency. I suppose we could compartmentalize the facets that we like and dislike about ourselves and others, as I am sure many of us already do, but we are still in the quandary of loving and accepting half a person. I only like you partly. I like your hands, but not your feet. I like your eyes, but not your nose. We are all walking around in parts and pieces in the eyes of ourselves and others.
So my dears, I pose this question rhetorically: Where do we go from here?
At least, I have a tight butt and a tan, right?
Il y a toujours l'argent pour le Tchouk!
3-28-2008
12:23 in the afternoon. I’m buzzed. Wait… probably more like drunk at this point. It’s the day after the local market and everyone’s shooting the shit and having a calabash…or two…or three. In the effort of integrating into my community, I accept an invitation to go drinking. I have no idea what the conversation is about since it is all in the local language, so I am left to caress my calabash of local brew. All sorts of silly things enter my cranium when I drink, including and not limited to an unnatural sense of “Cut the bullshit. Give it to me straight. I’m tired of the games.” If only I was drunk more of the time. I can’t help but feel like one of the boys seeing as how I was the only female drinking in the mud hut with 10 other males. But I’m white, so I don’t count. God damn it. They keep refilling my calabash before I can even make it half way through my first. Somewhere in the middle of my drunken daze, they bring out a bow (as in: bow and arrow). I tell these men I can shoot, determined to show them statistically females have better aim than males. My motivation is renewed to master the art of archery! Huzzah!
I almost forgot to tell you about my adventures in rodent extermination! Actually, I didn’t forget at all. I was simply waiting for the perfect opportunity to relay the events of this morning, and what better time than after a couple calabashes of Tchouk! I speared my prey with the dexterity of hidden ninja prowess, lacerating his hind leg and cackling at his cries of pain. I trapped him under my trusty Tupperware instrument of torture and fed the little bastard to the dogs, all the while feeling especially accomplished. After all, it had taken me 3 days this time to incapacitate the vermin. Sometimes I wish I had drawn blood… perhaps next time.
So these ramen noodles I’ve prepared taste like plastic. I only say this so you can appreciate how I suffer. I’ve been reduced to drinking before noon and eating plastic pasta.
The ants (and lizards) in my house provide a valuable service to me. They clean up the droppings of food abandoned on my floor. They are like the shrimp of my underwater abode. The lizards eat the insects and the daddy long legs catch the flies, but they are doing a terrible job. So they may face demotion soon.
It’s time for a little repose.
I have taken to carrying around a handkerchief wherever I go to wipe the sweat from my brow. You will too if you people ever decide to come visit me.
(In case it wasn’t clear, this blog was written while intoxicated. I have kept everything as I originally wrote it, even if it doesn’t quite make sense.)
12:23 in the afternoon. I’m buzzed. Wait… probably more like drunk at this point. It’s the day after the local market and everyone’s shooting the shit and having a calabash…or two…or three. In the effort of integrating into my community, I accept an invitation to go drinking. I have no idea what the conversation is about since it is all in the local language, so I am left to caress my calabash of local brew. All sorts of silly things enter my cranium when I drink, including and not limited to an unnatural sense of “Cut the bullshit. Give it to me straight. I’m tired of the games.” If only I was drunk more of the time. I can’t help but feel like one of the boys seeing as how I was the only female drinking in the mud hut with 10 other males. But I’m white, so I don’t count. God damn it. They keep refilling my calabash before I can even make it half way through my first. Somewhere in the middle of my drunken daze, they bring out a bow (as in: bow and arrow). I tell these men I can shoot, determined to show them statistically females have better aim than males. My motivation is renewed to master the art of archery! Huzzah!
I almost forgot to tell you about my adventures in rodent extermination! Actually, I didn’t forget at all. I was simply waiting for the perfect opportunity to relay the events of this morning, and what better time than after a couple calabashes of Tchouk! I speared my prey with the dexterity of hidden ninja prowess, lacerating his hind leg and cackling at his cries of pain. I trapped him under my trusty Tupperware instrument of torture and fed the little bastard to the dogs, all the while feeling especially accomplished. After all, it had taken me 3 days this time to incapacitate the vermin. Sometimes I wish I had drawn blood… perhaps next time.
So these ramen noodles I’ve prepared taste like plastic. I only say this so you can appreciate how I suffer. I’ve been reduced to drinking before noon and eating plastic pasta.
The ants (and lizards) in my house provide a valuable service to me. They clean up the droppings of food abandoned on my floor. They are like the shrimp of my underwater abode. The lizards eat the insects and the daddy long legs catch the flies, but they are doing a terrible job. So they may face demotion soon.
It’s time for a little repose.
I have taken to carrying around a handkerchief wherever I go to wipe the sweat from my brow. You will too if you people ever decide to come visit me.
(In case it wasn’t clear, this blog was written while intoxicated. I have kept everything as I originally wrote it, even if it doesn’t quite make sense.)
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