10/10/2008
I’ve returned. After three weeks of visiting the U.S. I find myself back in a familiar space. Quite literally on the anniversary of my year in Togo, I flew out. To my delight and surprise, my brother thought of the brilliant plan to fly me home to surprise my mother for her 60th birthday party. So as of July when I received my flight confirmation, I had been anticipating, planning and fantasizing about my trip home. Both my brother and I couldn’t stop dreaming of the perfect plan to squeeze the maximum amount of tears out of our mother. Every time I thought about it, I got a little weepy. I also couldn’t stop thinking about the amenities I would be privy to again. The hot showers, the dishwasher, the washing machine and dryer, the supermarkets, the restaurants, the beds-- oh, the luxurious beds and most importantly, the dancing. And there was my friends to see of course. So I was pretty pumped to come home. This trip was going to be a nice way to break up my two years here in Togo.
So the plan was to fly to Portland with my two brothers since that was where my mother was celebrating her birthday. The family knew that my brothers were coming to surprise my mother, but no one had any idea that I was going to be there. So when I walked in and saw my aunts for the first time, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and we all started crying. The surprise was set up so that my mom was out shopping and when she came home she would first meet two friends from school, also a surprise. Then my aunt handed my mom a card from the three of us (her children) wishing her well and sorry we couldn’t be there to help celebrate. At which point, my oldest brother walked in, and she was happy to see him and gave him a big hug, but would kind of expect this sort of thing out of him. Then my middle brother walked in, and she was slightly more shocked since it is somewhat out of character for my middle brother to do something in that nature. She was getting a little more emotional and teetering on the point of tears. I was around the corner asking people, “Should I go? Should I go?” I was nervous, on the brink of losing it myself, and walked out. As soon as we saw each other, we both started crying. Her face was flushed red, tears streaming down her face and her hands were on her knees. We embraced. It was priceless, worth every minute of the 21-hour flight, and hopefully every penny my brother spent to get me out there. I am not sure if I will ever be able to repay him; it was beyond generous.
The entire trip was something of a marathon of visiting family and friends, running around trying to see, well, everything. It was a blur of lunches, dinners, parties, dancing, hanging out, drinking, eating, shopping, talking, blah, blah, blah. People kept asking me how I liked it, meaning Peace Corps, Togo, all of it. That was and is a difficult question to answer. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I hate it. I have good days and bad days. This thing is a bit of a rollercoaster, and we, as volunteers, can only hope that with time the valleys and the peaks of this wild ride become less and less intense and extreme. I think I have said this before that this Peace Corps thing is hard. Probably one of the hardest things I have ever done, only because there are very few breaks from it. We live it day after day, 24/7 for two years, more or less. Not many people can do this and I was saddened to learn upon my return to Togo that four new volunteers ET’ed (or Early Terminated), meaning resigned, another good friend of mine was medically separated, and three or four stagiaires or trainees left before they even became volunteers. The night I returned to Africa, after another 21-hour plane ride and severely sleep deprived, I wept. Mostly likely the cause of my angst was due to fatigue and stress, but I was suddenly stricken with the familiar dread I experienced when I first got to Togo. I thought, “Oh no. I can’t go through this again. I won’t make it.” The pain of homesickness here is like nothing I have ever experienced before and it can be crippling. That first night back I sat on the edge of the bed a sobbing, shuddering heap of self-pity thinking of only of how I wanted to jump back on the plane and go home. Fortunately, I had good enough sense to realize I probably just needed sleep, and sure enough as soon as I got back to Togo and saw my friends, I felt, well, excited to be back.
I woke up this morning happy, content with no sign of sadness in sight. I am relieved, disconcerted by the fact that so many volunteers are leaving (which totally sucks, btw), but nonetheless relieved. These next three months are going to be busy with getting back into the swing of things, starting my Girl’s Club again, doing the AIDS Bike Ride Tour, Halloween, Elections, Post Visit, GAD Meetings, Cinkase-To-Lome Girl’s Bike Ride, Thanksgiving, the new GEE/NRM Swear-In, Christmas and New Years. I am actually wondering when I am going to have time to hang out and start working in my village, but you know there’s always time in Africa. Ca va venir.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
This and that and all that crap
I canceled the soccer tournament I was planning for the last two months. I have no other real projects to speak of. All the villagers are in their fields cultivating as it is rainy season. School is out. So all in all, I feel rather useless and unproductive. I smell a funk.
This past week, one of the sons of my village chief died suddenly. He woke up one morning, felt ill, went to the medical clinic 5K away, took the medicine prescribed and was dead by 3pm. I went to a charlatan ceremony on Friday. They are used to determine the cause of death, as opposed to an autopsy, by having the spirit of the dead child tell them what happened. It was translated to me after the ceremony that it was black magic that killed the boy, and now the village must kill a goat to protect themselves from this black magic or locally known as gre gre (pronounced "gree gree"). You know that's what I would have guessed.
My host mother is pregnant, due in September-ish. I just found out by asking since my family never mentioned anything and all this time I thought she was just eating well. Seems my days of quiet chez moi are soon to be replaced with a screaming child. Funny that I had that dream about the puppy in the other blog I wrote. Actually, being in Togo (and this is supported by most female volunteers, myself included) creates feelings of nesting. I have entertained the notion of popping a few out; the babies are quite cute here and it kinda makes you want to have one of your own.
I miss dancing and I will miss Burning Man. Love to all my fellow Burners. Have a lovely burn.
I dyed my hair jet black! Nice, nice, very nice.
