7/3/2008
Today I learned that one of my favorite little girls left with her family to go to Ghana while I was at camp. No chance to say goodbye. If I ever wanted to adopt a child here it would have been her. She was one of the most charismatic and intelligent little kids I have met here thus far. She has such potential…::sigh:: I wish her well.
Funny thing is, I never knew her name. Knowing someone’s name doesn’t seem to carry the same weight here as it does other places. I suspect it is along the same lines with their fear of individuality and non-conformity. If there ever was a place that dreads and panics in the face of originality and uniqueness, values I personally hold very dear, it is here in Togo. I haven’t been all over the world, so there may very well be other places that encourage uniformity. I find here that instead of creative, self-expression, there is communal solidarity. Granted, this is all in degrees and I speak in generalities, but for the most part… It has been said (not by myself) that the people here would rather drink than ever be alone. There’s lots of drinking in Togo.
Thursday is market day in my village, and market days are an opportunity to consume as much Tchouk (local brew made of millet) as your pocket will allow. I am sure I have mentioned before and to my display that babies and small children are given Tchouk to drink by their parents. The complications and disastrous consequences that alcohol can have on children has not yet permeated the communal consciousness here. They would protest that Tchouk is not alcohol. ::ahem:: Right. Whatever you say. So one fun-filled Thursday evening au marche, I was waiting to buy some soja (tofu) for my dinner from one of my neighbor-ladies. Her daughter, about two or three years old, who is already known to be not quite “normal” approaches me. At first, like all things, it was all fun and games. She was jumping and running around me, trying to tickle me. Innocent horseplay, right? I was playing right along, until I noticed my internal clock rang to indicate that enough time had passed that such horseplay should be tapering off. It wasn’t. The little darling, with the same psychotic intensity as before, kept running around me, taunting me, touching me and pushing me. I told her to stop, repeatedly, in French, but, ha ha, she doesn’t speak French. I am yelling at her at this point, and even her older sister stepped in to say something but to no avail. Mind you, I was in the middle of the market, with a three-year old trying to molest me, surrounded by Togolese who refused to help me. I suspect they either 1) thought it was ok because she’s just not “normal” or 2) expected me to strike her. Beating children is commonplace in the home and at school here. My American conditioning told me that I could not hit this child, but I couldn’t leave because I hadn’t got my soja yet and I had no rope to restrain this child. So, what do I do? I put my hands out and, oops, she ran into them, fell down and started crying. I felt slightly guilty, only slightly because what the hell was I supposed to do? No one around really tried to help me and she wasn’t going to stop. I only realized afterward that she had been drinking that day; her Mother serves soja and Tchouk in the market. So yeah, I was attacked by a drunk three year old. Nice.
Showing posts with label Daily Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Daily Life. Show all posts
Friday, July 18, 2008
Vous etes nombreux et je suis seule
7/1/2008
I give you fair warning this blog is not all peaches and cream.
I am one, single person with a laundry list of people near and far that require relative consistent communication. I try to write letters every quarter, sometimes every month if I am feeling conversational. But at approximately $1.50 for postage for each letter I send, it becomes rather expensive on my simple salary. I always respond to emails. It takes time (think in months) and more money to use the internet. There have only been three people I have not emailed responses to because they sent me horrifically long emails, which I printed out and hold close. I am planning to respond to those emails via letter. I also call. I spend the most money on phone credit, which just never seems to last as long as I would like. And, there’s the problem of charging my phone’s battery, but that is a different issue. I am explaining all of this to you because I want you to understand two important points: 1) I am making efforts and finding ways (that are effective) to establish consistent communication and 2) that by doing so, I am showing you that I value your presence in my life. Such mundane things are valuable to me, not only for my sanity here in Togo, but also to ward off as much of the inevitable culture shock I will experience when I return.
Now while this is high on my list of priorities, this doesn’t hold true for the people I have left behind. I never really understood what communication of this nature meant until I moved to Togo to live in a painted mud house with no electricity, no running water, no plumbing and far, far, FAR too much time on my hands. I’m guessing that the people I left behind, people I thought I was close to, people I thought would make the extra effort to stay in touch, really have no idea what it is like to be here, to exist here, to live here day in and day out. I mean… how could I expect them to understand? They are obviously not here. Duh. They can imagine all day long, but unless they’ve been here themselves or had an experience similar to this one, they just don’t get it. So, I guess I can’t reasonably be too mad or upset when the only people from “home” that contact me on my birthday are my Father and Brother. I also find it remarkable that people I’ve only grazed the surface of friendship with are the ones that send me birthday wishes, letters and even packages, whereas the people I’ve known for years, some all my life, I never hear from, ever. Such insights have left me with nothing to say via phone calls, letters or my blog these past few months. Note the last entry on my blog was in April. It was only after the passing of my birthday that the pungent odor of neglect began to suffocate me. Perhaps, I am being a bit dramatic, but none-the-less, I was hurt. It is these moments of acceptance that the thought of coming “home” is revolting. And yet how can I blame them when I have been guilty of the same thing. I have forgotten birthdays, never sent letters to friends abroad, never called my family, and I am sorry for it. But such apologies feel empty when really I have no good excuse for my negligence. Life gets busy is not, I repeat, is not an acceptable excuse. Saying I think about you often is worthless when the person of whom you are thinking never knows it. If you never bother to tell that person you miss them, or think about them, you might as well take those thoughts and shove them you-know-where.
