La Fete Des Ignames

9/8/2008

Friday, the fifth of September, seven thirty a.m. I’m late. I am biking my ass off to beat the rain and get to Guerin-Kouka no later than nine a.m. to catch the car to Bassar. Why am I going to Bassar you ask? For La Fete Des Ignames, of course. Save La Bonne Année (New Years), this is the major P-A-R-T-Y in my petite region of Togo. It is to celebrate the ignames (or yams) that have just been harvested since this region is known for their edible roots. Every even year the festival is in Bassar and every odd year it is Guerin-Kouka. Curse the shoddy construction of bridges and roads in this country because the President called off any national celebrations due to large gaps in the pavement and concrete. So this year, everyone was just kinda doing their own thing. I was voyaging to Bassar not so much for the Fete but for the resulting Fire Dancing, as known in the region of Bassar, that would ensue. Don’t get all excited. It’s not the same fire dancing that we are familiar with. I’ve already seen the dance, but failed to document it hence the reason for my return.

So the early morning of that September day, I rode. I rode with the wind in my hair and the rain in my face. I arrived at nine o’clock on the dot to witness my cluster mate in the bush taxi leaving me sweaty and wide-eyed in the dust. No worries though. There were five other bush taxis to choose from. So, timetable: cluster mate, Krissy, leaves Guerin-Kouka at nine a.m. traveling as-fast-as-they-can-drive kilometers per hour. Marie waits an hour and leaves Guerin-Kouka at approximately ten a.m., traveling as-fast-as-we-can-possibly-go-on-a-pothole-ridden-dirt-road-until-the-engine-starts-to-smoke kilometers per hour. WAIT!

My vehicle doesn’t even exit Kouka before the engine starts to smoke wildly. For your frame of reference, in Togolese bush taxis the engine is located directly under the front seats. There are a total of five bench seats, intended for three people each, but in Togo, it is four or five per bench. The brakes throw us all forward as the taxi comes to stop, the front seat passengers throw open the passenger door and pile out. As soon as the passengers in the rear of the vehicle see the grey smoke, they don’t ask questions, they run, clamor, crawl, climb over seats and other passengers. Never ever have I had the pleasure or displeasure to be submerged in such an intense panic-stricken situation. I sat in the middle of the very back seat of this deteriorating semblance of a van, calming observing the woman next to me step all over me to get out. I’ve also never really felt like I was in any danger of death or dismemberment inside or outside of Togo, until this very moment. I just kept wondering if we were going to blow up. The gas tank is right there. What would I do? Did I have time to get out and make it to safety? My body became really numb and I remember only feeling and hearing the beating of my heart. Beat. Beat. Beat. Suddenly, I am high on adrenaline. I would rather perish completely than survive disfigured, deformed. Just my choice. Strange. The guy next to me didn’t move either; he just sat there smiling. It made me feel better. Sooner rather than later, we learn that all it was was smoke. The passengers laughed it off like it was nothing, and the worst, most horrible thought fluttered across my mind: why were you so eager to get out, you seem to be so miserable with your lives here. Why bother to save it. Shocked at myself for even thinking this, I reprimand myself. Don’t be stupid.

Reload. We get approximately five more kilometers and we stop again, but not for us, another bush taxi. Who do I see but poor dear Krissy stranded on the side of the road for probably the last hour, not more than five kilometers from Kouka. So far off to a bad start. This second disruption delivers us a Gendarme (military-like police) plus one handcuffed, wounded criminal. The rest my journey, I sat with my eyeballs stuck, staring at the huge gaping wound on the back of this lawbreaker’s head, wondering just how tight those handcuffs were.

At this point, I was not feeling so hot. I hadn’t consumed much nourishment that morning and was feeling a little ill, a little lightheaded from my 25 kilometer ride, and with my life flashing before my eyes and the latest addition to the passenger roster, I prayed to a god, any god, the forces of the universe or nature to just get me to Bassar safely and in one, very much alive, piece.

Eight hours later, I am at a bar in Bassar with ten or so other volunteers getting our drink on. And very much in line with my reputation, I break out with my fiercest booty-shaking moves, so much so, that I drew a crowd with the help of two male counterparts and a small child. We have pictures. Somewhere. Oh girl, I rocked it. I say this with the utmost humility. Good times. It’s disappointing that the Togolese were (and are) not really as enthusiastic about dancing as I would have hoped. All I heard about Africa was how much they loved music and dance, but this is not really proving to be the case with Togo. Even the fire dancing was a little anti-climatic. Essentially, all they do is walk around in a circle, shaking metal legwarmers and horsehair wands. Occasionally, they walk over a log fire. That’s pretty much it. But I guess you have to at least see it once, right. We were all in bed by 12:30 am.

Day two, Saturday, was all about eating, resting, eating, resting, eating some more, traveling to Kabou to rest some more and then gorge ourselves on more food. I only wish I had taken more pictures of the fufu we ate because it was damn good! All hail to the ignames. But really, it’s all about the sauce. Isn’t it always about the juice though? Yum yum!

Sunday, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I did both. Some things are just so ridiculous.

Today was my return to village. I am always happy to go back to my village. It is my sanctuary from all the $h!t that happens elsewhere in Togo. Fortunately or unfortunately for me, my return was welcomed by a new addition to my host-family. My dear host-mother gave birth the previous Saturday to a little baby boy, named Donné. I was just upset that I couldn’t witness the live birth, which was held at the house, in what is technically the kitchen. My plan is to spend a lot of time with Donné so that he never cries at the sight of me, which happens a lot here with small children. It’s the skin. I will always be a stranger here because of it.

But, I do what I can and the rest is left up to you.

Trudging Through Mud

9/3/2008

I’ve been in a funk of late. Most of that funkiness originating from an unrealized soccer tournament, but as with most things, there are underlying strings of tension pulled out by more overt disappointments. I find myself wondering and wrestling with my purpose here. The latest trend in international development work as seen through the limited lens of Peace Corps Togo, is not to help people but to show people how to help themselves, which echoes the famous proverb of the horse and water. But suppose for a minute that the general mentality of the community is that you will help them and even fewer people around you interpret “help” as something other than monetary donations.
Just yesterday a middle school student came to my house and recounted the tale of how his father had too many children and could no longer afford to send him to school. Two and a half weeks before the Rentree or start of school, this student is facing the all too common situation of abandoning school. So what does he do? He comes to my house, of course, to ask me to pay for his school fees. I told him that I didn’t have the money (which is actually true) and that even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to him. I instruct him that he needs to find a way to earn, raise or work for the money. After all, there are hundreds of children here in my small mound of earth that not only abandon school all the time due to lack of funds but never set foot in a classroom on account of financial strain. I want this boy to go to school and I fight the urge to just give him the money because that would be the easiest thing to do. I informed him that there are lots of things he could do to make money and I asked him to come back so we could discuss it and make a plan. He agreed and told me he would come back tomorrow (today).
He didn’t show.
I can only speculate as to why he didn’t come—there are all kinds of reasons. But I can’t help but think that he didn’t want to do the extra work even though he admitted to me he understood the importance of continuing his education.

::Pause for dinner::

Perhaps, I spoke too soon. I ate dinner with my host family tonight. The menu was fufu and pork. Yum! Yum! Quite literally after I finished eating, who strolls up, but my student-in-need. I remind him of the hour (after eight o’clock), far too late for a single woman in the bush to be receiving male visitors in the eyes of the community. People talk here. If I am to be taken seriously or given any kind of respect, there are certain things I cannot do. Plus, I don’t “work” after seven o’clock. So, he says he’s coming back tomorrow morning.
Maybe there’s hope after all; I certainly hope so.