I do enjoy Anticipation. It is often better than the object of anticipation.
TTFN
This past week, one of the sons of my village chief died suddenly. He woke up one morning, felt ill, went to the medical clinic 5K away, took the medicine prescribed and was dead by 3pm. I went to a charlatan ceremony on Friday. They are used to determine the cause of death, as opposed to an autopsy, by having the spirit of the dead child tell them what happened. It was translated to me after the ceremony that it was black magic that killed the boy, and now the village must kill a goat to protect themselves from this black magic or locally known as gre gre (pronounced "gree gree"). You know that's what I would have guessed.
My host mother is pregnant, due in September-ish. I just found out by asking since my family never mentioned anything and all this time I thought she was just eating well. Seems my days of quiet chez moi are soon to be replaced with a screaming child. Funny that I had that dream about the puppy in the other blog I wrote. Actually, being in Togo (and this is supported by most female volunteers, myself included) creates feelings of nesting. I have entertained the notion of popping a few out; the babies are quite cute here and it kinda makes you want to have one of your own.
I miss dancing and I will miss Burning Man. Love to all my fellow Burners. Have a lovely burn.
I dyed my hair jet black! Nice, nice, very nice.
I do enjoy Anticipation. It is often better than the object of anticipation.
TTFN
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Affected
8/1/2008
I dreamt in the wee hours of this morning that I was the proud new owner of a scraggly, little puppy. Just days after learning that one of two family dogs, a mother, Sulu, was killed because she had attacked, and I am assuming killed, a neighbor’s pintade or guinea fowl. To some, this may sound like too harsh a punishment, but when you live in the bush, with the price of pintade meat as high as it is (2000 cfa +) and the ability to produce pintade eggs (tastier than chicken eggs), another highly priced commodity, you begin to realize the reasoning behind such drastic punishments. Every household, or almost every household, owns a canine guardian, and you can’t very well have all the dogs killing off the pintades. Even I would be upset. However, I did become friendly with Sulu; I developed a trust with her as I was one of the few creatures in her brutal life that offered any sort of affection. It had gotten to the point where she would run up to me whenever either of us returned home. So it’s no wonder that her death upset me, especially since my host family was so casual about the whole affair. The Togolese do not harbor the same sentiments or attachments towards pets or animals as do Americans. The odd thing was that even before I asked what happened, I knew she was dead. Strange…
So last night’s dream sequence involved the adoption of a new puppy. It was one of those scenarios in which we bonded instantly; we took to each other like mother and child. And for a moment, I remember feeling tremendous love for the little animal, but true to my life inside and outside of Peace Corps, I knew I didn’t want the responsibility of another animal’s dependency, unlike the Daniel Cullop Petting Zoo. J I have had other dreams, but with human fetuses where the same sentiments resurface each time: maternal affection and paralyzing panic. I’m confident that should I decide in the future to be the mother, caregiver or guardian to any living creature that I could do it with instinctual dexterity, however, the prospect of this role, at this moment, leaves me absolutely terrified. While I approach thirty and many of my friends are getting married and having babies, I have yet to experience a sustained, intimate relationship let alone welcome an infant of any species into my life. This is not to say that the task of nurturing a new life into existence isn’t a noble one, but to comprehend and accept that such a project would be premature for me, in my opinion, is priceless. It’s true that there will probably never be a “perfect” moment, but at least any feelings of flight should be dissipated. Don’t you think?
I dreamt in the wee hours of this morning that I was the proud new owner of a scraggly, little puppy. Just days after learning that one of two family dogs, a mother, Sulu, was killed because she had attacked, and I am assuming killed, a neighbor’s pintade or guinea fowl. To some, this may sound like too harsh a punishment, but when you live in the bush, with the price of pintade meat as high as it is (2000 cfa +) and the ability to produce pintade eggs (tastier than chicken eggs), another highly priced commodity, you begin to realize the reasoning behind such drastic punishments. Every household, or almost every household, owns a canine guardian, and you can’t very well have all the dogs killing off the pintades. Even I would be upset. However, I did become friendly with Sulu; I developed a trust with her as I was one of the few creatures in her brutal life that offered any sort of affection. It had gotten to the point where she would run up to me whenever either of us returned home. So it’s no wonder that her death upset me, especially since my host family was so casual about the whole affair. The Togolese do not harbor the same sentiments or attachments towards pets or animals as do Americans. The odd thing was that even before I asked what happened, I knew she was dead. Strange…
So last night’s dream sequence involved the adoption of a new puppy. It was one of those scenarios in which we bonded instantly; we took to each other like mother and child. And for a moment, I remember feeling tremendous love for the little animal, but true to my life inside and outside of Peace Corps, I knew I didn’t want the responsibility of another animal’s dependency, unlike the Daniel Cullop Petting Zoo. J I have had other dreams, but with human fetuses where the same sentiments resurface each time: maternal affection and paralyzing panic. I’m confident that should I decide in the future to be the mother, caregiver or guardian to any living creature that I could do it with instinctual dexterity, however, the prospect of this role, at this moment, leaves me absolutely terrified. While I approach thirty and many of my friends are getting married and having babies, I have yet to experience a sustained, intimate relationship let alone welcome an infant of any species into my life. This is not to say that the task of nurturing a new life into existence isn’t a noble one, but to comprehend and accept that such a project would be premature for me, in my opinion, is priceless. It’s true that there will probably never be a “perfect” moment, but at least any feelings of flight should be dissipated. Don’t you think?
Friday, July 18, 2008
Notes From Childhood
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.
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.
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.
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