I can see it now… Some of you reading this might protest, “But I have called! I have sent letters! You just never get them!” Well my dears thank you for your half-assed efforts, but that is exactly my problem. I never get them and hence never know. If you send me letters and don’t put those letters in padded envelopes or packages, quit wasting your money on postage. If you tried calling me, can’t ever get through and are frustrated. I empathize, I really do. Remember I live in Togo. But, I have been in Togo nine months now and have managed to find a way to contact people. Am I making accusations towards one or many? No, not really. Although I admit I am disappointed, I write this simply as a statement of fact, a state of the union if-you-will, and I wish for those people leaving for the Peace Corps or Togo or both to be aware of the possible side effects of doing so. Or, you might be one of those lucky (or unlucky) volunteers who receives too much contact from friends and family. However, more often than not, this is your journey, your adventure, your torture, your whatever and therefore a solitary one. In as much as joining the Peace Corps is a selfless act, in the same instance, it ought to be a selfish one. So know that friends stop writing (or never started), family stops calling, and this time is yours and yours alone. And, it is hard.
I give you fair warning this blog is not all peaches and cream.
I am one, single person with a laundry list of people near and far that require relative consistent communication. I try to write letters every quarter, sometimes every month if I am feeling conversational. But at approximately $1.50 for postage for each letter I send, it becomes rather expensive on my simple salary. I always respond to emails. It takes time (think in months) and more money to use the internet. There have only been three people I have not emailed responses to because they sent me horrifically long emails, which I printed out and hold close. I am planning to respond to those emails via letter. I also call. I spend the most money on phone credit, which just never seems to last as long as I would like. And, there’s the problem of charging my phone’s battery, but that is a different issue. I am explaining all of this to you because I want you to understand two important points: 1) I am making efforts and finding ways (that are effective) to establish consistent communication and 2) that by doing so, I am showing you that I value your presence in my life. Such mundane things are valuable to me, not only for my sanity here in Togo, but also to ward off as much of the inevitable culture shock I will experience when I return.
Now while this is high on my list of priorities, this doesn’t hold true for the people I have left behind. I never really understood what communication of this nature meant until I moved to Togo to live in a painted mud house with no electricity, no running water, no plumbing and far, far, FAR too much time on my hands. I’m guessing that the people I left behind, people I thought I was close to, people I thought would make the extra effort to stay in touch, really have no idea what it is like to be here, to exist here, to live here day in and day out. I mean… how could I expect them to understand? They are obviously not here. Duh. They can imagine all day long, but unless they’ve been here themselves or had an experience similar to this one, they just don’t get it. So, I guess I can’t reasonably be too mad or upset when the only people from “home” that contact me on my birthday are my Father and Brother. I also find it remarkable that people I’ve only grazed the surface of friendship with are the ones that send me birthday wishes, letters and even packages, whereas the people I’ve known for years, some all my life, I never hear from, ever. Such insights have left me with nothing to say via phone calls, letters or my blog these past few months. Note the last entry on my blog was in April. It was only after the passing of my birthday that the pungent odor of neglect began to suffocate me. Perhaps, I am being a bit dramatic, but none-the-less, I was hurt. It is these moments of acceptance that the thought of coming “home” is revolting. And yet how can I blame them when I have been guilty of the same thing. I have forgotten birthdays, never sent letters to friends abroad, never called my family, and I am sorry for it. But such apologies feel empty when really I have no good excuse for my negligence. Life gets busy is not, I repeat, is not an acceptable excuse. Saying I think about you often is worthless when the person of whom you are thinking never knows it. If you never bother to tell that person you miss them, or think about them, you might as well take those thoughts and shove them you-know-where.
I can see it now… Some of you reading this might protest, “But I have called! I have sent letters! You just never get them!” Well my dears thank you for your half-assed efforts, but that is exactly my problem. I never get them and hence never know. If you send me letters and don’t put those letters in padded envelopes or packages, quit wasting your money on postage. If you tried calling me, can’t ever get through and are frustrated. I empathize, I really do. Remember I live in Togo. But, I have been in Togo nine months now and have managed to find a way to contact people. Am I making accusations towards one or many? No, not really. Although I admit I am disappointed, I write this simply as a statement of fact, a state of the union if-you-will, and I wish for those people leaving for the Peace Corps or Togo or both to be aware of the possible side effects of doing so. Or, you might be one of those lucky (or unlucky) volunteers who receives too much contact from friends and family. However, more often than not, this is your journey, your adventure, your torture, your whatever and therefore a solitary one. In as much as joining the Peace Corps is a selfless act, in the same instance, it ought to be a selfish one. So know that friends stop writing (or never started), family stops calling, and this time is yours and yours alone. And, it is hard.
Monday, April 28, 2008
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.)
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
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!
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